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to curse him and saw his huge suntanned hands. It was Hagen.
    He squeezed through, up to the mikes, just as Adele Invergordon finished introducing Bobby. I couldn’t take my eyes off Hagen’s suntan. It was the darkest, most glistening and flawless I had ever seen. Even the crinkles around his eyes were bronze. This was in the days, remember, when men did everything to stay out of the sun. Hats were universal, collars high; to see a man bareheaded outdoors was a rarity and being tanned or burned was a sign of low station, of one whom necessity forced to labor in the heat of the sun.
    Yet on Hagen, that tan shone like a badge of honor. It evoked sun-drenched fairways and Côte d’Azur beaches, deck chairs on the France and champagne at concours d’elegance. Every kid within eyeshot vowed instantly to spend each future second in the sun, till he too had achieved that godlike luster.
    The Haig was thirty-eight then, with his name engraved on the trophies of nearly a dozen major championships, a seasoned master at the peak of his maturity and power. More exciting still was his arrogance, his cocksure self-confidence. He radiated a roguish swashbuckling deviltry, which made him even more a brilliant match for the gentle knight Jones.
    But it was Bobby who was speaking now before the mikes.From the far side, at last we saw Junah arriving amid an escort of troopers with Bagger Vance striding powerfully beside him. They made their way swiftly through the crush, Vance helping Junah ascend to the platform, then himself withdrawing among the crowd. Jones noted Junah’s arrival with a cordial nod, gesturing for the others on the podium to clear a space. A reporter called out, “Sir! Mr. Jones!” It was Arnold Langer, just below Bobby in the crush.
    “You’ve been quoted as stating that golf is actually three different games. Golf, tournament golf and major championship golf. In which category, sir, would you place this match?”
    Jones smiled and the throng chuckled with him. It was a good question.
    “There is always one measure by which any match can be evaluated. That is the skill and courage of one’s opponents. When a man’s foes are worthy, every match is at championship level.”
    Hagen grinned broadly and made a little impromptu bow. The crowd roared with affection and approval.
    “My worthy adversary here, for example.” Jones gestured not to Hagen, but to Junah. “I’ve never actually had the pleasure of competing head-to-head with Mr. Junah, but he and Jess Sweetser did skin five dollars from myself and Watts Gunn in a practice round before the ’28 Walker Cup.” A surge of laughter and applause from the throng. “I don’t believe Mr. Junah missed a putt under ten feet all day—and certainly not when there was money to be made!”
    The crowd roared with delight and appreciation. Many of them, no doubt virtually all of the out-of-town arrivals, had neverheard of Junah and almost certainly regarded his inclusion in this event as a rather embarrassing sop to local pride. Now they relented somewhat in this harsh appraisal. It was Jones’ doing, deliberately, being the gentleman he was, to include Junah and set him in the light of a credible opponent.
    On Junah’s face could be seen acknowledgment and gratitude for this gesture. Yet still his emotion, if a word must be given to it, was mortification. He seemed self-conscious and uncomfortable, standing there as the cheers of the locals rang around him and Jones’ smiling gesture turned to the other side of the platform. To Hagen.
    “As for this fellow”—Jones’ soft accent reverberated through the loudspeakers—“whose name for the moment escapes me…”
    Deafening laughter and applause. Hagen beamed. Jones had won the crowd utterly. With a modest wave (you could see he relished the act of public speaking not at all), he stepped back and turned the microphone over to Hagen.
    A fresh surge of enthusiasm swept through the crowd as the Haig came forward.