The mornings mist had turned to rain, lightning giving all a fright,

And so the day grew ever long as day turned slowly toward the night.

The foursomes drifted in and out about the nineteenth hole,

Each player's prayerful plea for sun came deep from in his soul.

All asked the great one up above to pity them their day,

For with the rain now falling down, golf could not be played.

The crowd gathering in the grillroom's bar settled into groups,

Passing time, as all men will, drinking beers or sipping soups.

As words of whispers slowly grew and eyes to clouds did gaze,

Slowly, very slowly, above them all a voice was raised.

He made a plea to tell his tale for all of those who would hear,

And when he finished out his tale, with laughter drank his beer.

And then another raised his voice to tell his own sad tale,

Who by the ending of his yarn changed laughter to a wail.

And then one more desired to speak, soon followed by another.

Until at last I stood straight up and looked right towards my brother.

Now gather round me one and all, I said for those to hear.

I have a story, must be told, a reputation to now cheer.

Away back in forty-six it was, so young I seemed back then,

Short and thin, to no surprise, I was eight days past ten.

Well there I stood in the clubhouse hall, seeking the caddy master,

When swept me by and along with them, the crowd moved ever faster.

For heading to the iron railing that marked the boundary to the Black,

There walking tall and strong and sure, the one and only Buffalo Jack!

Now at the mention of that name the room grew totally still,

The only sounds now to be heard were the sizzles from the grill.

Bu-Bu-Buffalo Jack? came the voice of someone who never stuttered,

For this name of fame had grown great with time, yet been years since here was uttered.

That's right again I said to all now gathered in that room,

I paused once more and through the window, looked out at the gloom.

I alone am left of those that day with Buffalo Jack.

I alone do know the truth of how he played the Black!

Buffalo Jack I said once again, I can remember the tall man's query.

It's strange, he said, for I have heard you came from by Lake Erie.

Laughing aloud the great man said, why what you say is true.

But I was given that fair name where I shot my fifty-two!

And all around him rose as one and gave Jack a mighty cheer,

And he continued on to say, there's not one course I fear.

And that is why I come this day my clubs upon my back.

I'm here to do what no one's done - I'll conquer Bethpage Black!

I've heard it said he kept on speaking, bragging all the while,

That only the skilled should play this course, and with that he did smile.

I took my courage in my mouth, my voice both shrill and high,

Mr. Jack I said and the great man turned looking right into my eye.

Please understand I have no doubts of the greatness of your skill.

But the Black, unlike any other course, can break the toughest will.

Extremely long, the rough is deep; the greens are blinding fast.

They say his greatest work is here, old Mister Tillinghast!

With that he turned and gave to me his bag the color of gold.

Carry this, my boy he said to me, remember this when you've grown old.

I put the strap upon my shoulder almost tripping as I started.

And so the people in the crowd, making way for us they parted.

He strode upon the grassy ridge that held the first holes tee,

And looking down the sloping hill he saw the towering tree

That on the fairways dogleg edge stood tall and wide and dark.

Now watch this carry o'er that tree; I'll use it for my mark!

And reaching back with club in hand how mightily he swung.

The ball took flight straight as an arrow, into the branch that hung.

He stood there but a moment, and with his shoulders shrugged.

Said he to me as we now walked, at least it hasn't plugged!

I'll play a punch from where I lie; I'll make the green for sure,

On this hole I guess I'll just make my par, I'll settle for a four.

So once again he swung his club, cutting through the grass,

His ball advanced ten feet (all left), despite his mighty pass.

The crowd that watched just stood and stared, in fact a few did grumble.

I guess it always is a shock to see your hero stumble.

Yet like all those of days gone by, Jack would not give up,

He hit his next shot on the green, some fifty feet from the cup.

I'll give this a run straight at the hole, and make it for my par,

And roll that ball did at the hole, going twelve feet too far.

A man in the crowd put his hand to his mouth and sucked upon his stogie.

Jack's next putt stopped there on the lip - he'd made a double-bogey!

His walk to two was strangely quiet despite those all around.

This time he crushed his drive so high, we ne'er did think it come to ground!

The crowd exploded when now they saw his ball far down the middle;

When he arrived over by his ball his next of club posed a riddle.

The shot he faced was short and straight but where they placed the green,

Was on a hilltop past the sand, and so could not be seen.

I said, Hit eight while he took a look, my choice to me was fine.

But he decided at the end that he would hit a nine.

And so once more he took a swing; beautiful and grand.

The ball took flight both straight and true, yet landed in the sand.

