For Sam The Price Is Always Right

"Gotta go to the dentist Wednesday," said Snead .

"Good. Tell him to add four strokes to your game."

A second cart pulled up, driven by a stockily built man, fiftyish, with a square, tough-Irish face and graying hair.

"Chuckie baby!" Snead crooned.

"He can see my money through my pockets," said Chuck Kelly, winking at Snead 's companion. Kelly is a coal-sales executive who winters in Florida . He has been playing golf for money with Sam Snead since they were both, as Kelly says, "much younger." With the help of a four handicap, Kelly holds his own. "Tut flashed a roll of bills in the lounge the other day, and Sam almost had a fit. 'Oh, my, look at that pretty color,' " Kelly said, mimicking Snead . " 'Oh, that's my favorite color.' Tell you what, Sam, you go ahead and see if you can improve some, and I'll get a bite to eat and meet you on the tee."

"Don't get too far. I like to be near my money."

Snead scooped the new balls from his bag, speckling the grass around him, got out a nine-iron and began hitting rainbows to the left of the practice range. Along the tee line action stopped as the textbook came to life. The exquisite swing—time-locked, sealed in gelatin, smooth as a butternut—lifted the balls and rolled back the years. Slammin' Sammy . One after another the shots arched and landed, forming a cluster no more than five yards in diameter. Snead switched to another iron ("They're a little stiff," he complained), then another. Down the side of the range little floral arrangements of glistening white dots began to appear, each one deeper than the one before until, with a wood, Snead began hitting balls past the cut area into a plot of newly planted palms.

"Where'd you get that hook, Sam?" The tall man had come to watch.

"Hook? Hell, that's no hook. An Indian can't walk any straighter 'n that."

"Well, it looked a little low."