The Legend of Bagger Vance by Steven Pressfield Read Free Book Online

He was wearing gray plus fours with matching argyle socks and the type of two-tone shoe we used to call “spectators.” His linen shirt was white, with a dove-gray tie the precise hue of his plus fours. Everyone else was wringing and sopped. Hagen’s shirt betrayed not a smack of sweat.
    “It is indeed an honor,” Hagen spoke slowly and clearly into the mikes, “to compete against a man whom many consider to be the greatest ever to pick up a club. A man not only blessed withmatinee-idol good looks and animal magnetism, but also one of the truly fine gentlemen of the era. But enough about me…. ”
    The crowd roared. Jones was laughing with genuine enthusiasm, I could see Keeler rocking appreciatively and nodding his head.
    Hagen, it should be remembered, of all the knights who ever strode the fairways, ranks behind only Jones and Jack Nicklaus in number of major championships won. Eleven in all, ahead of Hogan, Snead, Palmer, Watson, ahead of all save the two greatest ever. The Haig took the U.S. Open at Midlothian in 1914 and at Brae Burn in ’19. He captured the British four times, at Royal St. George’s twice, in ’22 and ’28, at Hoylake in ’24 and one final time at Muirfield, 1929.
    Then there was the PGA, which was held at match play in those years. Hagen transformed this championship into his own private fiefdom, winning first in ’21, then four times in a row, ’24, ’25, ’26, ’27.
    Then there was that royal shellacking he gave Jones in their first head-to-head exhibition match in Florida. The fans hadn’t forgotten it and neither, the bet was sure, had Bobby.
    As I watched that brilliant pair up front on the podium, a thought, or more precisely an emotion, struck me then with a power that has not left in all these years.
    I had the profound sense of these two, Jones and Hagen (and even Keeler in an odd way), as being something other than mortal . They seemed a breed beyond. A finer, higher order of being. Creatures who inhabited a nobler, loftier plane than we mundanehumans; beings bordering on, and perhaps at times crossing over into, being gods.
    I looked at Hagen, beaming with his glowing dark skin and brilliantined hair, holding the multitude enthralled with his power and magnetism. You could understand how this man had defeated 22 opponents in a row, 22 of the finest players in the world, over four consecutive PGA championships, all of which he had won. It was a function not so much, one felt, of his skill as a player, as of his power as a competitor. He was daunting, intimidating, overwhelming.
    I turned next to Jones. There are two things that photographs, and even films of him, never quite depict. First was his athleticism. Even at his modest height and size, even with the air of intelligence and gentlemanliness he projected, even in his shirt and tie when he seemed more a figure for a veranda than an arena, he exuded a youth and strength that were frightening. His shoulders underneath his cotton shirt were broad and powerful; he stood like a supple god. There was something almost Greek about him, and yet at the same time consummately American.
    Then there was his handsomeness. You’ve no doubt seen numerous photos of the man, Michael, perhaps even some of this very day at Krewe Island. But none do justice to the man that stood before the multitude in his youth and prime. My God, he was handsome! His skin, like Hagen’s, seemed to glow with an inner fire that the rest of us had been denied. His eyes were bright with power and intelligence and his whole modest understated demeanor only added to what I must call, for no other word will accurately describe it, his beauty. Almost unaware of it,vaguely embarrassed by it, never dreaming of capitalizing on it. If it makes sense, I may say his good looks were “amateur.” Do you know what I mean?
    The terrifying thought occurred to me, as perhaps it did simultaneously to the whole crowd, or at least our local Georgia half of it, that these two