When Jack into the trap now stepped and looked at what he faced,

He came back out and got his club and back and fro he paced.

Stopping and looking from every side to know just where to play,

And now he struck down at the ball and all the sand gave way.

The ball came out high and soft, floating white against the sky,

Yet landed long and in the rough that stood three inches high.

And so the great man's eyes glared out, his anger clearly seen,

He took in hand a wedge with him for his fourth shot to this green.

Standing up above the ball he was fighting to be calm,

And then he stretched his back and arms, throwing off his qualm.

So now once again he swung his club and smiled for all to see,

For come to rest right near the cup his ball, just inches three.

Jack made his five and waved his hand politely to the crowd,

But to his dismay a man there said, A bogey! very loud.

Well, Jack said naught to this small man, walking off without a word,

Taking club in hand, straight on he went to the tee-box of the third.

He looked across the valley edge; the green was there to see.

Once more with confidence he roared, I'll birdie this par three!

Well, back the club again was swung and only Murphy's Law

Would pick that moment's quiet time to have a black crow caw.

And so he pulled this shot of his past the green but straight.

There Jack stood looking at the bird, his eyes held naught but hate.

Well as we got to where his ball had rolled down in the ditch

He turned and said to one and all, this is a devilish pitch.

He shook his head and the crowd stayed still as club swung through its pass.

It scooted up upon the green, rolling gently on the grass.

The ball kept rolling down the slope, heading towards the pin,

When down it plunked within the cup, Jack gave a mighty grin!

A birdie! they shouted one and all, The man deserved a break.

That's the first one then Jack aloud did cry, how many can I make?

And as he walked his ears were filled with cheers, raucous and wild,

And to the fourth hole made his way, and the entire time he smiled.

Now upright he stood with muscles flexed, this hole a long par five.

I'll need to give it all I have, and swinging hard he hit his drive.

And off it soared along its flight, yet at the very end,

He stood amazed, as did we all, to see his tee shot bend.

Now angry, muttering and storming off, I kept up at a run.

It was obvious and plain to me; Jack wasn't having any fun.

We looked around to find his ball, and see just where it lay,

And there it was within some grass that stood as high as hay.

Well once again he stopped and looked, I must play smart, he said.

And aiming out and to the right, he knocked the ball ahead.

But the grass had grabbed the clubhead face and turned it in his hand,

Once again the ball 'took flight and headed at the sand.

And there it buried deep within at the very top of the facier,

Of that monster trap, some local gents, one time had named the Glacier.

Jack stood there shaking slowly his head from side to side,

Down below the bunker that ran eighty-five yards wide.

From base to top the bunker rose more than seventeen feet tall,

And sixteen feet six inches up buried deeply was his ball.

The only shot at all was on top and on his knees.

And this he did and swung straight down to the side that had the trees.

The ball popped loose and sideways flew twenty yards along the sand,

The way he played this hole today was nothing like he'd planned.

Again he tried to calm himself, his patience thinly wearing,

A shot he'd try to play right now by using all his daring.

He used a nine because of where the green now stood,

And when he swung, and out it came, looking oh so good!

And yet again it seemed as if all fates chose to conspire,

For who'd have bet at any odds, that Jack would catch a flyer!

And there it went straight past the green, one hop and down the hill.

And all those crowding round the green in shock were standing still.

From far below he tried to cut a sand wedge high and soft.

It floated up and straight, and yet was in a high branch caught.

Unplayable lie! Those accursed words, his mouth was forced to utter.

He made his drop and knocked it on to leave a fifteen-footer.

The green itself sloped very steep, from front to back it dropped,

And his sharply curving, breaking putt, when reached the lip it stopped.

Now seldom a man endured so much to make it into heaven,

But my God, take pity on Buffalo Jack; he had taken an eleven.

So on to the fifth tee walked the great man and the crowd.

His back still straight as was his gait, his courage was unbowed.

So once again he teed the ball, pretending not to hear,

The words now said behind his head, he'd not show them his fear!

This time his drive bore through the air, shot as from a gun.

On it went so very straight, and rising towards the sun,

It flew its path and struck the ground, and proceeded now to roll,

And to this day I'll surely say, the longest ever on that hole.

He walked again with purpose, and striding to his ball,

The sun shone golden in his hair, and to me he did call

Catch up to me young laddie boy, a lesson you must learn.

The course has had its shot at me, but now I'll have my turn!

One hundred sixty-two we were; yards from that hidden pin,

He chose a six to hit his ball, with plenty of backspin.

