George,
You asked for a few Bethpage stories, here are a couple:
The sounds of five o’clock in the morning are quite distinctive. Birds of various denominations are raising their songs in praise of the day. The tree branches creek and the leaves rustle as the wind blows through them. The small sounds all seem magnified, especially the conversations.
‘Conversations?’ You might ask.
Why yes, most are soft, though some are louder than the others and growing more so with each passing moment. An occasional voice would break out quite loud with shared laughter following, heads then turning to see the what, the why and the who were intruding upon their private reveries. Different people thinking different thoughts, gathered in small groups, mostly all of which are divisible by four. It is Saturday morning outside the Bethpage State Park golf clubhouse, a typical weekend morning as the sun shows his glory over the rooftops.
Of a sudden, all eyes turn; it appears that a fistfight has broken out in the front courtyard. The sounds of grunts and pain follow the sharp slapping as fist meets face. Some encouragement to each comes from the crowd of onlookers, no one attempting to stop the fisticuffs by leaving their place in line. When sanity finally takes over, and some good Samaritans at last help pull them apart, the cause of this altercation comes into question. What would cause two otherwise mature gentlemen to fight in front of the clubhouse at Bethpage State Park at five o’clock in the morning?
It was over who had the earlier spot in line... They were both arrested and spent the day in jail...
Over the years some of these friendly members of the animal kingdom have played a hand, or more correctly paw, beak, or claw would be better said. One of the more common sights at the park is the blackbirds that are large in both numbers and size. Especially during the summer months, these local and very apropos residents of the Black Course have decided to use the
exact moment that some poor golfer is just about to reach the top of their backswing, to call out in a large croaking voice that seems to pierce the zone of silence the player has put himself into. There actually seems to be a correlation between the skill level of the player and how important the shot means to him and the level at which the screech can be heard.
These birds seem to enjoy fighting and being chased by other feathered friends of man, especially when they feel that the offending bird is trespassing into its territory. There was an occasion when a gentleman was playing the thirteenth hole of the Black that one of these unofficial mascots of the park made its presence known in a most unusual manner. This
gentleman had a very good round going, being only three over par at the time, when he hit what he described as his best drive of the day. Long, oh so very long and straight, he actually entertained visions in his imagination of going for this long par five in two as he walked up the center of the fairway to where his ball lay.
Now as he arriving where his ball had come to a stop, he noticed this rather large crow dropping down out of the sky till it came to rest on the ground about a foot from the ball. As he continued his walk he noticed the bird cocking his head and peering at the round white object first with one eye and then its other. The bird walked slowly over and started to peck at the ball, nudging it along the ground a short distance. The gentleman laughed to himself realizing that the crow must think his golf ball to be an egg that some bird laid out there in the open and was trying to make a meal of it. He trotted the last several yards, shooing the bird away from his ball,
carefully replacing it where it had first come to rest.
As the others in his group played their next shots, he chose his three wood from his bag and prepared to take a mighty rip at the ball, knowing that an eagle on this hole would make his year. It was now his turn and as he started to take his stance he heard the others call to out to him. “Duck!” they cried, and as he did the crow missed his head by inches as it flew down and
past. He shook his head and backed off, looking up in the air as he watched the bird circle up above. He laughed a nervous laugh with the others as they considered “that crazy bird” and wondered what it was doing.
He again started to take his stance, and once more the bird dove down at him. He had to take a few quick steps away this time to make certain that he would not be hit. This strange dance occurred several more times before one of his friends came up with the brainstorm of throwing a couple of other golf balls over to the other side of the fairway. This seemed to do the trick as
the crow landed on the ground by these new egg-like objects and pecked at them with his beak. Feeling that he could finally play the man took a deep breath to relax and stood over the ball once more.
His backswing had reached its apex when just then, the crow let out a croak most especially loud and long. Unable to stop himself the gentleman came down hard and striking his club deep into the ground and well behind the ball, managed to pull-hook his second shot into the rough at the base of the huge trap that guards the left-hand approach to the green. Instead of being on or near the green, he was in ankle deep rough nearly 160 yards away and down about fifteen feet below the level of the fairway. As he stalked towards his ball he muttered curses at the crow; he couldn’t help but think that of all God’s creations that this was among the most vile and
contempt.
He surveyed what he had of a shot. Because of where his ball lay he could only punch it up the hill and hopefully clear the sand so that he would be left with a short wedge shot from the fairway. He decided to relax and accept his misfortune. With any luck he could still get a par. Unfortunately for him, it seemed as if this blackbird had decided that it had had enough with these strange creatures who were invading his territory, and keeping him from getting to these large white eggs that kept flying through the air without any wings.
Again he stood over his ball and this time as he swung, despite his best efforts he couldn’t manage to stop his swing as his partners yelled to him to look out. With a rushed downswing cutting across and through the rough and somehow managing to strike his ball dead solid, he watched as it flew through the air, carrying clear across the fairway and settling down deep
within the trees. He watched, that was, until he had to duck once again while this demonic denizen of the air flew past him once again. He reached down into the trap and picked up a decent sized stone in hopes of teaching this creature a lesson.
