Fancy Pants

The New World
Chapter 3

Dallas Fremont Beaudine once told a reporter from Sports Illustrated that the difference between pro golfers and other big-time athletes was mainly that golfers didn't spit. Not unless they were from Texas, anyway, in which case they pretty much did any damn-fool thing they pleased.

Golf Texas-style was one of Dallie Beaudine's favorite topics. Whenever the subject came up, he would shove one hand through his blond hair, stick a wad of Double Bubble in his mouth, and say, "We're talking real Texas golf, you understand… not this fancy PGA shit. Real down and dirty, punch that sucker ball upwind through a cyclone and nail it six inches from the pin on a burned-out public course built right next to the interstate. And it doesn't count unless you do it with a beat-up five iron you dug out of the junkyard when you were a kid and keep around just 'cause it makes you feel good to look at it."

By the fall of 1974 Dallie Beaudine had made a name for himself with sportswriters as the athlete who was going to introduce a welcome breath of fresh air into the stuffy world of professional golf. His quotes were colorful, and his extraordinary Texan good looks spruced up their magazine covers. Unfortunately, Dallie had a bad habit of getting himself suspended for cussing out officials or placing side bets with undesirables, so he wasn't always around when things got slow in the press tent. Still, all a reporter had to do to find him was ask the locals for the name of the seediest country-western bar in the county, and nine times out often Dallie would be there along with his caddy, Clarence "Skeet" Cooper, and three or four former prom queens who'd managed to slip away from their husbands for the evening.

"Sonny and Cher's marriage is in trouble for sure," Skeet Cooper said, studying a copy of People magazine in the light spilling from the open glove compartment. He looked over at Dallie, who was driving with one hand on the steering wheel of his Buick Riviera and the other cradling a Styro-foam coffee cup. "Yessirree," Skeet went on. "You ask me, little Chastity Bono's gonna have herself a stepdaddy soon."

"How you figure?" Dallie wasn't really interested, but the flickering of the occasional pair of oncoming headlights and the hypnotic rhythm of I-95's broken white line were putting him to sleep, and they still weren't all that close to the Florida state line. Glancing at the illuminated dial of the clock on the dashboard of the Buick, he saw that it was almost four-thirty. He had three hours before he had to tee off for the qualifying round of the Orange Blossom Open. That would barely give him time to take a shower and pop a couple of pills to wake himself up. He thought of the Bear, who was probably already in Jacksonville, sound asleep in the best suite Mr. Marriott had to offer.

Skeet tossed People in the back seat and picked up a copy of the National Enquirer. "Cher's startin' to talk about how much she respects Sonny in her interviews-that's how I figure they'll be splittin' up soon. You know as well as I do, whenever a woman starts talkin' about 'respect,' a man better get hisself a good lawyer."

Dallie laughed and then yawned.

"Shoot, Dallie," Skeet protested, as he watched the speedometer inch its way from seventy-five to eighty. "Why don't you crawl in the back and get some sleep? Let me drive for a while."

"If I fall asleep now, I won't wake up till next Sunday, and I have to qualify for this sucker, especially after today."

They had just come from the final round of the Southern Open, where Dallie had shot a disastrous 79, which was seven strokes over his scoring average and a number he had no intention of duplicating. "I don't suppose you got a copy of Golf Digest mixed in with all that crap," he asked.

"You know I never read that stuff." Skeet turned to page two of the Enquirer. "You want to hear about Jackie Kennedy or Burt Reynolds?"

Dallie groaned, then fumbled with the dial of the radio. Although he was a rock-and-roll man himself, for Skeet's benefit he tried to pick up a country-western station that was still on the air. The best he could get was Kris Kristofferson, who'd sold himself out to Hollywood, so he put on the news instead.

"… Sixties radical leader, Gerry Jaffe, was acquitted today of all charges after having been involved in a demonstration at Nevada's Nellis Air Force Base. According to federal authorities, Jaffe, who first gained notoriety during the riots at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, has recently turned his attention to anti-nuclear activities. One of a dwindling group of sixties radicals still involved in activist causes…"

Dallie had no interest in old hippies, and he flipped off the knob in disgust. Then he yawned again. "Do you think if you try real hard you could sound out the words in that book I got shoved under the seat?"

Skeet reached over and pulled out a paperback copy of Joseph Heller's Catch-22, then set it aside. "I looked at this one a couple of days ago when you was out with that little brunette, the one who kept calling you Mister Beaudine. Damn book don't make sense." Skeet flipped the Enquirer closed. "Just out of curiosity. Did she call you Mister Beaudine once you was back at the motel?"

