Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius Page #4

- Robert, he's just a child.

- Yes, Clara...

but he's our child.

Son of a bitching bastard.

I can't believe you just did that.

You could have hurt someone.

I threw it over their heads.

It was a simple shot,

I've done it a million times.

There are some emotions, Alexa...

that cannot be endured

with a golf club still in your hands.

You know, that man paid $1,500

to caddy for you.

These people paid good money

to see you play.

- They paid to see all of us play-

- No, Bob, they came to see you.

- You're the star.

- I'm not a star.

You're the US Amateur Champion.

I haven't done anything.

But you're gonna do something,

and they know it.

Everybody knows it.

As soon as you get out of your own way.

Tough luck, sport.

This isn't our day, Bob.

He'll never make it over that tree.

Showoff.

I told you, you were a star.

- I don't want to be a star.

- Tell them.

Way to go, Bobby!

- Here he comes.

- Sir Walter has arrived.

- I heard he's quite the raconteur.

- And then some.

He's broken all 11

of the Ten Commandments.

Mr. Hagen?

They are waiting for you.

- Where is she?

- I took her to her home of residence.

- Where was I?

- Right there where you are now sitting.

Hagen, let's go already.

Genius deserves patience, my friend.

I'm afraid I'm a trifle soft in the treasury.

In case you have not been hearing,

so is most of this entire world.

You still owe me two 20s

and one 10 from last week.

And you have not been paying rent

on this motorcar.

This is a charity function.

If I don't make some side bets, we go broke.

Good man.

Morning, Chick.

Where you been, Walter?

Practicing a few shots?

No, but I've been having a few.

Young Mr. Jones, I presume.

- I'm Walter Hagen.

- I know who you are.

- How do you do?

- Better than most, son.

I assume I have the honors.

On the tee, US Open Champion,

Walter Hagen.

He swings like a wounded duck.

Just don't bet money with him.

They don't call him Sir Walter for nothing.

Nice putt.

Two threes in a row.

18 threes make 54.

Next hole.

Sh*t fire and damnation!

Mashie.

I think we're in trouble.

I asked my wife

what she wanted for Christmas.

She said a divorce.

I said I wasn't thinking of anything

that expensive.

Excuse me.

- You have quite a game.

- I played awful.

I never hit a good shot

after you mentioned that 54.

All I made was fives.

There's a lesson there.

You know...

I don't care if I start out with four fives.

I simply figure I've used up my quota,

and I forget about them.

And I go on.

I don't always hit the ball straight.

But you know what I've learned?

Three bad shots and one good one

still make par.

Golf is a game of recovery.

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