Excerpt: All Carry, A Novel by Gene Wojciechowski

"All Carry: A Novel" by Gene Wojciechowski publishes on March 31, 2026. You can pre-order the book here.

***

By 8:30 the next night, Hard Way and Riley were sitting in a booth—Frank Sinatra’s booth—at the Golden Steer steakhouse. The iconic Vegas restaurant was located in a nondescript cluster of stores off Sahara Avenue just north of the Strip. The two men had come directly from the airport, their luggage and Riley’s golf bag locked in the cab of the Big Ass, its security alarm at full alert.

“You look nervous,” Riley said to Hard Way, who kept glancing at the entrance from their seats in the main dining room.

“No, not really,” Hard Way said unconvincingly, “but it might be a good idea to let me do the talking at the start.”

“You know him better than I do. I’m a little nervous, too.”

“We’re not signing papers or anything,” Hard Way said. “We’re just going to talk.”

“What’d you tell him about me, about our round together?”

“I didn’t get into a lot of details over the phone. Better to do that in person.”

The Golden Steer was the oldest steakhouse in a town that had seen them come and go since the restaurant had opened in 1958. The Rat Pack had dined here. Elvis, too. So had Nat King Cole, Joe DiMaggio, Natalie Wood, and assorted wiseguys. Some of the waiters had been there for four decades. It wasn’t known for its cutting-edge decor or avant-garde interpretation of red meat. It was a place for Caesar salads prepared tableside, bowls of whipped potatoes and side dishes of bubbling mac and cheese, and, of course, USDA Prime steaks. For dessert, you got the angioplasty. The Golden Steer’s charm was its indifference to culinary trends and cholesterol levels. It didn’t mind having a history. It was so out, it was in.

Riley and Hard Way each ordered beers from the tuxedo-clad server. As the drinks arrived, so did the legendary golf instructor Leeds Sargent Jr., who was old enough to have shaken Sinatra’s hand and good enough to have been courted by the best players in the world. “Sarge,” as he was known by his friends, could be gruff, searingly honest, and demanding. He was in his mid-seventies and had the build of a former Marine's DI. He was thick, but not fat. He looked like the kind of man you’d want on your side during a bar fight. He didn’t suffer fools, nor did he believe in stroking the egos of players. He coached hard and expected his clients to work hard. Otherwise, what was the point?

For those amateurs with disposable incomes, second wives, and fourth homes, an hour-long lesson cost $2,000—and that’s if there was space available. Sarge was picky, and the prospective client list was long. Riley had introduced himself to Sargent at Royal Birkdale a half dozen years earlier. There was a brief grunt, a handshake that made Riley wince, and no attempt at small talk. Sargent did everything with a purpose.

“Am I late?” he said as he approached the table with a warm smile for Hard Way, followed by a look of confusion when he saw Riley. “This is the guy?”

“This is him, Sarge,” Hard Way said.

Riley and Hard Way moved over in unison to make room for Sargent in the tufted, red-cushioned booth. Almost instantaneously, the waiter appeared with a bottle of wine.

“Mr. Sargent, so nice to see you again. Please accept this 2018 Darius II Cabernet with our compliments,” he said as he expertly removed the cork, placed it on the table, and poured a healthy splash of the Cab Sav for Sargent’s consideration.

“Thank you, Marcus. You’re very kind.”

He gave it a quick, practiced swirl in the wide-bowled glass, took a deep sniff to make sure the wine wasn’t corked, and then declared it more than suitable for the table. The waiter tried not to show it, but a small wave of relief washed across his face. Sargent, who was an expert on California Cabernets (his extensive wine cellar at home also included a collection of his cherished French favorites, Château Margaux and Petrus), could have gotten a second job as a sommelier in one of Vegas’s finest restaurants, such was the extent of his knowledge.

Marcus poured wine into the three glasses and then disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. Sargent was famous for his generous tips, his constant business, and his insistence that his corporate clients, with their deep expense accounts, dine at the Golden Steer while in town.

Sargent raised his glass. “To old friends . . . and new ones,” he said, looking half suspiciously at Riley. There was a pause as they sipped at the wine. 

“Now then,” Sargent said, “what’s this shit about hitting it 400 yards?”

“You’re on,” Hard Way said, turning to Riley.

Riley was caught off guard. “I thought you wanted to start us off?” he said to Hard Way.

An impatient Sargent pointed at Riley. “You. Speak. Now.” “We met at—” Riley began. Sargent cut him off.