Dallie popped a piece of Double Bubble in his mouth. "As soon as she got her dress off, she mostly kept quiet."

Skeet chuckled, but the change of expression didn't do much to improve his appearance. Depending on your viewpoint, Clarence "Skeet" Cooper had been blessed or cursed with a face that made him pretty much a dead ringer for Jack Palance. He had the same menacing, ugly-handsome features, the same pressed-over nose and small, slit eyes. His hair was dark, prematurely threaded with gray, and worn so long he had to tie it in a ponytail with a rubber band when he caddied for Dallie. At other times he just let it hang to his shoulders, keeping it away from his face with a red bandanna headband like his real idol who wasn't Palance at all but Willie Nelson, the greatest outlaw in Austin, Texas.

At thirty-five, Skeet was ten years older than Dallie. He was an ex-con who'd served time for armed robbery and come out of the experience determined not to repeat it. Quiet around those he didn't know, wary of anyone who wore a business suit, he was immensely loyal to the people he loved, and the person he loved most was Dallas Beaudine.

Dallie had found Skeet passed out on the bathroom floor in a run-down Texaco station on U.S. 180 outside Caddo, Texas. Dallie was fifteen years old at the time, a gangly six-footer dressed in a torn T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans that showed too much ankle. He also displayed a black eye, skinned knuckles, and a jaw swollen twice its normal size from a brutal altercation that would prove to be the final one with his daddy, Jaycee Beaudine.

Skeet still remembered peering up at Dallie from the dirty bathroom floor and trying hard to focus. Despite his battered face, the boy standing inside the bathroom door was just about the best-looking kid he'd ever seen. He had a shock of dishwater blond hair, bright blue eyes surrounded by thick, paintbrush lashes, and a mouth that looked like it belonged on a two-hundred-dollar whore. As Skeet's head cleared, he also noticed the tear streaks etched in the dirt on the boy's young cheeks as well as the surly, belligerent expression on the kid's face that dared him to make something of it.

Stumbling to his feet, Skeet splashed some water in his own face. "This bathroom's already occupied, sonny."

The kid stuck a thumb in the ragged pocket of his jeans and thrust out his swollen jaw. "Yeah, it's occupied all right. By a stinkin' piece of no-good dog shit."

Skeet, with his slitted eyes and Jack Palance face, wasn't used to having a grown man challenge him, much less a kid not old enough to have much more than a weekly date with a razor. "You lookin' for trouble, boy?"

"I already found trouble, so I guess a little more won't much hurt me."

Skeet rinsed out his mouth then spit into the basin. "You're about the stupidest kid I ever seen in my life," he muttered.

"Yeah, well you don't look like you're too smart, either, Dog Shit."

Skeet didn't lose his temper easily, but he'd been on a bender that had lasted nearly two weeks, and he wasn't in the best of moods. Straightening up, he pulled back his fist and took two unsteady steps forward, determined to add to the damage already done by Jaycee Beaudine. The kid braced himself, but before Skeet could strike, the rotgut whiskey he'd been drinking got the best of him and he felt the dirty concrete floor give way beneath his wobbly knees.

When he woke up, he found himself in the back seat of a '56 Studebaker with a bad muffler. The kid was at the wheel, heading west on U.S. 180, driving with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging from the window, beating out the rhythm of "Surf City" on the side of the car with his palm.

"You kidnappin' me, boy?" he growled, pulling himself up on the back of the seat.

"The guy pumpin' super at the Texaco was getting ready to call the cops on you. Since you didn't seem to have a legitimate means of transportation, I couldn't do much else but bring you along."

Skeet thought about that for a few minutes and then said, "Name's Cooper. Skeet Cooper."

"Dallas Beaudine. Folks call me Dallie."

"You old enough to be drivin' this car legal?"

Dallie shrugged. "I stole the car from my old man and I'm fifteen. You want me to let you out?"

Skeet thought about his parole officer, who was guaranteed certain to frown on just exactly this kind of thing, and then looked at the feisty kid driving down the sun-baked Texas road like he owned the mineral rights underneath it.

Making up his mind, Skeet leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. "Guess I might stick around for a few more miles," he said.

Ten years later, he was still around.

Skeet looked over at Dallie sitting behind the wheel of the '73 Buick he now drove and wondered how all those years had flown by so quickly. They'd played a lot of golf courses since the day they'd met at the Texaco station. He chuckled softly to himself as he remembered the first golf course.

The two of them hadn't traveled for more than a few hours that first day when it became evident that they didn't have much more than the price of a full tank of gas between them. However, fleeing the wrath of Jaycee Beaudine hadn't made Dallie forget to toss a few battered clubs into the trunk before he hotfooted it out of Houston, so he began looking around for signs that would lead them to the next country club.

