The Legend of Bagger Vance by Steven Pressfield Page B

into the sunlight, followed by an athletic calf wrapped in pale yellow argyle and a knife-creased plus four. Sir Walter stepped forth in his plumage. A breath expelled from the gallery, and then applause sprung, reinforced by cheers and shouts of excitement.
    Hagen’s caddie, Spec Hammond, stepped first onto the tee. Then his footman, in equestrian boots to the knee; then a boy, like me, bearing refreshments, including cigarettes in a silver case (I heard someone behind me say Hagen always had quail eggs carried with him on-course, as a snack and to keep up his strength). Then the Haig himself strode forth.
    Jones had turned back and was witnessing this with a wry smile, having no doubt endured this assault of style and gamesmanship many times in the past. The gallery too recognized this psychological salvo; it was a joke they were in on and they loved it.
    “You boys get enough breakfast in you?” Hagen called gaily to Jones and Junah. “I’ve got hot coffee in the Auburn if you want.” He thumped his stomach contentedly and gave a belch of satisfaction. The gallery laughed and turned to each other in merry whispers.
    “A nice jolt of caffeine, that’s just what our nerves need,” Keeler grinned back to appreciative laughter from the gallery. Photographers and reporters were clustering around Hagen now; Jones returned to his warm-up, moving from short irons to mid-irons; then Junah started, I scampered out onto the range with the shag bag as he lobbed the first easy pitches. It was agrand perspective. I was out there, fifty or sixty yards, on the immaculately manicured grass. I could see the gallery, in colorful thousands now and swelling each moment, with the hotel rising behind and the Atlantic pounding in mightily beyond the dunes.
    My position was on the right. Jones’ shag boy stood in the middle, a hundred yards behind, and Hagen’s was now trotting out, deep, going way back toward the fence. I could hear Jones’ mid-irons hissing overhead, hear the backspin loud and sizzling; the balls dropped so close to the shag boy he could collect them with just a step this way or that. On the left of the tee, Hagen was finishing with the reporters. He didn’t tee his own ball, but had Spec do it. His shag boy was most of the way back at the fence, 250 yards out. Hagen took his driver, gave it a swift waggle and stepped right to the ball. This was odd; players normally warm up through the short irons, mids and longs, taking out the distance clubs only at the very end when they’re thoroughly warmed up. But here the Haig was brandishing his driver right out of the slot. The gallery hushed. Every eye, including Jones’ and Junah’s fans’, turned as Hagen planted his feet, waggled once, cocked an eye down the range and lashed at the ball with all his strength.
    He cold-topped it! The ball squirted dead into the turf and rebounded with a flat, sickening sound, to bound and shoot away, a sharp 180-yard grounder. The gallery gasped with shock, then laughed with release of tension as it saw the twinkle in the Haig’s eye. “Sorry, Bob,” Hagen grinned across at the center slot, where Jones endured this patiently.
    Spec teed another ball; the Haig slashed; a duck hook shotdead left off his clubhead, overspinning wildly and nose-diving into the dirt 40 yards out, bounding away into the weeds. The gallery was now thoroughly enjoying itself, snorting and rollicking, each spectator no doubt rehearsing the story as he or she would tell it tonight and for decades into the future.
    I had to keep my eye on Junah, who was trying to maintain focus on his own practice. He had hit half a dozen nice smooth lofters, all right at my feet (one had bounced clean into the shag bag). But now I saw something that froze my blood. That same grim, distanced look on Junah’s face. That posture of despair. The more the gallery enjoyed Hagen’s high jinks, the darker the cloud grew over Junah’s head. What was he thinking? What was