The Feathery (23 page)

Scott’s acceptance speech was almost finished when he spied the red head of Douglas bobbing around for a better view among the adults. Scott said, "I’d also like to mention a Turnberry boy who did a great job pinch-hitting for my regular caddie. He’s standing over there, and his name is Douglas McEwan." He pointed to Douglas. The television cameras and audio pick-up devices of four major networks swung toward him. When they settled on the lad, 78 million viewers could hear his high-pitched voice.

"That was nothing, Mr. Beckman. The best part was you beat the pants off all the others against wagering odds of two hundred to one."
The crowd chuckled and they were most likely joined by a world full of TV viewers doing the same.

O
n the way to the hotel with Beth, Scott met Sarah Covington. She offered Scott her congratulations after he handed her a check for $20,000 to pay the penalty for taking the feathery out of the auction.
"Thank you again for the reduction," Scott said.
"Beth is a good negotiator. Are you coming to Portpatrick tonight?" Sarah asked.
"No, but I’ll be there tomorrow evening. I’ve got commitments with the press and other business tomorrow. And I’m planning to squeeze in the round of golf I promised the McEwan boy."
"You must really love the game to play the day after such a grueling win," Sarah said. "Beth is welcome to come with me to Portpatrick this evening instead of hanging around Turnberry all day tomorrow. I’m off to London mid-afternoon and she’ll be alone only a few hours before you arrive. The weather is going to be lovely and she’ll enjoy the beach. I’m leaving for Portpatrick directly."
Scott looked at Beth for her approval and said, "you’ll miss the celebration they’ve planned."
"That’s okay, Scott. We’ll have our celebration in Portpatrick. I’ll go by the hotel, pack my things and go with Sarah."
Scott started to escort them toward the car-park when Sarah put her hand on his arm and stopped walking. "I’ve confirmed the feathery has been recovered. Do you have it in your possession?"
Scott hesitated before he answered her. "Yeah, it’s locked up in the Turnberry Hotel safe with the bronze statuette."
"Oh, I’d love to see it, but don’t bother now. When you get to London you’ll let me have a peep."
"Sure, Sarah."

Scott continued walking with Beth and Sarah to the lot where Sarah’s BMW was parked.

Sarah made another try to buy the feathery on the way there.
"It’s not for sale, Sarah." Scott told her, once again.

When they reached the car, he kissed Beth goodbye and said, "later, in Portpatrick."
Beth looked up at him and the large brown eyes seemed to join with her smile. "Okay, until Portpatrick."
Sarah abruptly turned her back to them during their kiss and was quick to get in the BMW and start the engine. After Beth was in the passenger seat, Sarah drove quickly out of the parking lot toward the hotel lobby. The British Open champion stood alone for a moment thinking about Sarah’s strong obsession to own the feathery, before he walked up the stairs to the function room..

The celebration was in full swing when the guest of honor arrived. All welcomed him into the Turnberry Hotel function room with cheers and more hugs or handshakes. Derrick Small had ordered a catered buffet as requested and funded by Scott. The Claret Jug was filled with champagne. First, Scott took a sip and raised it high in a toast before he passed the trophy around the room for all to partake.

Bob Bray offered his congratulations. He’d finished tied for seventh with more than enough prize money to finance a European vacation with his family. Mark Breen of Linksking requested a meeting with Scott before he returned to San Diego, wanting to discuss a European marketing thrust in light of Scott’s Open win. They arranged to meet the next day. Mark was also keen on a playing a round of golf at Turnberry with the champ.

Douglas McEwan and his father joined the party, and Scott, to keep his promise to the boy, asked Derrick if ten in the morning would be okay for play on the Ailsa course. Even though Scott was feeling golfed out, he would play a fun round with Breen and Douglas.