As he turned into a tree-lined drive, Skeet glanced over at him. "Does it occur to you that we don't exactly look like country club material, what with this stolen Studebaker and your busted-up face?"

Dallie's swollen mouth twisted in a cocky grin. "That kind of stuff don't count for shit when you can hit a five-iron two hundred twenty yards into the wind and land the ball on a nickel."

He made Skeet empty out his pockets, took their total assets of twelve dollars and sixty-four cents, walked up to three charter members, and suggested they play a friendly little game at ten dollars a hole. The charter members, Dallie declared magnanimously, could take their electric carts and their oversize leather bags stuffed full of Wilson irons and MacGregor woods. Dallie announced that he'd be happy as a clam walking along with only his five-iron and his second-best Titleist ball.

The members looked at the scruffy-handsome kid who had three inches of bony ankle showing above his sneaker tops and shook their heads.

Dallie grinned, told them they were yellow-bellied, shit-stompin', worthless excuses for women and suggested they raise the stakes to twenty dollars a hole, exactly seven dollars and thirty-six cents more than he had in his back pocket.

The members pushed him toward the first tee and told him they'd stomp his smart ass right across the border into Oklahoma.

Dallie and Skeet ate T-bones that night and slept at the Holiday Inn.

They reached Jacksonville with thirty minutes to spare before Dallie had to tee off for the qualifying round of the 1974 Orange Blossom Open. That same afternoon, a Jacksonville sportswriter out to make a name for himself unearthed the staggering fact that Dallas Beaudine, with his country-boy grammar and redneck politics, held a bachelor's degree in English literature. Two evenings later the sportswriter finally managed to track Dallie to Luella's, a dirty concrete structure with peeling pink paint and plastic flamingos located not far from the Gator Bowl, and confronted him with the information as if he'd just uncovered political graft.

Dallie looked up from his glass of Stroh's, shrugged, and said that since his degree came from Texas A &M, he guessed it didn't really count for much.

It was exactly this kind of irreverence that had kept sports reporters coming back for more ever since Dallie had begun to play on the pro tour two years before. Dallie could keep them entertained for hours with generally unquotable quotes about the state of the Union, athletes who sold out to Hollywood, and women's "ass-stompin'" liberation. He was a new generation of good ol' boy-movie star handsome, self-deprecating, and a lot smarter than he wanted to let on. Dallie Beaudine was about as close as you could get to perfect magazine copy, except for one thing.

He blew the big ones.

After having been declared the pro tour's new golden boy, he had committed the nearly unpardonable sin of not winning a single important tournament. If he played a two-bit tournament on the outskirts of Apopka, Florida, or Irving, Texas, he would win it at eighteen under par, but at the Bob Hope or the Kemper Open, he might not even make the cut. The sportswriters kept asking their readers the same question: When was Dallas Beaudine going to live up to his potential as a pro golfer?

Dallie had made up his mind to win the Orange Blossom Open this year and put an end to his string of bad luck. For one thing, he liked Jacksonville-it was the only Florida city in his opinion that hadn't tried to turn itself into a theme park-and he liked the course where the Orange Blossom was being played. Despite his lack of sleep, he'd made a solid showing in Monday's qualifying round and then, fully rested, he'd played brilliantly in the Wednesday Pro-Am. Success had bolstered his self-confidence-success and the fact that the Golden Bear, from Columbus, Ohio, had come down with a bad case of the flu and been forced to withdraw.

Charlie Conner, the Jacksonville sportswriter, took a sip from his own glass of Stroh's and tried to slouch back in his chair with the same easy grace he observed in Dallie Beaudine. "Do you think Jack Nicklaus's withdrawal will affect the Orange Blossom this week?" he asked.

In Dallie's mind that was one of the world's stupidest questions, right up there with "Was it as good for you as it was for me?" but he pretended to think it over anyway. "Well, now, Charlie, when you take into consideration the fact that Jack Nicklaus is on his way to becoming the greatest player in the history of golf, I'd say there's a pretty fair chance we'll notice he's gone."

The sportswriter looked at Dallie skeptically. "The greatest player? Aren't you forgetting a few people like Ben Hogan and Arnold Palmer?" He paused reverentially before he uttered the next name, the holiest name in golf. "Aren't you forgetting Bobby Jones?"

"Nobody's ever played the game like Jack Nicklaus," Dallie said firmly. "Not even Bobby Jones."

