It was a quiet night in the club room. Rather a welcoming change from the usual ebullience that characterizes our younger and more enthusiastic bucks. They were off raining down ebulliency somewhere else, I suppose.
Two tables held foursomes plying spades and hearts for points rather than approaching clubs and putters. Their occasional guffaws and lighthearted banter did nothing to affect the enjoyment of a cloak-and-dagger novel that I had been deeply pursuing for several days. Williamson, our esteemed and beloved barman, was preparing a lime wedge or two for the Vodka & Tonic who was paired with a Gin & Bitters at the far table.
All seemed well and the evening proceeded with that soothing tranquility that comes so rarely to the modern psyche. But it could not last. A slightly uneven, raised voice broke the spell, heralding, like the mute rumblings of distant thunder, an approaching storm.
“I tell you it was the strain of the achievement that led him to abandon the tour,” said the Vodka & Tonic with a hint of exasperation. “Oh, it was nothing of the sort,” said his provocateur, a Tom Collins, with a dismissive air. “He left because he was pressured to do so by his family.”
“I thought he was buying a farm or something,” put in the Black-and-Tan at the near table, his group, for the moment, forgetting their game for the promise of a lively discussion. (We call them “lively discussions” at this club, and that is what they are.)
“You’ve all got it wrong,” stated a Scotch Manhattan, one of those fellows who likes to think they know everything. I sighed as the two tables engaged in their debate with all the fervor of a congressional budget panel. Sound and fury, I thought and glanced at Williamson who returned the glance with a knowing one of his own.
Williamson is highly regarded at our club, his very presence the work of our club’s director who is said to have secured the coup of a lifetime by engaging our barman away from one of the five founding clubs of the USGA. Williamson’s authority on matters of drink is unquestioned, his Manhattan and brandy cocktail the stuff of legend. But it is for his legendary wisdom and experience when it comes to golf and its history that he comes into his own. His word is the last one on these topics.
“Here, Williamson, please settle this for us,” said the Vodka & Tonic. “We are speaking, of course, of Lord Byron and his unmatched string of victories in 1945. He left competitive golf after this achievement. Why would such a gifted golfer leave the game just when he had it under this thumb?”
Williamson had just reached the two tables, fresh glasses balanced neatly on his tray. He is a slender man whose handlebar mustache frames a countenance of considered patience.
“It was in 1939,” he said, deftly placing drinks on the tables and removing empty glasses, “that I was engaged on the Baggs Ranch in Roanoke, Texas. My family had been hit hard by the Depression and I was working odd jobs.”
He paused, holding a glass and staring at it.
A light “ahem,” brought him to the present moment.
“Oh, yes. When time permitted I put in a bit of work for a nice old church. One day, while painting windows, I saw a fellow in coveralls kneeling at the prayer rail. When finished, he got up and began to run a mop over the floors. It was Mr. Nelson. Ah, even his mop stroke was a thing of beauty and timing.”
“Byron Nelson himself,” said the Black-and-Tan. “Wow.”
“Indeed, sir. I introduced myself and we fell to talking. I could see something was troubling him and politely inquired. Mr. Nelson allowed that he was troubled by a decision before him. An offer had come from the Inverness Club in Toledo. He did not know whether to take it as the thought had come to leave golf and perhaps settle near Roanoke.”
“In 1939. He nearly left the game. My god,” whispered the Tom Collins man. “Why did he stay with it?”
“Well, sir,” Williamson continued, “I told him I thought the Good Lord had blessed him with this rare talent for a purpose. I recalled a verse from Romans that says God will render to each one according to his works. If it is to serve, then serve; if it is to teach, then teach. Well, if it is to golf, then golf.
“ ‘So’, I said to him, ‘Why not stick with it a for a while? Golf might be just the ticket to reach that goal of one day buying your own ranch.’ ”
Williamson turned as though to head for the bar when anguished voices behind beseeched otherwise. “What did Byron say to that?” asked the Black-and-Tan. “For god’s sake, Williamson, what happened then?”
“Ah,” said the old barman, “Mr. Nelson smiled. He said he would pray over it. A few days later he took me aside and said he had decided to take the job at Inverness. We shook hands and kept in touch through the years.”
All eyes followed Williamson as he returned to the bar and sat down his tray of glasses. Expectancy was in the air. Williamson smiled as he regarded us.
“I saw that Mr. Nelson had a good year in 1945,” he said. “Early in ’46 he called and we spoke for quite a while. He was thinking of leaving the tour and wondered what I thought. He said he had saved quite a bit of money and that Louise would support him whatever he decided. ‘Perhaps this is the right time’, I told him. I added that my former employer at the Baggs Ranch was looking for a partner. They got together and Mr. Nelson got his ranch. They called it the Fairway Ranch. I believe the ‘rocking B’ was their brand.”
There was silence for a moment, broken by an ice cube settling in a glass.
“Williamson… you… Nelson… ranch…” The words were uttered in a stunned, uncomprehending awe. Heads were shaken, a few whispers shared, then the foursomes remembered their card game. “Your deal I believe…”
Behind the great cherrywood bar, Williamson was polishing glasses and setting them gently, softly clinking, in their racks.
“Williamson,” I said, setting my book aside and approaching the bar, “A wonderful story. Apparently there is no measure of your depth when it comes to the ancient game.”
“You are kind, sir,” he said. “However, it may be wise to consider this from Proverbs: ‘The wisdom of the prudent is to give thought to their ways, but the folly of fools is deception’.
“Another Scotch, sir?”