Several years ago, my brother and I drove to Hot Springs to play the Lower Cascades. We were playing on a weekday as a twosome, and the parking lot was virtually empty. As we loaded our gear, one of the staff members said "Sam Snead teed off about half an hour ago. It's probably best not to play up on his group."
On the fifth hole, we noticed a group of five carts, each carrying one person and one bag, on the adjacent sixth. We stopped and watched Mr. Snead hit from the tee, then from the fairway, before we proceeded. We were, under no circumstances, going to appear on the same hole he was playing.
As we made the turn, we stopped for a bite and to waste some time, since we were intent on not catching the group ahead. J.C. Snead was practicing on the putting green, and said, "Uncle says for you two to play through." On the tenth tee, we were greeted by a member of his group, who passed along the same message.
On the twelfth tee, the other members of the group waited on us. They instructed us to play, even though Mr. Snead's cart was within range in the fairway. By the time we hit, he had driven near the green on the par five.
I hit two solid shots, and was within twenty feet of the hole (off the green) as we drove up. Mr. Snead and his golden retriever were standing on the green, and he was tending the pin. We said hello and proceeded to our balls. Mr. Snead's dog was laying on the green, about five feet above the pin. He didn't ask her to move, and neither did I. I hit a soft shot that caught the edge of the hole and finished about five feet behind it. Mr. Snead removed the flag, I made the putt, and he said "If it hadn't rained last night, that son of a b***h would have rolled off the green," to which I replied "Thank you, sir."
As we drove to the next tee, all my brother could say was "I just knew you were going to skull the shot, hit the dog, and get beat up by Sam Snead."
Now that would have been a story.
WW