Skeet had been talking to Luella, the bar's owner, but when he heard Nicklaus's name mentioned he frowned and asked the sportswriter about the Cowboys' chances to make it all the way to the Super Bowl. Skeet didn't like Dallie talking about Nicklaus, so he had gotten into the habit of interrupting any conversation that shifted in that direction. Skeet said talking about Nicklaus made Dallie's game go straight to hell. Dallie wouldn't admit it, but Skeet was pretty much right.

As Skeet and the sportswriter talked about the Cowboys, Dallie tried to shake off the depression that settled over him every fall like clockwork by indulging in some positive thinking. The '74 season was nearly over, and he hadn't done all that bad for himself. He'd won a few thousand in prize money and double that in crazy betting games- playing best ball left-handed, betting on hitting the middle zero on the 200-yard sign at a driving range, playing an improvised course through a dried-out gully and a forty-foot concrete sewer pipe. He'd even tried Trevino's trick of playing a few holes by throwing the

ball in the air and hitting it with a thirty-two-ounce Dr Pepper bottle, but the bottle glass wasn't as thick now as it had been when the Super Mex had invented that particular wrinkle in the bottomless grab bag

of golf betting games, so Dallie'd given it up after they'd had to take five stitches in his right hand. Despite his injury, he'd earned enough money to pay for gas and keep Skeet and him comfortable. It wasn't a fortune, but it was a hell of a lot more than old Jaycee Beaudine had ever made hanging around the wharves along Buffalo Bayou in Houston.

Jaycee had been dead for a year now, his life washed away by alcohol and a mean temper. Dallie hadn't found out about his father's death until a few months after it had happened when he'd run into one of Jaycee's old drinking buddies in a Nacogdoches saloon. Dallie wished he had known at the time so he could have stood next to Jaycee's coffin, looked down at his father's corpse, and spit right between the old man's closed eyes. One glob of spit for all the bruises he'd earned from Jaycee's fists, all the abuse he'd taken throughout his childhood, all the times he'd listened to Jaycee call him worthless… a pretty boy… a no-account… until he hadn't been able to stand it anymore and had run away at fifteen.

From what he'd been able to see in a few old photos, Dallie got most of his good looks from his mother. She, too, had run off. She had fled from Jaycee not long after Dallie was born, and she hadn't bothered

to leave a forwarding address. Jaycee once said he heard she'd gone to Alaska, but he had never tried to find her. "Too much trouble," Jaycee had told Dallie. "No woman's worth that much trouble, especially when there are so many others around."

With his thick auburn hair and heavy-lidded eyes, Jaycee had attracted more women than he knew what to do with. Over the years at least a dozen had spent varying amounts of time living with them, a few even bringing children along. Some of the women had taken good care of Dallie, others had abused him. As he grew older, he noticed that the ones who abused him seemed to last longer than the others, probably because it took a certain amount of ill temper to survive Jaycee for more than a few months.

"He was born mean," one of the nicer women had told Dallie while she packed her suitcase. "Some people are just like that. You don't realize it at first about Jaycee because he's smart, and he can talk so nice that he makes you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. But there's something twisted inside him that makes him mean right through to his blood. Don't listen to all that stuff he says about

you, Dallie. You're a good kid. He's just afraid you'll grow up and make something of your life, which

is more than he's ever been able to do."

Dallie had stayed out of the way of Jaycee's fists as much as he could. The classroom became his safest haven, and unlike his friends he never cut school-unless he had a particularly bad set of bruises on his face, in which case he would hang out with the caddies who worked at the country club down the road. They taught him golf, and by the time he was twelve he had found an even safer haven than school.

Dallie shook off his old memories and told Skeet it was time to call it. a night. They went back to the motel, but even though he was tired, Dallie had been thinking about the past too much to fall asleep easily.

With the qualifying round completed and the Pro-Am out of the way, the real tournament began the next day. Like all major professional golf tournaments, the Orange Blossom Open held its first two rounds on Thursday and Friday. The players who survived the cut after Friday went on to the final two rounds.

Not only did Dallie survive Friday's cut, but he was leading the tournament by four strokes when he walked past the network television tower onto the first tee on Sunday morning for the final round.

"Now, you just hold steady today, Dallie," Skeet said. He tapped the heel of his hand against the top of Dallie's golf bag and looked nervously over at the leader board, which had Dallie's name prominently displayed at the top. "Remember that you're playing your own game today, not anybody else's. Put

those television cameras out of your mind and concentrate on making one shot at a time."

Dallie didn't even nod in acknowledgment of Skeet's words. Instead, he grinned at a spectacular brunette standing near the ropes that held back the gallery of fans. She smiled back, so he wandered over to crack a few jokes with her, acting like he didn't have a care in the world, like winning this tournament wasn't the most important thing in his life, like this year there wouldn't be any Halloween at all.