“I know where we met,” he said curtly. “I know who you are. You mostly get it right on TV. What I don’t know is why I’m here, and how, according to Hard Way, you can send it longer than the best players on the planet.”

“I thought Max had already explained,” Riley said, confused. “Just tell the story, Joe,” Hard Way said quickly.

Riley nervously explained how his older son had found clubs at a garage sale, how the owner of the clubs had said they had special qualities, how they’d been made specifically for Nicklaus decades earlier and had never been used, and how the old man had said he wanted Riley to have them. He told Sargent of his own skepticism, and how those doubts had disappeared after he’d hit the clubs for the first time.

He told him of the visit to the old man’s house, of the old man’s final video referencing the “powers” of the clubs.

“I brought them with me,” Riley said. “They’re in Max’s truck. Do you want to see the driver?”

“No,” said Sargent sharply, already regretting his decision to take the dinner meeting. “This is a restaurant, not a golf shop.”

Riley shrank back in his seat after the scolding.

Sargent sighed. “My closest friends say I can be unmannerly at times,” he said, his tone slightly less brusque. “It isn’t my finest quality. Why don’t you tell me about the specs of the clubs.”

Hard Way had predicted the question on the ride to the restaurant.

Riley was prepared.

“Tommy Armour 945W driver,” Riley said as he read from his notes. “Lamkin leather grips, paper underlisting, 1/64th of an inch over standard size, 3/8-ounce wooden dowel with lead in it and positioned at end of grip.”

“Length?”

“It’s 43 1/2 inches long, 9 1/2 degrees loft.” “The irons?”

“MacGregor Limited Editions, Pro-81 template, Dynamic Gold X100 shafts with 5-inch tapered wooden dowels, flat sole, standard toe on grinds, straight leading edge with only a slight heel-to-toe radius.”

Sargent took a deep breath and then exhaled. He swirled the remaining wine in his glass and finished it off. “Was there a putter in the bag?”

“A White Fang replica. Basically worthless.”

Sargent motioned for Marcus. “I’m going to need something stronger than the Cab. Bring me a Pappy 15,” he said, referring to the fifteen-year-old Pappy Van Winkle. “And let’s go ahead and order while you’re here.”

“Yes, sir—the usual for you: rib eye, medium rare?” Marcus said.

Sargent nodded. “Bring three appetizers, too, your choice, for the table.”

Hard Way chose the porterhouse, medium. Meanwhile, Riley ran his finger slowly down the menu. Sargent tapped his fingers on the table.

“Found it!” Riley said with an air of satisfaction. “I’ll have the eggplant parmigiana.” He looked up to see Sargent glaring at him in disgust.

“What’d I do?” Riley said.

“For chrissakes, this isn’t Olive Garden,” Sargent said. “You don’t order eggplant at a steakhouse. That’s like ordering cock at a whore-house.”

“But I like eggplant.”

Sargent ignored him and turned to the waiter. “Eighty-six the vegetable garden. He’ll have the New York cut, medium.” There was no more discussion about meal choices.

The glass of famed Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey was on the table in less than two minutes. Sargent took a full sip. “I’ve known Jack Nicklaus for nearly fifty years,” Sargent said, his voice at first affected by the whiskey’s burn. “I never had the honor of working with Jack— Mr. Grout was his only swing instructor—but we’ve talked about his equipment choices over the years. What were you told about the designer and grinder?”

Riley, still stinging from the meal rebuke, remembered the names without looking. “Wullkotte and White.”

“Then you, sir, own a set of Jack’s personal clubs. The 945s were used by him from the mid-1970s to about 1990. He also used the Limited Editions for years and years. I’ll take your word about the replica White Fang. So the question isn’t how you got the clubs. The question is how are you able to hit them like that?”

“I was hoping you could tell us,” Riley said.

“Shit if I know. A 400-yard drive with persimmon? I’d need two swings with one of those drivers to reach that.”

“Sarge, his swing needs help,” Hard Way said.

“Help? You said he hits it almost a fucking quarter of a mile!” “That’s his driver, Sarge. I’m worried about how his bag is configured. Joe, tell him about the rest of the clubs.”

“I’ve got 2 through 9 on the irons, a pitching wedge, sand wedge, driver, 3-wood, and 5-wood. And, oh, the White Fangy thing. But I’ve never used it.”

“So what’s the problem? I assume you hit the shit out of the irons, too.”

“I do,” Riley confirmed before Hard Way could answer.

