It might have been the heat. Or perhaps a wrong interaction with my summer allergy medicine. Hallucinations? I wouldn't rule that out either.
Whatever it was, I sure as hell didn't feel comfortable telling anybody I know who still thinks I'm a sane person. You probably won't believe it, but I'll leave that up to you.
It was a sweltering July afternoon, and I set out to take my usual spot on the far end of the driving range. Just a handful of crazies joined me in the sauna, and I went right to work on a balky 7 iron. I quickly whipped up a shirt-sopping lather, albeit with mixed results on my target green 155 yards away.
The bucket was nearly half spent when a sudden voice from behind me stopped my session cold.
"Hey laddie. You want to play in the Masters?"
I turned to see what could only be described as somebody who looked a lot like the legendary Bobby Jones himself. Except he was red, covered in a fine fur, and had pointed ears and a whip like tail protruding from his woolen plus-four golf knickers.
Stunned, I immediately took a step back, tripping over my remaining bucket of balls and barely regaining my balance by grabbing onto my bag stand. I quickly looked back down the range, only to find it utterly deserted. The three or so other golfers who had been beating balls with me, were now eerily gone without a trace.
I squinted hard, wiped my brow, and took another look around. Just me, the range, and this, this, uh "Devil Bobby Jones." I finally managed to stammer out the only word that could gather on my dumbstruck mouth.
"Huh?"
"I said, laddie, do you want to play in the Masters?"
"Who are you," I replied softly.
"Oh, I think you know who I am. That's not important, though. I'm here to make you an offer?"
"An offer? Of the Masters?"
"That's right. Do you want to play in the Masters?"
It was the third time he had asked me this question, and by now his voice was growing impatient, if not annoyed. I better give him an answer, I thought.
"Well, yeah. What golfer wouldn't want that?"
"Alrighty, then. Let's talk."
I had always joked with buddies about making "deals with the devil." It could be anything. Women, fame, cars, sports, hitting a 12 team parlay, you name it. I never tired of throwing out random hypotheticals. "What would you give, for…. " was the start of many great discussions. I suppose all that talk had finally reached headquarters, and the Devil had dispatched one of his men to finally see if I would bite. The Bobby Jones outfit seemed silly at first, but I guess it was all part of the pitch.
The deal broke down like this. The Devil could get me into the Masters as a player, every year, for the rest of my life. I would be eligible for full privileges the entire week, beginning at 6 a.m. sharp on Monday. Practice rounds, driving range, locker room, the same access Jack and Arnie and anyone else has.
I would stay in the Crows Nest above the clubhouse with the other amateurs. If I made the cut, I'd play the weekend, and probably get at least a courtesy shot on CBS at some point during their coverage. Of course that would only be by some miracle, (or a secondary deal with a Devil in upper management) since 8 handicaps get chewed up by Augusta under tourney conditions like a range ball in a gang mower. Sweetening the deal (as if that wasn't enough), I would get four tournament badges for the week, which I could distribute to friends, family or anybody I saw fit.
But how would I fit in, I asked my horn-tailed Bobby Jones? Would other pros treat me as some kind of intruder? Would they know I had made a deal with the devil? Would I be a golfing leper that week? Absolutely not, he assured me. I would be just like the other amateurs. He couldn't guarantee a practice round with Tiger, but said I could politely try to work my way in with anybody I liked.
But what would I qualify under? I mean, the same amateurs don't get in every year. People would catch on to my scam! I'd be exposed, scorned, run out after a few years! What then?
Now my devilish Bobby Jones looked amused.
"Look at me," he said with a confident smirk. "We make these deals every day, all over the world, for things much harder than this. Besides, you think Augusta invites who they want? They invite who we tell them to invite. Delivery on my end, is not a problem. You making the call, is where it gets tough."
"Tough my butt," I blurted. "I'd sell you my soul for just the four gallery badges right now! I mean, you gotta be kidding me! Getting to play the Masters every year, that's about the most unbelievable thing any golfer has … "
"Uh, you might want to hold it right there," said Devil Jones. "You see, a soul these days, doesn't go as far as it once did. Something about a decline in overall religion in America, or something like that. We got the memo just a few months ago. Anyway, I'm gonna have to ask for something more."
"Like?"
"Well, the best I can do," the Devil said, "and the home office really doesn't let me fudge on this, is if you take my offer, you will not be allowed to play on any golf course besides Augusta, that is not a muni."
"What? You mean muni's only? For the rest of my life? No upscale daily fee courses, no resorts, no private clubs? True municipal courses? Weed-infested, hacker populated, dog-track layouts with cut-off jeans as far as the eye can see? No exceptions?"
The Devil Bobby Jones nodded grimly at each of my rapid-fire questions. It was a fair offer, he insisted. After all, I could still hit balls at the driving range (as long as it wasn't attached to a forbidden upscale course or country club) and play all I want with the pull-cart and ball-retriever crowd. I would live like a golfing god for one week every April, and then retreat to the game's most humble level for rest of the year.
Still, the price was steep. So many great courses I had already sampled, so many more on my list. Having trod upon Pebble, and graced the greens at Oakmont, the thought of my eternal banishment from such golfing sanctuaries was almost unbearable. And it wasn't just the occasional trip to Pinehurst, or me getting called out with some guys who belong to the swishy clubs in town. It was the great expanding realm of daily fee courses that have gotten so good in the last 15 years. Kiss ‘em all goodbye. And while I'm at it, I better start looking for a new foursome as well. Who the hell is gonna slum it with me on Saturday morning, unless they are trying to weasel their way into getting one of my four allotted badges?
"Man, I don't know," I told my evil knickered version of Monte Hall. "Can I get back to you on this? I gotta make a call or two first."
The Devil Jones stared blankly at me and said, "What? Does it look like I have voice mail? Now or never, laddie. But I'll let you finish your bucket while you think about it."
With that, he retreated to a nearby bench to watch my swing and smoke a cigarette. I now had just about two dozen range balls, and maybe 15 minutes, to decide the rest of my golfing life. If I was sweating before, the worst was yet to come.
Check back next week for part two of "Golf deal with the devil."
Steve is a native Washingtonian and has worked in sports talk radio for the last 11 years. He worked at WTEM in 1993 anchoring Team Tickers before he took a full time job with national radio network One-on-One Sports.
A graduate of UC Santa Barbara, Steve has worked for WFNZ in Charlotte where his afternoon show was named "Best Radio Show." Steve continues to serve as a sports personality for WLZR in Milwaukee and does fill-in hosting for Fox Sports Radio.