And when we came on up the hill to see where his shot lay,

It sat so pretty on the green, but sixty feet away.

He lined his putt and taking aim, sent it to the flag,

And he struck his putt on to the hole, trying close by it to lag.

The ball now slowly rolled its way, always threatening to stop

Yet creep along the ground it did, till in the hole did plop!

Stunned silence all around the green, and then with one accord

Every single person there, bellowed loud and roared!

I swear to you both then and now, of what I did just see,

Without a doubt in my whole life, it was the greatest three!

We all moved on with Buffalo Jack, as now he played the sixth hole,

Could it be that magic three, would start him on a roll?

Well again he hit a mighty drive; it carried past the hill,

And bounding down the slope it went, till in the rough rolled still.

Again he had to hack it out, back where the short grass lay.

It took him four shots from the rough for him to find a way

To get it out and to the green and when was done felt fate

Contributed to his three putts; on the sixth hole he took eight!

Now these next few holes became a blur, as the Black now take its toll.

It seemed no matter what he did, he couldn't par a hole.

On the seventh he went from side to side, a triple was what he made,

The eighth, a par three, took a double did he, and the crowd began to fade.

On the ninth his drive sliced far to the right; more people began to leave.

His second shot hit the top of the pin, a shot that did deceive.

Because despite that break and for his par, still, I must tell you,

That the greatest golfer of our time, made the turn in fifty-two!

The tenth hole found another trap, a bogey he did make,

Number eleven a double came his way, when three putts he had to take.

The great twelfth hole with its monster trap, across the fairway spread.

His drive was huge but in the rough, again a double, his face now turning red.

Now those watching him play on thirteen, were just the old man and me.

And so it was that they all missed, one over par from behind a tree!

As he stepped to the tee on the short par three, he sights hard on the pin.

His eight iron struck pure and true, spinning backs it almost went in!

Now down the hill he came striding hard and Round Swamp Road he crossed.

From fifteen tee, we three could see in the corral, a single white horse.

Now this fairway of all the widest, and the rough is highest of all.

As his drive went right, the horse stood still, as that rough just swallowed his ball.

We looked and we looked, then we looked even more, then back to the tee he went,

As the rules of golf state, when your ball is lost, stroke and distance must be spent.

This time his drive was mammoth indeed, over three hundred yards it had gone.

When his long iron found the green on this shot, it was his fourth that he had put on.

Twelve feet short of this pin he looked at his putt, it went straight up a hill.

The man who had put the cup in its place, must have been most mentally ill.

You see from the front the green slopes up quickly, rising three feet at the least.

For Jack to have any chance with this putt, he'd need a long prayer from a priest.

He gave it a rap straight on up that hill, the ball slowing down very fast.

And when it stopped short it rolled back to him and a foot further on it went past.

This time determined to get the ball there, he muscled it all the way up.

It went past the pin and did finally stop over twenty-three feet from the cup!

The putt he now faced could roll off the green and all the way down the hill.

So he played safe, and struck this one soft, ending up fifteen feet to go still.

Once again carefully he made stroke to ball, this rolled with perfect speed.

But to his chagrin it didn't go in, for the break he forgot to read.

It ended up right of the cup, by no more than one ball or two.

He tapped this one in and grinding his chin, his teeth he gave a hard chew.

We added it up and our heads we did shake, the old man and jack and then mine,

For on the par four, the Corral Hole by name, he had ended up with a nine.

There were three holes to go and no one about; Jack stood on top at the tee,

Quiet he was as he stared down the hill, this moment of peace deserved he.

Now the sixteenth both far and wide is known, as a great hole for even this course.

Downhill it goes slightly, right to the left, a four hundred sixty par four.

He carefully aimed out to the left and tried to have his drive fade,

But when club hit the ball, he turned his right wrist; a duck hook is what he had made.

It went short and left, down by the brook that long ago was covered on top.

The next shot he played was not quite a swing, but more like a weed clearing chop.

And this ended up right by the lone tree, which back then was still rather small.

It came to a stop up against its small roots, in back of the tree was his ball.

Now played this left-handed, a strange swing did take, and so the ball scooted on out.

His next shot went long, where a man did there stand, Fore! mightily did shout.

Well over the green and rolled down the hill, a chip shot he would have to hit,

Unsure of the feel of the wedge in his hand, on this shot he just plain old quit!

Two putts he would need now to close out this hole, a seven is what he would make.

Two holes to go, and dejectedly, Buffalo Jack's weary head did now shake.

