With MacDuff
Sept. 25, 2021
It was late at the little pub in Whitehall. I had driven for about 10 hours before pulling up at a little inn nearby and wanted a nightcap before turning in. The place seemed friendly enough, several patrons at tables and the bar, but there was a kind of atmosphere. You can tell when you go into a room and sense that something had gone down earlier. You can feel when people are happy and had been celebrating, or something else.
This was definitely in the category of something else. There was a subdued energy one experiences in the wake of a great emotional upheaval. The barkeep bore the ancient look of his tribe, at once wise and sympathetic. No sooner had finished my Scotch when a wizened little gent came in, looked around and grinning at me took the adjacent stool.
“Me name’s MacDuff,” he said to me, “And tis clear that yer not from around here and don’t know of wha transpired on the gowf coorse earlier t’dae.” The accent was Scottish… I think. It varied anyway. I ordered a double and he continued.
MacDuff’s Story
Aye, twas the 10th playin of The Cup, as we call it around here. I’m called upon to chronicle these toornaments so I can tell ye wha happened.
The crowds poured early from all points of the compass and even elsewhere, finding their favorite spots to watch the field pass. The pubs were full, TVs locked onto the Gowf Channel, the local inns out of rooms, exorbitant rates being charged. Everyone knew Rollo Schmidt would be in the field again this year. He’s the champion, don’t ye know, of the local course, the one where gloom itself is said to be buried. Rollo had come close to winning before, but had been damned unlucky, some would say cursed, but I don’t believe those wicked tales.
A strong, tall fellow of good breeding, a deep old file, handsome and a favorite o the ladies, he is. A good crisp golf game and several times the club champion as well as a past president and club historian. Rollo practiced hard, getting the jigger and niblick to perform magic, coaxing putts in from all corners of the seductive Bendelow greens, reading breaks as though he were born to it.
This would be his year, we were all certain.
Smart money was on Rollo, at least the local money. The more knowin one’s bet money they borrowed from relatives. Those who follow golf will know that The McNabb Cup attracts the very best from throughout the world. Aye, some have come from England, Scotland and Canada, and all had been turned away defeated, broken by the steady playin o the men from Michigan. Even that fellow from Virginia with the clubs so delicately balanced and lofted handed in a sorrowful card back in ’13, I think. Few can master the pressure demanded for The Cup, among golf tournaments the one that legend says only the blessings of Aunt Izz herself (here, he crossed himself) would help a worthy player to golf’s greatest trophy.
We’ve heard their names afore: The Phantom Flyer, The Kid and Kris, Steady Eddie, The Scorekeeper, The Commissioner, Super Cova, Lucky Jack Maynard, Mike “Bog Man” Pishlo, WHO Chieftain Ed Ronco, Fred “The Match” Niles, and the dreaded Wee Mon… all were signed for the 10th playing of The Cup and all knew quite well what glory (and possible commercial endorsements) that a win would bring. There would be no holding back.
Only Rollo stood in their way. And he had new challengers this year. Dapper Cal from Wisconsin was comin, a high-flyin player from Illinois and traveling with him was a young gun, Cool Collin, a deadly hand with driver and mashie. Then there was Zach, an unknown from Kalamazoo who had heard about The Cup and determined it would be his. The new men were rounded out by Diamond Dave, from east Michigan and known to the WHO tribe to be tough on par, as well as equipment.
Sunny skies and lazy clouds hovered above a field of sound and quiet fury. In front of the crowds, cameras blazing, the players posed for photographs in their deep blue blazers, the McNabb Cup crest flashing in the bright light. Outgoing Captain Lloyd Slinglend, a man possessed of a distinguished style and grace, announced the new year’s Captain of the Cup, the Wee Mon hisself, Scott Staudacher.
Oh, he spoke well he did, the Wee Mon, talkin of family and the love between golfers o high character and the standards of The McNabb Cup, alone, it seems, in a world of golf that has lost its way. Many a tear was shed, but none were lost once the new Captain drove in The Cup.
For, ye see, then, the game was on. All our hopes were on one man.
The tough front nine on the Death o Gloom course can cause many a player to rethink his life’s choices. Some complained that the length was set too long. Poppycock. Many, like Rollo, knuckled down to business. He completed that stretch with a solid 20 points. The Cup, ye see, is played under Stableford scoring rules with SoHG and course handicaps. That put him right in the thick of things for only Kris, the wife of Billy the Kid Ellington, Frankie “The Stang” Abrahams, Joe “The Scorekekeper” Bodnar, and the Wee Mon had been able to keep pace.