Dallie was playing in the final foursome along with Johnny Miller, the leading money winner on the tour that season. When it was Dallie's turn to tee up, Skeet handed him a three-wood and gave his final words of advice. "Remember that you're the best young golfer on the tour today, Dallie. You know it and I know it. How about we let the rest of the world figure it out?" Dallie nodded, took his stance, and hit the kind of golf shot that makes history.

At the end of fourteen holes, Dallie was still in the lead at sixteen under par. With only four holes to go, Johnny Miller was coming up fast, but he was still four strokes behind. Dallie put Miller out of his mind and concentrated on his own game. As he sank a five-foot putt, he told himself that he was born to play golf. Some champions are made, but others are created at the moment of conception. He was finally going to live up to the reputation the magazines had created for him. With his name sitting at the top of the leader board of the Orange Blossom Open, Dallie felt as if he'd come out of the womb with a brand-new Titleist ball clenched in his hand.

His strides grew longer as he walked down the fifteenth fairway. The network cameras followed his

every move, and confidence surged through him. Those final-round defeats of the past two years were

all behind him now. They were flukes, nothing but flukes. This Texas boy was about to set the golf

world on fire.

The sun hit his blond hair and warmed his shirt. In the gallery, a shapely female fan blew him a kiss.

He laughed and made a play out of catching the kiss in midair and slipping it into his pocket.

Skeet held out an eight-iron for an easy approach shot to the fifteenth green. Dallie gripped the club, assessed the lie, and took his stance. He felt strong and in control. His lead was solid, his game was on, nothing could snatch away this victory.

Nothing except the Bear.

You don't really think you can win this thing, do you, Beaudine?

The Bear's voice popped into Dallie's head sounding just as clear as if Jack Nicklaus were standing

beside him.

Champions like me win golf tournaments, not failures like you.

Go away, Dallie's brain screamed. Don't show up now! Sweat began to break out on his forehead. He adjusted his grip, tried to loosen himself up again, tried not to listen to that voice.

What have you got to show for yourself? What have you done with your life except screw things up?

Leave me alone! Dallie stepped away from the ball, rechecked the line, and settled in again. He drew

back the club and hit. The crowd let out a collective groan as the ball drifted to the left and landed in

high rough. In Dallie's mind, the Bear shook his big blond head.

That's exactly what I'm talking about, Beaudine. You just don't have the stuff it takes to make a champion.

Skeet, his expression clearly worried, came up next to Dallie. "Where in hell did that shot come from? Now you're going to have to scramble to make par."

"I just lost my balance," Dallie snapped, stalking off toward the green.

You just lost your guts, the Bear whispered back.

The "Bear had begun to appear in Dallie's head not long after Dallie had started playing on the pro tour. Before that, it had only been Jaycee's voice he had heard in his head. Logically, Dallie understood that he'd created the Bear himself, and he knew there was a big difference between the soft-spoken, well-mannered Jack Nicklaus of real life and this creature from hell who spoke like Nicklaus, and looked like Nicklaus, and knew all Dallie's deepest secrets.

But logic didn't have much to do with private devils, and it wasn't accidental that Dallie's private devil

had taken the form of Jack Nicklaus, a man he admired just about more than anyone else-a man with

a beautiful family, the respect of his peers, and the greatest game of golf the world had ever seen. A

man who wouldn't know how to fail if he tried.

You're a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the Bear whispered as Dallie lined up a short putt on

the sixteenth green. It lipped the edge of the cup and scooted off to the side.

Johnny Miller gave Dallie a sympathetic look, then sank his own putt for a par. Two holes later when Dallie hit his drive on eighteen, his four-shot lead had been reduced to a tie with Miller.

Your old man told you you'd never amount to much, the Bear said as Dallie's drive sliced viciously to

the right. Why didn 't you listen?

The worse Daliie played, the more he joked with the crowd. "Now, where did that miserable golf shot come from?" he called over to them, scratching his head in mock bewilderment. And then he pointed

to a plump, matronly woman standing near the ropes. "Ma'am, maybe you'd better put down your

purse and come on over here so you can hit the next one for me."

He bogeyed the final hole and Johnny Miller birdied it. After the players had signed their scorecards, the tournament chairman presented Miller with the first-place trophy and a check for thirty thousand dollars. Dallie shook his hand, gave Miller a few congratulatory pats on the shoulder,and then went over to joke with the crowd some more.

"This is what I get for letting Skeet hold my jaws open last night and pour all that beer down my throat. My old grandmother could have played better out there today with a garden rake and roller skates."

Dallie Beaudine had spent a childhood dodging his father's fists, and he knew better than to let anybody see when he was hurting.