On the seventeenth tee he stood and hard looked, a par three as good as they come.

From here to the pin were yards two hundred and ten, a two iron is what he now swung.

It flew low but true and landed beyond the front bunker whose face was quite steep.

But it struck the downslope and so running hard to the rough it ended settled deep.

So now once again a short shot swung hard and barely did ball make the green.

As winding a putt with right to left break to make par that I have ever seen.

It rolled to the crest and broke at the hole and stopped needing just an inch more.

He tapped it on in and shrugged with a grin, he just made a good bogey four.

And so we had come at last to the tee of the finishing hole of the Black.

Now as much as he'd bragged, I felt very sad for the man, known as Buffalo Jack.

I gave him his driver, which he held to his face and looked at it like an old friend.

I'm asking of you, to please to give it your all, on this drive that I want to send.

I admit it to all, despite what I said, this day Bethpage Black has now won.

It's more than just pride, as I make this request, I want this last hole to be fun.

And then he proceeded to swing and to hit the longest drive I've ever seen.

It flew and it flew and it kept going on; Buffalo Jack had driven the green!

He stood for a moment and then his head bowed, and I remember this all these days after.

He fell to the ground his great body quaking, rolling round with the sound of his laughter.

We walked arm-in arm up the slopes to the green, and going by I pulled the pin.

His put I did measure at fifty-three feet, he studied it and rubbed his hard chin.

He walked to the side to check on the grain and how it affected the grass.

He kept walking on till he walked to the hole till and had gone several steps past.

With putter in hand he strode back to the ball, determined this putt he would make.

He bent over low, and intently he looked at the line that this putt would now take.

He took the shaft back seven inches at least, and paused at the end of his swing,

And then straight on through, without any doubt, the head of the putter did bring.

It struck the white ball and he followed on through with the ball taking off as he did.

At first when it moved there wasn't a roll, for all it did was a long skid.

And then it caught hold of the grass on the green, rolling now straight and pure.

It kept on going and it stayed on its way, moving now ever more sure.

And right to the end, it never moved off his line, would it go in, what would it do?

It hit back of the cup and jumped out and up and back in, he had just made a two!

A moment it took for it to finally set in, then with laughter we all began

To congratulate Jack and slap his hard back, so big and broad and tan.

We walked off the green, up the short hill, and this is what then occurred,

Jack now stopped still and turning round to the Black, bowed low without saying a word.

He looked in our eyes, and some tears came to his, and softly he just sort of cried.

Please, I ask a favor from both of you here, to us, he said as he sighed.

Tell no one you know, as long as I live, what I shot on the Black course today.

The three of us know how I gave it my all; I never once quit as I play.

With that he looked in my eyes once again, and this is what he now said.

Young man you will know when to tell about this, and gently he patted my head.

The memory of today is yours all alone, and will always remain in your heart.

Proud of your course, as you truly should be, you were right from the start.

I feel honored to learn what I had deep within, the courage to keep right on going.

And before I come back to play this, the Black, my game is in need of some growing!

He spoke not again, he stood just looking at me, and about to go home he started.

I looked in his eyes this last time of all, and my hand went to his ere we parted.

Now sir, I will tell you I started to say and the tears in my eyes did sting,

What you've taught me today was as I carried your bag, was truly a noble thing.

You never gave up, not once did you stop when things didn't go your way,

You tried and you tried and you tried once again, and this much I must say,

That many a man the Black's beaten down, some have given up and even walked in,

And to my young mind the way that I see it, to me that's the worst golfing sin.

There are many ways to measure in life what we consider as great,

And till the day I die I'll always maintain, one was your ninety-eight!

So he gave me a squeeze and then walked away, into the gathering night.

He gave it his all with his play that fair day, and never gave up the good fight.

Now a funny thing happened in the following days and months and years.

No matter what paper I'd read through or look at, his name never more did appear.

About Jack I had never found anything written to have read,

Till in this morning's Post, a small note did I find and there it simply said,

On yesterday's eve all the golfing world cried.

For of all the great players, Buffalo Jack has now died!

And with that final word the room went quite still.

And deep within me I remembered the thrill

Of that day long ago, when but eight days past ten.

I'd seen the man for what he was and had been.

And of how he had hit when he drove on the green,

And made that long putt, when he made two on eighteen!

So long ago now, but I'll never forget, the day that Buffalo Jack

Had come to Bethpage, and I was gifted to see, how he had played on the Black!

With permission by Philip Young (copyright 2002)