"The course is officially closed tomorrow, but I’ll make an exception for the Open Champion, only if I can join him," Derrick answered.
"You got it."
Douglas was a happy fourteen-year-old when he asked, "Could my dad join us Mr. Beckman?"
"Sure. You, Mark Breen and I will take on Matt, your dad and Derrick."
Matt was nearby and heard Scott setting up the match. "Okay, we stroke off the British Open Champ who has a handicap of plus five. That’s five better than par on the Ailsa course, folks."
Scott was now ready to reward his caddie. "Without you, dude, I wouldn’t have won this tournament." Scott handed Matt his personal check. "This will be good after I deposit the big one."
Matt protested after staring at the amount on the check. "Hey, that’s way over the union wage for Sherpas. I’m looking at twenty-five percent here."
"I know, but you deserve it." Scott smiled. "Just consider the extra bucks for physical damages."
Matt’s loud, "All right!" silenced the room. He reached in his pocket and withdrew a certified check from the Barkley Betting Shop. The check was written for a sum in British pounds sterling for the equivalent in U.S. currency of $176,130. "After what you told me about Barkley’s legal problems, Scott, I figured I’d better collect this pronto at the Barkley Betting Shop in Prestwick. Claudio and I made a fast trip there."
A cheer filled the room and a good part of the Turnberry Hotel.
Derrick said it. "Scott, you’re a bloody millionaire."
It all started to hit home with Scott. He thought,
In less than a year I’ve gone from being a broke dude to a rich one. And with the value of the feathery and bronze, it’s even more. I could have done without the
shootings
over the feathery and Matt’s kidnapping.
Randal Lyle came forward to offer his congratulations and shook Scott’s hand. "The Open Champion seems to be deep in thought."
"Yeah, I was thinking about Matt’s kidnapping. The reason behind it was gambling on the Open." Scott rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This will be quite the flap for the PGA, USGA and Royal and Ancient to handle when it all gets out."
Randal agreed. "Yes, the righteous hypocrites in golf’s hierarchy will be outraged, even though they’ve placed bets on golf at betting shops and casinos around the world."

 
The room started to empty as the caterer cleaned up the little food that remained. An overwhelming weariness suddenly came over Scott. The events of the week took their toll, and he was ready for some sleep. He entered his room and crashed, exhausted.

S
cott was awakened by the phone at seven in the morning. It was his mother.
"Scott, I’m so proud of you. I watched the whole thing on television.

"That ace you made at the end was thrilling."
"Mom, it was an eagle. Ace is a tennis term, and a golf term for a hole-in-one, but thanks anyway."
"Whatever. I’m working on knowing more about golf and thinking of taking lessons. It’s part of the therapy suggested by my psychiatrist, and it could be good for business."
"Quite a change, mom."
"Yes, I had a few hang-ups, Scott, but I’m working on them." "They say admitting it is the first big step to recovering." There was a pause. "And, Scott, you’re a millionaire."
"Yeah, just like you, mom."
"Well, that’s right. Oh, Scott, I hope we can start over and rebuild a good mother-son relationship."
"I’ll try," Scott said.
"Good, congratulations. And, Scott, if you want to invest in some good California property, I can help. Goodnight, or is it good morning in Scotland?"
"It’s morning here, mom. I’ll be in California in a week or so. Bye." Scott cradled the hotel phone and he lay in bed thinking about his mother. It was hard to forgive and forget her past attitude and bitterness toward him and his father about the game of golf, but he would work on it.

Scott was in the Turnberry Hotel restaurant at eight to meet Matt and Mark Breen for breakfast. Matt placed three Fleet Street tabloids on the table. The headline of one on the back sport page read:
YANK EAGLE SNATCHES OPEN WIN FROM JAPANESE.

After Scott’s interview with
Golf Magazine
they joined Derrick and the McEwans at the pro shop. Douglas and his father were ready for golf and bubbling with pride to be playing a round with Scott. The wind and rain had left Turnberry, and the clouds from the day before were starting to clear.

Scott shook hands with the McEwans. "I’m honored to play a round with the McEwans of Saint Andrew’s." He turned toward Douglas. "Let’s go, partner."

"I’ve been practicing and broke ninety on the Ailsa before the Open, Mr. Beckman. And I’m sure with all the strokes I’ll get off you, we’ll beat the pants off them," he said, nodding toward Matt, Breen and his father.

David McEwan looked to the sky with mock exasperation as if it was no use reprimanding his son any longer for his outspoken remarks. He shrugged and said, "it’s in the lad’s genes."

