Citizen Hughes - Michael Drosnin [49]
“Ever since Nicklaus’ and Palmer’s rejection of our invitation, I have taken a sacred vow to find another golfer and groom him to supplant and far exceed these two. I have been determined to shove these two bastards into the background. Well, I have watched every bit of golf news avidly, and with my intimate knowledge of the game, I have settled on Casper as our man.”
Billy Casper was a real comer. Hughes would build him up, leave Nicklaus and Palmer far behind, and win by proxy the golfing crown that had eluded him in his youth.
“Now, I read some encouraging news,” he continued with vindictive glee. “Nicklaus and Palmer are at the low-point of an all-time record slump that started exactly 8 months ago—about when they gave us the brush. So, my reaction to that is: it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy!”
But there was no time to gloat. Hughes had bigger fish to fry. He planned to make himself the global impresario of golf, just take over the entire sport.
“It is my desire to establish Las Vegas as the Golf Capitol of the World,” he declared. “I am prepared to put up purses that will far exceed anything yet—$500,000 and even $1,000,000 tournaments!”
But the first crucial step in the whole grand scheme was to bring the Tournament of Champions back to Las Vegas. And Maheu had failed in his mission to La Costa.
“I told you it was mandatory to announce, no later than the conclusion of play today, that the tournament would be returned to Las Vegas,” complained Hughes, hammering away at his henchman long-distance.
“I said if this was not done the public here would turn against me in force.
“So, here we are Bob, the first bitterness that has existed between us in a long time, and I dont want it to happen again.”
Maheu absorbed the diatribe over a telephone that seemed glued to his ear. Hughes had kept him on the line almost the entire day, as always unable to bear his absence or his freedom. Maheu had missed the golf match, he had missed the awards ceremony, he had missed the big postgame gala. All he had seen of La Costa was the inside of a phone booth. Now he exploded. He had been busting his ass trying to put the big deal together while Hughes just sat back watching the tournament on television, and if Hughes had others more qualified to handle it, he was more than welcome to give them this plum.
Well, it had taken long enough, but Hughes finally had Maheu exactly where he wanted him. Boiling in a phone booth. The grandiose golf schemes no longer mattered. It was once more time to discuss their relationship.
“Quote more qualified than I unquote,” wrote Hughes. “This is a well-worn phrase in your vocabulary, Bob, you have used it often.
“I dont know anybody more qualified than you are, Bob, but I sure as hell know some people who are easier to get along with than you are. It is a fact, Bob, that I have never in my entire life tried as conscientiously, as hard, or as dilligently to get along with anybody as I have with you.
“When I first started writing my messages to you, it was for one reason only. I was afraid that, on the telephone at one time or another, I was going to lose my temper. So I started writing messages to you in order that I could read them over word by word and pick out any slight details I felt you might consider offensive.
“It is too bad that, after taking all of these pains, I should write you a message which does not contain any slightest suggestion of criticism, yet apparently I have somehow offended you.
“Anyway, to return to the Golf Tournament, you will see that I did not even remotely suggest I have anybody more qualified to handle it. I certainly have learned by now not to say anything as dangerous as that to you.
“I just feel there are about 500 other matters requiring your skillful handling, and I also feel, in spite of the denials that I know you will make, that you and I are separated by a wider chasm