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"If you wanted to be hypertechnical, you could penalize him two strokes whether his ball went into the bunker or not," Dey explained. "Actually, anytime a player walks up ahead of his ball, he might be improving his situation. Suppose he tops the shot. It can roll over the grass he's tramped down, can't it?"
The key to not penalizing Weiskopf for walking through the bunker was the direction he took. He walked to the right of the cup; to the right, he insisted, of what he intended the line of the flight of the shot to be. Later he drew a map for officials to show exactly where he walked. Fine, said Tuthill. No penalty. But there would have been no recourse but a penalty had Weiskopf's shot landed anywhere in the bunker he had raked. So much for the rules. The ball did sail safely over the bunker and onto the green, and Weiskopf then sank his long putt that became the final, killing blow for Jack Nicklaus.
"I guess I didn't know the rule as well as I thought I did," said Weiskopf later. "I did a lot of choking out there. Playing safe is sometimes the hardest thing of all. I wasn't thinking too clearly, I'll admit. But I was trying. I was proud of myself for trying so hard."
For his part, Nicklaus thought that he was going to be mystified about his own putt on the last green for quite a while. "I didn't know a ball could roll on air," he said.
With this quixotic send-off the annual " Florida tour," which has grown more and more prosperous, was memorably under way. After tournaments in Los Angeles, Pebble Beach, Tucson, San Diego, Honolulu, Palm Springs and Phoenix, the players at last could do some settling down and compete for the modest sum of $835,000 in Florida alone.
Jackie Gleason's role in this rich Florida beginning was strictly that of a promoter. He did not part with any of the whopping $260,000 purse, and like most others who were around all week, he probably did not even know what Inverrary meant. All he knew was that the owners of the 1,000 acres being developed in condominiums and town houses around the Inverrary Country Club had given him a TWA terminal building and called it a house. His name then helped to promote both the property and the golf tournament—and the tournament was mainly a gimmick for the land development, with charity thrown in to hold the community interest.
From the beginning the talk was of Gleason's house and whether anybody had seen it yet, that thing over by the 8th hole with the 14 rooms, a pool-shooting arena and only one bedroom. And everybody quickly started saying, no, they hadn't actually been inside but their DC-10 had landed there.
Gleason had been talking about a golf tournament for years, and finally a couple of chaps named Burt Haft and Jack Gaines, who built Inverrary, decided to produce one for him. The fastest way to promote condominiums and town houses these days, it seems, is to first get yourself a golf course or three with fairway frontage, courses preferably designed by someone known, like Robert Trent Jones, Inc., then throw in a marina perhaps and some tennis courts, and maybe even an executive layout. If you are smart enough—and prosperous enough—to build all that first, the dirt is going to be easier to sell. A rich tournament, Haft and Gaines reasoned, was not going to hurt either, any more than the tony name they gave their club. "I think it's the name of a county in Scotland," Haft said, "but it really doesn't matter. We just like the sound of it, like Baltusrol. Baltusrol doesn't mean anything either." (It did to Mr. Baltus Roll, a landowner after whom the club was named.)
The Inverrary Country Club is about as close to Fort Lauderdale as it is to the state of Georgia. One reaches it by fighting endless traffic jams, always a part of the Florida season, turning left and right at various piles of dirt and gravel, crossing over canals and motoring past plot upon plot of open fields with signboards proclaiming that off in the distance lay—or soon would lie—another unique community called Sunlight Village or Tuna Marina or something.
The holes of the golf course, characterized like most Florida courses by a vast flatness and emptiness, meandered through condominiums and town houses, some finished, others under construction. It boasted the usual modern length—7,128 yards—and, actually, was designed by Rees Jones, one of the two architect sons of Robert Trent Jones himself. It was typically Jones-tough, even tougher because the tee markers were further back than the architect himself had planned.