“The problem is there’s no 60-degree, no gap wedge, no hybrids,” Hard Way said. “We need some clubs for 110 yards in, and for some bad lies from longer numbers. So we might need to swap out two or three of those clubs for new stuff. And he ain’t Nicklaus when he’s not swinging the Nicklaus clubs. He’s just Joe, the guy with the crappy swing who orders eggplant at the Golden Steer. We need your help with that guy.”

“Help to do what? You got an AGN employee outing you want to win?"

Riley dropped his head, slightly embarrassed. “He just got fired by AGN,” Hard Way said.

“Shit,” Sargent said. “I didn’t know. But I hope you’re not thinking about trying to make a buck on those state mini-tours, are you? That’s a young man’s game—I don’t care how far you hit it.”

“Mini-tours?” Riley said. “I thought we were going to talk about the PGA Tour. That’s what Max said.”

Sargent turned to stare at Hard Way. “He did, did he? What else did Max say?”

“He said you wanted to help me get on Tour, that you’d give me free lessons, that you’d let me use some of your charter jet hours. He said you wanted to meet me in Vegas. Out of respect to both of you—and your generous offer—I agreed to hear what you had to say.”

“Hard Way,” said Sargent, his voice rising in anger, “before I use this steak knife to cut your hamstrings, is there anything you want to add?” “In retrospect,” Hard Way said, covering Sargent’s knife with a dinner napkin, “I might have taken some liberties when describing your level of interest.”

“You told me you had a friend who could fly it 400, and asked if I would offer a little advice. I don’t recall anything about lessons and jets.”

“Yes, well, that might have gotten lost in translation.”

“I’m not following,” Riley said to Hard Way. “You mean you never told him what you told me?”

Hard Way could feel the walls closing in. There was only one option left: honesty. He took a deep breath and then spoke.

“You’re right—I lied to both of you,” Hard Way said. “But I needed you in the same place. Sarge, this is going to sound batshit crazy, but I think Joe can win a major.”

“A major?!” Sargent said, nearly doing a spit take with the precious Pappy 15. “He couldn’t win a minor!”

Sargent’s raised voice attracted the attention of several tables nearby. He apologized to them before turning his attention back to Hard Way and Riley.

“A guy in street clothes doesn’t beat these Tour guys,” he said. “He doesn’t beat them in the most watered-down field you can think of. And he sure as hell doesn’t beat them in a major. You’ve been out there, Hard Way. You know that. At least I thought you did.”

“Sarge, this guy in street clothes shot 79 with rental clubs and that persimmon driver at TPC—and he played the last ten holes from the Tour tips. I helped him with some of his lines, read a few putts, but not much else. He shot 79 without knowing what he was doing. With that length, those clubs, and your help, he could shave a dozen shots off that, maybe more. Do that and he would have finished T-3 at Phoenix last year.”

“And you’d be his caddie—is that how this works?” “Yeah, I would.”

Sargent looked at Riley. “Did he talk you into this? Because this is lunacy.”

“I didn’t know that you didn’t know,” Riley said. “I thought you and Hard Way were working together on this.”

“Joe, I can explain,” Hard Way said, knowing he really couldn’t. “You’ve done enough damage,” Sargent said.

A defeated Hard Way said softly, “Sarge, he could win.”

“The less you say, the better,” Sarge said. “The next thing out of your mouth should be an apology.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Riley said, with sudden conviction. “Joe,” Hard Way said, “he’s right.”

“No, he’s not—not completely,” Riley said, before looking at Sargent. “It is lunacy, I’ll give you that. Do I really think I can win a major? No. I don’t even know how I’d qualify for a major. But a dying old man gave my son a set of special clubs and wanted me to have them—and do something special with them. And for reasons that defy explanation, only I can hit them far, really far. I don’t blame you for thinking this is ten kinds of dumb. It is. If word got out, you’d be ridiculed for helping us. But Martin Luther King Jr. said, ‘Faith is taking the first step when you don’t see the whole staircase.’ ”

Sargent rolled his eyes. “Really? MLK and golf? And see the whole staircase? I don’t see any staircase.”

“Sarge,” Hard Way said, “sometimes things don’t have to make sense to make sense.”

“Stop at a metaphysics seminar on the way over here?” “I’m serious, Sarge.”

“You should hear yourselves. Magic clubs with special powers? You two are a confederacy of dunces.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen what I saw at TPC.”

“Tell me this—and I have trouble saying this out loud—why are they magical?”

“I don’t know,” Riley said. “Whattya mean, you don’t know?”

“They didn’t come with an instruction manual,” Riley said. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to know. Does everything have to have a reason?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a cause-and-effect guy.” 