Even though his ball had traveled deep into the woods it was relatively easy to find since one of his group happened to be on that side of the fairway when it came shooting out of the rough towards him. He had watched until it came to rest in the crotch of two tree roots. He would have
to take an unplayable lie. After his drop it took him three more swings to get his ball out of the trees and onto the green. After missing his fifteen foot first putt, he was standing over his short ten-inch putt to tap-in. As his club stopped its backswing, once again from up above came a loud caw as this spawn of the devil with wings circled high above. He jabbed forward at the sound and pulled the putt on by the hole. “That’s a gimme” he yelled to everyone and most especially this great black bird, who after one last circle of the green, flew back down the thirteenth fairway and disappeared into the trees. If Edgar Allen Poe played golf I am certain that he would have been
inspired to write a story about a bird.
The way that some people play golf is downright painful. No, I’m not talking about how poorly they play, but rather there is that odd occasion when golf can actually hurt you. Take for instance the poor guy who spent the night in his car waiting the dawns early light as well as an early tee time. This gentleman had looked forward to this round for months. He and his wife had come to Long Island to visit his wife’s family. Being a true golf fanatic he had decided that this would be his chance to finally play the Black, a course he had heard about and had wanted to play for several years.
As he stood on the first tee the thrill of playing the course energized and inspired him. He hit what he described as one of the longest drives of his life, the ball carrying past the last tree on the right side and coming to a stop in the center of the fairway. There was actually some applause for this magnificent drive.
His feelings of adrenaline-inspired joy lasted until he was halfway down the hill from the tee. As he strode strongly forward his foot somehow found a soft spot in the slope and his legs went out from under him. He found himself tumbling downhill a short ways. What finally stopped him was a small hole that his right toe found itself wedging in. Needless to say, it was not the word fore that he found himself screaming as pain went shooting up his right leg to his brain from his knee.
He was helped to his feet by the other members of his foursome and tried to put pressure on his leg. Every time he took a step he felt searing pain shooting up through his leg. Finally and despite all of his efforts, he had to be helped back up to the tee. Pride and embarrassment caused him to decline the offer of an ambulance. He insisted that all he did was twist his knee a little and would be okay. The park personnel helped him to his car and so he left.
As he drove, the pain in his leg started to increase and grow more severe, seemingly moment by moment. As tears were now welling up in his eyes he decided that he couldn’t take it any longer and headed to the hospital. It turned out that he had broken his kneecap and torn ligaments. As he waited for the surgeon who would rebuild his knee he called his wife.
“Honey,” he said, “a funny thing happened at the first tee…” In all the years and all the trips back to New York to visit the in-laws, he hasn’t been back to Bethpage since.
Being a huge State park, Bethpage has unwittingly invited a few criminal situations upon itself. This one is a bit out there. It involves the crime that is the most heinous that we have to deal with. It is murder; a brutal, bloody greed-inspired murder. Though the killing did not take place at Bethpage, well…let me tell you the story and you’ll see the connection.
It was October of 2001 that saw the opening of the new movie “Fire Dancer.” Jawed Wassel, a 42 year-old Afghan filmmaker had spent the previous six years working on this autobiographical story of an Afghan youth who eventually leaves his village and settles down to live in New York.
He had been smuggled out by his mother after the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in 1979. Prior to coming to New York he lived in Germany and France, and obviously with the things he had gone through in his childhood, life had not been overly kind to him. Yet he managed to rise above it all and become an accomplished filmmaker.
The night of the premier arrived and with it all the excitement and pride that goes along with such an occasion. Among the people attending the showing was a Mr. Nathan Powell. Mr. Powell was one of the movie’s primary producers and financiers. That night he was supposed to receive
thirty percent of the movie’s gross. Evidently there was some sort of misunderstanding or disagreement about the money, and an argument followed.
Soon the argument turned violent and a fight ensued, with Mr. Powell smashing Mr. Wassel in the throat with a pool cue. The violence didn’t end there. Mr. Powell allegedly then stabbed Mr. Wassel, killing him. Now the reality of what occurred stared him in the face; he would have to dispose of the body. How would he do this?
Not to make this story any more gruesome than is necessary, I will only say that he then took a hacksaw and dismembered Poor Mr. Wassel’s body. He placed the body parts and put them into two different boxes; all of them, that is, with the exception of the head. He put that in the refrigerator of his home.
The day after the killing, Mr. Powell loaded the boxes of body parts into a van; he was going to rid himself of the evidence. He climbed in and proceeded to drive to Bethpage State Park.
Police Officer Peter McGinn out on routine patrol, spotted the van as it was entering Bethpage State Park and decided to pull it over. It was being driven very suspiciously, the lights were turned off and it was weaving erratically. As he walked up to the van he looked in one of the windows and saw a shovel, a pickaxe and one of the bloody boxes. As Officer McGinn so
eloquently put it, “I knew I wasn’t dealing with somebody going home from work.”
Mr. Powell was arrested and at this moment is sitting in a prison cell that will be his last home. One can only wonder where he would have buried the remains. To me, the waste bunker that stretches forever in front of the seventh tee of the Black would have been most apropos. Large, deep and massive, with sand as far as the eye can see, it is where many a fine drive has died just short of the fairway.
I'll put together a few about some of the famous matches played at Bethpage over the years...