The course was empty and Derrick authorized their six-some to play the Ailsa—a little worse for wear because of the many divots made by a week of Open play. Using some of Douglas’ 25 strokes, Scott, Douglas and Breen did beat the pants off Matt, Derrick and the elder McEwan.

When the round was finished, David McEwan invited them to his home, a short walk from the course. Derrick and Mark Breen played another nine holes instead of joining them.

After they settled into the McEwan parlor, the conversation turned to the McNair feathery. David McEwan showed more than general interest with a flurry of questions, until he asked, "May I have a look at your feathery?"

"Sure. It’s in the hotel safe. I’ll go get it." Scott started to get up. "Nae, Scott, relax. I’ll send the lad to fetch it."

Scott called the Turnberry Hotel desk to inform them, and Douglas dashed out of the house. He returned in fifteen minutes with the feathery. Scott opened the small wooden box and handed it to David McEwan. David reached in a desk drawer and put on a pair of latex gloves. He read the record scorecard and carefully lifted the feathery out of the box. He turned the ball slowly viewing the 78
,
HUGH and the pennyweight of 26. He stared at it for a couple of minutes before he placed the feathery back in the box with the scorecard. David handed the box back to Scott and excused himself. He left for another room in the house.

When David returned, he had an antique thorn wood driver in his grip. He handed the club to Scott and indicated writing on the head of it. Written there in black ink was the name HUGH, and under that, the number 78
.
The script on the club head was identical to that on the feathery. Scott was mesmerized by the familiar writing on the club and couldn’t take his eyes off it.

David spoke to break the silence. "My ancestor from Saint Andrews, Douglas McEwan, made this club for Hugh McNair around 1849."
Scott again thought about the McNair journal he’d read.
The McEwan name matched the same name of McNair’s caddie in the journal, and Douglas resembled that caddie’s description there
. He asked David McEwan about the relationship.
"Oh, yes, that’s definite, Scott, McNair’s caddie during the record round was James McEwan, and James was the son of Douglas the club maker. We named our son after that Douglas."
Scott was still staring in astonishment at the markings on the club head and thinking about the McEwan lineage. "So, McNair used this club when he shot his 78 on the Old Course, right?"
"Aye, and it was a gift to James McEwan, his caddie back then. The legend of that record and this club have been passed down through generations of McEwans."
Scott gripped the club and waggled it a few times. "This driver is in great condition. It must be valuable." He handed the thorn wood driver back to David.
"Aye, John Hollbrooke offered me twelve-thousand pounds. I was tempted to accept that during hard times. I just couldn’t part with it, but now I’ve decided to send it to its rightful place. It’s going back to Saint Andrews, and will be on display there in the British Golf Museum."
Scott stared down at the feathery box on his lap for a long time.
Matt knew what his friend was contemplating. "Scott, are you sure? That ball is worth big bucks."
"So is the McEwan driver, Matt. I was just thinking about Sandy and how great it would be if the feathery returns to Saint Andrews to be on display in the museum along with the thorn wood driver that his great-grandfather used to set the record." Scott took another look at the feathery before he closed the box and said, "the feathery is going to Saint Andrews."
Matt shook his head. "You are one weird, rich dude."
Douglas asked his father, "Can I go to Saint Andrews with Mr. Beckman to take back the driving club?"
"If it would be all right with Mr. Beckman, it’d be all right with me, son."
Scott’s thoughts were pulled away from St. Andrews in 1849. "Be glad to have him. It’s only right that a McEwan present the club to the museum." He looked over at a very happy Douglas and added to his glee. "I’ll pick you up on Thursday morning on my way back from Portpatrick. Bring your clubs, and we’ll play the Old Course."
Scott and Matt got up to leave.
David McEwan shook Matt’s hand and then held on to Scott’s a moment longer. "You’ve earned the Claret Jug, Scott Beckman. You were a true gannet in our Turnberry weather. And now that you’re going to donate the McNair feathery to Saint Andrews, you’ve preserved some history of a game you play so well." He released Scott’s hand. "Sandy McNair would be quite proud of you."