“I am.”

“A believer in only empirical evidence. A worshiper of fully formed equations.”

“Makes life easier.” “What about faith?”

“I’ll take logic over faith.”

“These clubs defy logic.”

“Look, I’m just a humble swing instructor.” “Used to be,” Hard Way said under his breath.

Sargent ignored him. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know there are absolutes in golf. You want me to believe the impossible rather than the plausible. I can’t do it. It’s impossible for you to hit a persimmon driver 400-plus yards.”

“Mozart was five when he wrote his first composition,” Riley said. “I think it was six,” Hard Way said.

“I’m almost positive it was five.”

“Save it for your Jeopardy! auditions, fellas,” Sargent said, not hiding his irritation.

“The point is, it wasn’t plausible until he wrote it,” Riley said. “Einstein was only twenty-six when he published his theory of relativity. Was that plausible? How do you explain a foursome of teenagers from Liverpool changing the world of music? How was Ali plausible? Or Tiger?”

“Mozart, Einstein, the Beatles, Ali, Tiger,” Sargent said. “Do you hear yourselves?”

“I didn’t realize it until a moment ago, but this guy,” Riley said, nodding toward Hard Way, “actually believes in me. My wife believes in me. My sons believe in me. The old man believed in me. AGN didn’t. I didn’t—until now.”

Sargent held up his hand like a crossing guard.

“Hard Way,” Sargent said, his voice softening, “I agreed to come here tonight as a courtesy because I think you’re one of the good guys. You got a rough deal with your man, and I want to help you get back on your feet. But you can’t honestly think a—” Here he paused and looked at Riley. “How old are you, Joe?”

“I’m forty-three.”

Sargent immediately looked back and resumed talking solely to Hard Way, ignoring Riley. “A forty-three-year-old amateur with an—”

“Eighteen.”

“—eighteen handicap is going to win a major.”

Riley chimed in. “Mickelson was almost fifty-one when he won the PGA at Kiawah. Julius Boros was forty-eight, Jerry Barber forty-five, Lee Trevino forty-four. Jack won the Masters when he was forty-six; Tiger did it when he was forty-three. Hale Irwin won the U.S. Open when he was forty-five, Raymond Floyd when he was forty-three. Tom Watson almost won the Open Championship when he was fifty-nine.”

“Stop it,” Sargent said. “Every one of those guys is in the Hall of Fame except Barber. You can’t compare yourself to Tiger, Jack, Phil, Raymond, Hale, and Tom.”

“I’m just saying that age doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell it doesn’t.” Sargent looked directly at Riley. “You ever play competitive golf?”

“Does fifth man on my high school team count?”

Sargent threw up his hands. “The last amateur to win on Tour was Phil . . . in 1991. An amateur hasn’t won a major since 1933. The days of Ouimet and Jones are done, fellas. The subject is closed.”

They finished their meals in silence. When Marcus later removed their empty plates from the table, he didn’t bother offering dessert options. Thirty years in the service industry had taught him how to read body language. Instead, he wordlessly placed the bill behind the candle ball holder.

Riley began to reach for the tab.

“You touch that and I’ll have a mob guy break all your fingers in a car door,” Sargent said. He picked up the folder, took a quick glance, peeled off six hundred-dollar bills, and returned the folder to the table’s edge. Marcus whisked it away.

“You don’t drop coin in my town,” Sargent said as he began to slide out of the booth. Hard Way and Riley started to get up.

“Thanks for dinner,” Hard Way said.

“No, stay put. Have another drink on me—Marcus knows the drill. And if you don’t have rooms yet, go to the Wynn and ask for Genevieve. She’s a VP there and always works nights. Tell her I sent you.”

Hard Way began to protest. Sargent stopped him with a cold glare. “Fellas, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. Safe travels home.”

On his way out the door, Sargent was stopped by several diners asking for his autograph. One requested a quick photo with him in front of the small Christmas tree near the entrance. And then he was gone.

In Sargent’s honor, Riley ordered a Pappy 15. And then two more bourbons after that, but this time he downshifted to Knob Creek 12 and put it on their own tab. Hard Way splurged on a bottle of Pellegrino.

“That was some soaring oratory,” Hard Way said. 

“That was the liquor talking,” Riley said.

“Are we making a mistake?” Hard Way said.

“Yes,” Riley said. “I’ve never had this much bourbon in my life. I can’t feel my thumbs.”

“I mean you. These clubs. Trying for a major.” 

“The mistake would be not to try,” Riley said.