Oh, what joy. The bets were flyin back in the Broken Mashie pub, the boyo’s hootin’ and rootin for Rollo. Even the men in the booth at the Gowf Channel seemed on the edge of their chairs, glued to their own studio monitors. The far easier back nine was coming up and Rollo knew it as well as anyone. Cigars were lit. Old grievances forgiven. Surely this would be Rollo’s year.
He went up by two on The Scorekeeper after No. 10, gave them back on 11 and tied him on the 12th. The Wee Mon was scoring only indifferent pars. Abrahams seemed to be unable to make a move. The Zach of Kalamazoo had a fine back nine coming in six points better than his first nine. Cool Collin, playing at scratch, could not collect himself to do much better than par. Kris, the better half – really, waay far better – of the Ellington pair, also fell off the pace.
Spectators, too, felt the keen pressure. Grips tightened on chairs, on shoulders, on anything at hand. The Gowf Channel refused to go to commercial break, an argument breaking out on air as to whether Riker’s front nine in ’13 had not been better. Seasoned journalists accustomed to the rigors of Augusta or The Open, broke into their emergency flasks, typewriter ribbons broke left and right.
A telling roar from the far corner of the course…Rollo had birdied 13! How great the anguish of the all-in spectators! Until a little boy, a wretched, much despised little boy, observed that Tim Stroshine, the 2014 Champion, the Phantom Flyer himself, had also birdied the hole and was making a move. The Phantom Flyer! A nervous whisper moved through the crowd, picking their pockets of hope and goodwill.
Rollo teetered. The horrible 14th, a par 5 with its evil tree guarding an impossible corner to a green fronted by small pond took its ghastly toll. Rollo failed to score! Shaken, he also stumbled at the beguiling par 3 15th, again failing to card a single point. Women covered small children’s eyes. A slight recovery for birdie and two points at 16, but then failure again on 17 and a dismal par on 18.
For the back nine, brave Rollo, the champion on whom all in the town had bet their brother’s 10 Bob, could manage only 12 points. Bodnar scored 18 and Kris a 15 on the back. The Stang also faltered to 12. The Wee Mon had already finished, a disappointing 14 on his card for the back.
There was dead air on the Gowf Channel, stunned commentators gaping vacantly at crying producers who were desperately urging them to say something, anything.
Mighty Rollo had, as it were, struck out.
It was the Phantom Flyer who reached the highest realms of The McNabb Cup this day. Thanks to his twice-checked-by-The-Committee-handicap he birdied five holes on the back, eagled one and parred the rest. God help us! He had scored 25 points on the back nine for a 42 total against Rollo’s 32. A 10-point difference over the nine hole stretch and one of the most amazing McNabb Cup finishes this many a year.
Tim Stroshine had done it. He had become only the second repeat champion in McNabb Cup history. (Billy the Kid Ellington being the first, 2016 and 2019.)
The Scorekeeper came in second with 38 and the always dangerous eye doc from Muskegon, Todd Riker (the DeChambeau of hickory golf whose prodigious drives are much discussed, at least those that find the fairway) followed with 37.
Once they had gathered their wits and refilled their flasks (an important ingredient to good journalism), the gritty press corp seized upon the new champion as he came off the 18th green and dragged him off to be sacrificed in the press tent.
‘What was it like, Flyer?,’ shouted The White Lake Independent.
‘How did you do it?,’ yelled the Brookside Bugle.
‘What’s your diet?,’ crooned the Ladies Golf Union Repeater.
‘It was kind of an unbelievable experience,’ the champion spoke, with that deer-in-the-headlights look. ‘That course always seems to bring the best out in me. I’ve always played well here. Dylan Barry and his greens staff had it in great shape and the course pro, Bill Borgman, always treats us well. No comment on the diet.’
‘You did so well on the back nine. What made the difference?,’ roared a fedora from the Idaho Free Press, elbowing his way to the front of the frenzied pack.
‘Well, I played with John Cova earlier this month and he pointed out something I was doing,’ said the Flyer in his modest fashion. ‘I’ve made that adjustment and played pretty well ever since. Just caught lightning in a bottle, I guess. Probably the best nine I’ve had this year, anywhere.’
‘Was there anything about your game you felt earned you the championship?,’ drawled a man from the Midwest Clarion Daily.
‘My chipping was fantastic,’ said The Flyer. ‘I had few putts over four or five feet. The short game really came into play.’
The press fell silent, which is difficult for them. Rollo Schmidt had entered the press tent, not bowed or sad, but smiling broadly. He walked over to the new champion, offered his hand in congratulations and gave him a great hug. Photographers fell over themselves to capture the moment, bulbs popping and blazing.
