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He shifted his attention to the opposite side of the street, where rising clearly from the sidewalk was a chubby phantom in prewar raiment hitting a tee shot.
"Porky Oliver in the final round of the U.S. Open at Canterbury, 1940," Dey narrated. "I was having lunch in the clubhouse that day when a messenger came up and told me three fellows had teed off 15 minutes early on the 1st hole, and three more were about to — and did. They just took their scorecards from the box on the 1st tee and went off. There was a storm threatening, and they wanted to get going. Well, Oliver and the other five were told to quit playing in the middle of the 1st fairway. But in the meantime another official, who didn't know what was going on, told them to continue playing and that a ruling would be made. So they played on and were disqualified. It was hardest on Oliver, who had tied for first."
Dey shook his head and the scene slowly dissolved as we continued by.
"A tragic consequence."
At the next corner he turned left again and abruptly stopped. The street was filled with evanescent Vietnam War protesters — spirits from the '72 Open at Pebble Beach, where radicals had chained themselves together in the 18th fairway.
Dey's lips twitched, and he gripped the handle of his shooting stick so hard that it made a snapping sound. But he said nothing, and after a few seconds the protesters literally dispersed.
We walked on.
"Here's one you probably don't know." His voice was calm.
"I was on the 1st tee at the 1953 U.S. Junior in Tulsa, when this crew-cut 13-year-old sauntered up about 30 seconds before his tee time. Naturally, I dressed him down. 'Young man,' I said, 'if you had been a little later, you'd be going to the 2nd hole 1 down.'"
He smiled at the memory.
"And that was my introduction to Jack Nicklaus."
I looked for a phantom 13-year-old, but I saw nothing but darkened houses and empty lawns.
"No visual for that one," Dey said with an apologetic shrug. "It's a rights issue."
"Speaking of Nicklaus ..." I wanted to get Dey talking about his Tour years.
"Jack won the first Tournament Players Championship," he said with a brisk nod. "Labor Day weekend, 1974. Atlanta Country Club. The purse was $250,000. Actually, Jack won three of the first five, which gave our tournament a real boost."
I turned to a fresh page in my notebook. "You left the USGA to become the Tour czar. Why?"
"Czar isn't the right word." He frowned. "You know, the last czar, Nicholas, contracted hemophilia, was assassinated and burned. Nothing like that happened to me."
I didn't bother to correct him.
