Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius Page #6

Yes, dear. Come along.

Morning.

Good morning, sir.

Sorry, you can't park here, sir.

- Do you know who I am?

- Yes, sir.

Then you know

I'm the defending British Open champion.

Yes, sir.

And you also know

that for some archaic reason...

professional golfers are not allowed

to use the clubhouse facilities.

- Amateurs only.

- Yes, sir.

Well, this automobile is my dressing room.

And this automobile is my wardrobe.

And these stay parked right here

until the tournament is over.

You see, I'm here to beat Bobby Jones.

Hey, fellows.

I'm here to beat Bobby Jones.

How are we doing?

Walter Hagen shot a sixty-eight.

You only have one round to catch him.

Or him to sink to my level.

Careful, O.B.

You've got a big black thing on your head.

You're gonna kill me with those 40-footers.

Mr. Ramsey, the putter please.

Thank you.

Your boy's finished.

I recognize you.

You're the British Open Champion.

Mary gave me your stomach medication.

I guess there'll be another parade

in New York.

And the pros will be gunning for you

at Interlachen.

You know, the longer I play this game...

the harder it gets.

Smile.

It's 110 in the shade.

Thank goodness

we don't have to play in the shade.

Hello, kid.

- Hello, Walter.

- How's that swing?

You remember our match in '26?

I seem to remember

you beat the living hell out of me.

Remember what the headlines said?

I think I tried to avoid the papers for a time.

"Jones loses to Hagen. "

That's what the papers said.

You were always the news.

Always the news, kid. Win or lose.

But you know...

this is where it stops, don't you?

If you pull off this Grand Slam thing...

then I am nothing but a footnote.

I can't let that happen.

I know.

You know, it's kind of hot out there.

You might want to roll your sleeves up.

I can't.

Who's gonna be second, Walter?

Tell me something, fellows.

Why is it,

whenever I fail to stop this amateur...

the rest of you curl up and die, too?

All this damn part-timer has to do

is show up...

and the best pros in the business

drop dead.

One of you better step up

in the final round, you hear me?

Go to hell, Hagen.

He's the best there is, and you know it.

Three in a row, one to go!

Well done, sir.

- Set them up.

- Yes, sir.

Get this thing off me.

So, Jones, when are you gonna cash in?

Hagen's pitching that hair tonic,

which is why you never see him wear a hat.

They pay a man not to wear a hat,

can you believe that?

Hair tonic, shaving cream.

All you've got to do...

is sign your name and make a million bucks.

So, what's holding up your parade, sport?

I'm an amateur, Mr. Mullen.

Do you know what the origin

of that word is?

It's from the Latin root, "to love. "

To be an amateur is to love the game.

Once you play for money...

you can't call it love anymore.

But I guess you'd know all about that.

So, what are you, Jones, some kind of idiot?

Don't think I don't read your crap, Keeler.

And that's not the story we all want.

We want the one you'd print

if you didn't have your nose stuck so far-

By golly, it's fisticuffs.

Bobby Jones is a true amateur

and a gentleman.

There'll never be another one like him.

Money.

It's gonna ruin sports.

Colonel.

Colonel?

Bob has got terrible stomach cramps.

I think it's his appendix.

Well, we've run every test we know.

And we all agree that the cramps

are being caused by a nervous disorder.

And all I can do is prescribe paregoric.

I'm O.B. Keeler, bringing you the first ever

live radio broadcast...

of the U.S. Amateur Golf Championship.

Mr. Bobby Jones's quest

for the Grand Slam.

"Does the road wind uphill all the way

Yes, to the very end

"Will the journey take the whole day

"From noon till night, my friend"

...from the Merion Cricket Club, where

Bobby Jones has defeated Jess Sweetser...

in the semi-finals

of the U.S. Amateur Golf Championship.

Gene Homans is now the one man

who stands between...

Mr. Jones and the Grand Slam.

Good luck, son.

Good luck.

Bobby Jones wins the hole.

He's eight up with eight to play.

Bobby Jones to putt.

He lines it up.

Now, the putt should break

sharply to the left.

Jones just misses left,

leaving him a three-footer.

Mr. Homans to putt.

He addresses the ball.

Now, this putt should break right.

Not even close.

Mr. Homans...

he's conceding the hole and the match.

Bobby Jones has won the Grand Slam!

- Bobby Jones has won the Grand Slam!

- He won!

Your dad won.

When do you turn pro?

Pardon me. Coming through.

Where is he?

- Congratulations, son.

- Thank you.

There are finer things

than winning championships.

Could I interest you in a marriage

to a full-time Atlanta man?

I think you'll like this fellow.

An obscure lawyer.

Dots "I's," crosses "T's" all day.

Home for dinner by 5:30.

It sounds like a dream.

It's our dream.

I'm finished, Mary.

I'm retiring from tournament golf.

You fulfill my heart, Mary.

I love you.

I love you.

You know, I love what Grantland wrote:

"For when the One Great Scorer comes

To write against your name

"He writes not that you won or lost

"But how you played the game"

You won all these tournaments

for your dad and for me...

and the people of Atlanta.

You got two college degrees

for your mother...

became a lawyer for your grandfather...

and you retired from golf for your wife.

What are you gonna do for yourself?

We're standing on the first tee.

I'm gonna call it Augusta National.

It's gonna be my homage to St. Andrews.

Welcome back to the Course at St. Andrews.

Rate this script:5.0 / 1 vote