Stories submitted by: The Order Archive - Brother O’Donnell

Editor’s Note: The following account has been preserved from the Order’s archives. Some minor adjustments to wording have been made for modern readability, but the spirit and substance of the original telling remain unchanged.

In America, everything grows faster, even the stories after the round. And if you think the majors made golf loud, you should have seen my bar on a summer night at Shinnecock.

It was 1932, the year the money started talking louder than the clubs. Pros were rolling in from the circuit, Wall Street men were flashing cash like scorecards, and every caddie in Suffolk County had a tale worth hearing. I didn’t play like a champion, but I knew where the real game ended: in my back room, where the light was low and the whiskey was high.

That day, two giants squared off on the course. A touring pro with a swing smooth as silk and a banker with a temper sharp as a spike. The wager? Ten grand and bragging rights from Manhattan to Montauk. I leaned in and said, “Gentlemen, let’s make it sweet. Loser buys the bar for the night.” They laughed, shook hands, and the crowd swelled like a tide.

The first hole was a roar. The pro drove long, ball sailing like a gull over the dunes. The banker hacked into the rough and cursed loud enough to scare the seabirds. By the fifth, the pro was two up, and the banker’s face was red as a stoplight.

At the ninth, the banker found his fire. A clean strike, ball rolling true, and the crowd howled like wolves. The pro grinned, calm as a saint, and dropped his putt like it was nothing. The match was alive, and so was my bar tab.

The last hole was tied. The sun was bleeding into the Sound, and every man on the course was holding his breath. The banker bent low, sweat dripping, and struck. Short. A groan rolled across the green. The pro stepped up, eyes steady, and tapped in for the win. The crowd erupted like Wall Street on a bull run.

The banker paid, grumbling like a storm, and I poured the whiskey. But the real prize was mine. That night, my back room was a kingdom. Pros, millionaires, caddies, even a newspaperman or two. They all drank under my roof. Deals were struck, futures decided, and the stories grew faster than the money.

I never played like a champion, lads. But every champion played in my room. And if you doubt me, ask the men who still whisper my name when the majors roll through Long Island.