“I’ve seen you play only seventeen holes,” he began. “That’s not nearly
enough. You play pretty well, I’ll grant you, and figure you’re probably fairly
honest. But lookee, you’re not related to ole Leonard Dodson, are you? That
sumbitch couldn’t play a lick until there was money ridin’ on it, and at that
point you couldn’t beat him!”
I assured Snead that I wasn’t related in any way to Leonard Dodson, a
South Carolina pro who never amounted to much except on the club hustlers circuit. I used the moment to explain that I’d grown up in Greensboro, North Carolina, a block from Sam Snead Boulevard and the golf club
where he had won several of his record eight Greensboro Opens.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, smiling hugely.
“Tell you what,” he whispered and winked. “I’ll take the money off these
old bird dogs and just play you for a bowl of chocolate ice cream and maybe
a little whiskey.”
I replied that, under the circumstances, that was fine by me.
Snead’s buddies teed up and fired highly respectable tee shots to the middle of the green, cackling like teenagers. I teed my ball and put it ten feet
to the right of the flag, causing one of the old boys to whistle and needle
Sam about having met a “true ringer.” Sam shook his head and said,
“Maybe so. But at least I’m gonna send you boys back home to your naps.
Watch this.”
With that, he deposited his golf ball maybe eight inches from the cup.
Both bird dogs howled as if stung by a swarm of yellow jackets, and Sam
Snead slid me a coy little smile that said he’d played this little scene a thousand times in his life.
Before I could reach my ball, the Slammer pocketed his friends’ folding
money and picked up my ball, which he playfully underhanded to me
across the putting surface where I was totaling up his amazing score.
“C’mon,” drawled the Peckerwood Kid who’d just shot 73 but was fast
approaching his mid-80s. “I’m buyin’ the ice cream and the whiskey.”
I reminded him that I’d lost the wager. So it was my job to buy.
“Not today,” he said graciously and winked again. “Tell you what,
though. You come back in ten years and we’ll have us another little match.
Maybe I’ll let you buy then.”
