Barnstormer A Short Story by Pat Jurgens I guess you could say mine is one of the craziest jobs in the country. I'm one of those dopes that travel the winter circuit with all the barnstorm putters in the country and look over the guys that are pulling in the big money. I spot me an up-and-coming smasher on the fairways and tail him around those nineteen tournaments; and if he keeps on raking in the big dough, I give him some more for his John Henry on some of our clubs and balls. Sounds dopey, doesn't it? Getting paid for watching a pack of golf-doped guys spend all their money, and their nerves chasing a little hunk of rubber over eighteen holes of hell. But that's my job, and I love it. Remember 1939, the year when Byron Nelson, Craig Wood and Denny Shute tied for first place in the National Open at Chicago's North Shore Country Club? None of us who were there will ever forget it. That was the first time I ever heard of Nubby Hackett. He didn't even make the semi-finals that time, but he was right in there bumping elbows with the great Lord Byron himself in the club house before the first round teed off. I was on the Nelson bandwagon myself, but there was something in the kid's attitude that got my attention. The quiet way he picked up his clubs to do his own caddying, and that calm, nonchalant manner he had when he stepped up to the tee stuck in my mind. Of course, when everything went so cock-eyed crazy there with the three tied, I forgot all about Nubby Hackett. It wasn't until that December at Miami Springs at the $10,000 open that I found out who Nubby was. That's the first of the nineteen tournaments of the winter circuit, and all the big boys are there: but a whale of a lot of amateurs are there too. There was Wiffy Cox, Ben Hogan, Jimmy Demaret, Clayton Heafner, Denny Shute, and Nubby Hackett. I hadn't heard of him when I read over the entry list the morning of the tee off. "Who is this Hackett bird?" I asked Darrell Stacey from a rival firm. "I don't know. I think he was in the Open this year, but I couldn't be sure." "New-comer, eh?" "Yeah. He's a nice kid. This is his first circuit, the poor sucker." "Know him?" "No, I just saw him when he came in the clubhouse this morning. Why, think you've got a dark horse?" I grinned, "Well, you never can tell." With that, we let it go and talked of other things. Then when the first round of golfers started out to the first tee, Stacey and I tagged along to watch. We saw Hogan and another chap start out with two beautiful drives, and then Stacey nudged me as another unknown walked up to the tee. "That kid is Nubby Hackett. The one teeing off now." I looked up and recognized the same kid I had seen in Chicago. I felt a new interest awaken for him, and I just prayed he'd come into the money. He still had the same old golf bag, and no caddy. He still had that calm assured manner, and his drive was as clean and sweet as Hogan's had been. The crowd appreciated it too, but there wasn't a change of expression in the calm brown eyes either of pleasure or disappointment. "I think I like the looks of Hogan this round," Stacey said as the last of the foursome finished teeing off. "Yeah," I said half to myself, and half to him. "So do I." But I wasn't thinking of Hogan. There was some beautiful golf played that morning during the first round, and for a time I began to agree with Stacey. Hogan's drives were lengthy, his irons deadly; but Nubby matched his every play. Coming into the eighteenth hole, Hogan had just made two birdies, and it looked like an eagle was coming up. I looked at Nubby, but he was still as unruffled as he had been at the first tee. The kid had nerve, and I liked it. If he made a birdie on the eighteenth, his score would be a cool 64. If Hogan made his eagle, he would have 63. Hogan stepped up to the ball for a ten foot putt. He planted his feet just so, took a moment to sight the cup and shot. The ball sped over the smooth green, up to the cup, but stopped dead just before it went in. Nubby stepped up to his ball for a six footer, and sank it. He had tied with Hogan, and I could have cheered. As he walked back to the club house, the galleries gave him a nice hand. Then for the first time, the kid's expression changed. He grinned a slow, pleased grin, and ran his hand through his short brown hair. "Nice putting," I told him as he passed me. He turned, and smiled. "Thanks." He had a pleasant voice with sort of a middle western tang to it. "How about coming to lunch with me?" "This is only the first round. There are two more to go." "I know that, but you have to eat some time. My check's as good as anyone else's." At that, I knew I had struck home. He'd probably borrowed the money to get him down here, and from the look on his face, I had an idea that his barnstorming days were still in the embryo stage. While we were eating our meal, I tried to feel the kid out. All he could talk about though was how he had to win that tournament. It was a kind of obsession with him, I guess you could call it. And when he talked about winning, his eyes were alive and bright. "When I was caddying for all the business men back home, watching all the mistakes they made in their games, I knew that I couldn't rest until my game was rated with the big shots. I made a mistake by entering the Open this summer. I wasn't ready. A hook had sneaked in on my drives, and I hadn't gotten rid of it. I have now though, and it isn't going to get me this time. I can win this tournament." You can't say he was conceited. It was just one of those positive facts that isn't debatable. Well, he finished eating, excused himself, and dashed back out to the driving range. When he got (Continued on Page 23) page two "Nubby sank a ten footer for a 64 and a tie with Hogan on the first eighteen." page three