‘As much as it hurts to fail for The Cup,’ said the hero to a hushed room, ‘it was a great honor even to play for it. My sufferin’s on the back nine were my own fault, no one else. The new champion here, The Flyer, Mr. Tim Stroshine, is a worthy man and I am right glad he has proven himself, yet again. Now then, ye heathen bastards [he might not have said exactly that, but it’s what I was thinkin], the Flyer here and meself have a victory to celebrate. Away wi yerselves to the bar. Yer first round’s on me!”
The tent emptied quickly and Rollo turned to Stroshine. ‘Tis the best way to rid yerself o them, don’t ye doubt,’ he said. ‘I believe there’s a pint for yer own self at the McNabb Cottage and a healthy ice tea for meself. Shall we?’
With this the players repaired to the McNabb Cottage for their customary Awards Dinner and the crowds and press were left to make what they might of another entry into what has become a legendary event on the Michigan Hickory Tour.
Said the Tour’s Commissioner, Roger Hill, ‘Most satisfactory.’
Indeed.
“So, ye see, my friend,” said MacDuff, draining a glass, “tis the reason for our quiet reflections this night. Our local man might have fallen short for The Cup, but he proved again that a true champion is measured not by the hardware he may achieve, but by the hearts he wins.”
MacDuff left the pub then, leaving several empty pint glasses on the counter and me with the tab. The barkeep and the few patrons in the place regarded me with an expectant look.
“Here’s to Rollo and long live The Cup,” I offered raising my glass to tipple off the remaining drops.
“Here, here,” came the happy replies and the barkeeper, smiling and nodding, picked up my tab.
Coda
In the interest of record keeping, be it known that the youngster (he is 22), Collin Laundrie, posted the day’s lowest gross score, an 82; followed by Todd Riker (the 2012 champion) with 83, and Scott Staudacher with 85. John Cova (the 2017 champion) was next with 86. Jim “Rollo” Schmidt was sixth with 87 and Billy “The Kid” Ellington in with 89.
As well, the August & Ancient Committee of The McNabb Cup was disappointed to learn that Cup veteran, and one of the five original players, Bob “Sunny” Bieszka would not be among the competitors in 2021. He and his wife, Mary, are moving to Virginia. As he may not find it easy to return for future tournaments, the players prepared a gift which they all signed and which was sent to Mr. Bieszka at his new address.
Others who could not compete this year included McNabb Cup veterans Bill Tucholski, Scott Petersen, Howard Vogel, Gary Trapani (the 2018 champion) and Xander Dobreff. All were very much missed and The Committee wishes them the very best.
Post Coda
Rollo Schmidt later confided his dismay in the events of the 2021 McNabb to a close friend who sent the following letter, addressed to the August & Ancient Committee who, in turn, directed that it be shared with everyone.
Rollo laments his collapse on the back nine, especially after his birdie on the par five ninth hole which he is sure you would like to hear about. He hit his driver up the left side, then managed a mediocre spoon to about 175 from the green, then another spoon, the best of his short career as a hickory player, which wound up about 20 feet past the hole. He lined up the tricky downhill putt, mishit it in what was apparently the right direction and it wobbled into the hole for a birdie. “Aha,” he thought. That was for a gross 41, let alone the 20 Stableford points. He began to harbor visions of victory.
And then came the back nine, where his troubles did not really start until the 14th hole where he snookered his third shot into that damnable pine on the left down by the so-called creek. It was downhill from there and Rollo was borne under by a blizzard of double bogeys. Oh the dashed hopes, oh the pain of expectations exceeding stamina and ability! He cursed this wretched game (briefly). Worst of all, he let down his home club and all of his one or two fans who were rooting for ‘the old guy.’ My shoulders even now slump over the keypad and tears fall as I tap out this sad tale.
It proved to him, yet again, that he is basically a nine-hole player, and that 18 holes is no country for old men. And yet, though he cannot turn back the clock to the time when he could assault the course with brute strength and bludgeon it to death, after a few dark days curled up in bed reading dystopian novels to forget, he rose up, took a healthy puff on his inhaler and vowed to return to the fray next year. Rollo Podmarsh Schmidt may be down, but he is not out, and shall return!
As for the budding young golfers who look to Rollo for inspiration as a role model, he can only say, ‘Who? Me?’ He admires their power, their smooth velvety swings, and their unerring sense of balance, but would advise them to develop their latent craftiness and stealth. They will need it later.
