The Legend of Bagger Vance by Steven Pressfield Page A

to fraternize with his golfing superiors. Keeler insisted, and reluctantly Vance came over. I got there just after the introductions to find Jones regarding the tall and still self-effacing caddie thoughtfully. “Are you sure we’ve met?” he asked, studying Bagger Vance’s features. “I’m certain I would recall a face as striking as yours.”
    “It was a long time ago, sir,” Vance answered softly. There was a pause. Something about the way Vance said it. You could see Jones puzzling, studying Vance as if for a meaning beneath the surface.
    “It’s all I can do to remember yesterday.” Junah stepped in, dispelling the tension in laughter. Vance seized the chance and withdrew subtly, easing Junah to the fore. The group crossed to Jones’ pile of practice balls; photographers clustered; Jones began lobbing easy pitches down to his shag boy. He chatted with Junah and Keeler in between shots, nipping each pitch perfectly with his flawless languid rhythm, nudging each successive ball from the clutch with his clubhead, positioning it precisely at the back edge of the previous divot. “Every warm-up session is a new adventure, isn’t it, Mr. Junah?” he remarked in his soft Georgia drawl. “One never knows which swing he’ll find that morning, or if he’ll find one at all.”
    Junah chuckled. “I haven’t found mine in five years.” You could see he and Jones were both battling nervousness, each seeking to establish a solid controllable rhythm for themselves for the day.
    “I’m certain your caddie can help you,” Keeler put in with a smile, trying to draw Bagger Vance closer into the circle. “If anyone knows how the swing is learned, I’ll wager it’s he.”
    There was a pause. “The swing is never learned,” Bagger Vance said softly. “It’s remembered.”
    Jones’ clubhead was just positioning a fresh ball. He stopped abruptly. The Grand Slam champion looked up, studying Vance’s face with a deep thoughtfulness.
    “You were right, O.B.,” he said with a grin to Keeler. “This mysterious gentleman is a master of the subtleties of the game. We’d better stop fraternizing before he seduces us into contemplation of its mysteries and we forget we have a match to play.”
    “Forgive me, sir,” Vance said softly, “I’ve spoken too much already.” Again he withdrew, a subtle touch to Junah steering him toward his own practice lane.
    Keeler’s eyes followed as they withdrew. “Sir, tell me,” he called after Junah, “was your caddie ever a professional somewhere?”
    Junah laughed. “He’s been that and a lot more.”
    Keeler absorbed this thoughtfully. “May I ask where, sir?” he called, this time directly to Bagger Vance. “Where were you a professional?”
    Photographers and spectators had overheard the exchange. There was a stir; a dozen pairs of eyes, including Junah’s, turned to Bagger Vance to see if he would answer. The caddie squinted back toward Keeler. His voice was low, barely audible. “Here,” he said. “I was a professional here.”
    Keeler blinked, uncertain how to take this. Was the fellow mocking him? Keeler’s eyes searched Vance’s for a flicker of jest or ridicule. Jones too paused in his routine. You could see them both, confronted by the mystery of Vance’s clear truthful gaze, pull themselves, even shake themselves back to their centers. Let this be— their postures straightened and refocused —we have a match to play . At that moment, a commotion rippled from the rear of the gallery. We heard an automobile horn honk. Into view at the end of the tee eased Hagen’s brand-new Auburn six-door.
    The car stopped and the chauffeur sprung out. He clapped his own door shut, then stepped swiftly around to the rear. You could glimpse a head of blond curls behind the smoked glass and hear girlish laughter pealing. The chauffeur tugged the reardoor open. There was a pregnant beat, a wafting curl of tobacco smoke, then a $500 black-and-white golf shoe arced forth