Hickory Hills Country Club

Missing a five-foot par putt does not sit well with a man who has only one chance to hit the proper note on stage. Andy Williams frowns, rakes the ball back and strokes it again. And misses again. Rake, miss again. Finally, on the fourth attempt, it hits the hole.

"Sometimes it is so difficult to read these greens," Williams says, breaking into a smile as he walks to the next tee. "But I don't care how tough a course is, because I just love to get out and play."

Andy Williams came to golf late, but he is making up for lost time with a passion. Rare is the day he does not hit the course for at least nine holes, and on days when he has two shows scheduled at his theater in Branson, Mo., it's all he can do to keep his hands off a club.

From the first week in April through the last week in December, if the weather is suitable for golf, it's likely that Williams will make the 45-minute drive up from his home in Branson, to Springfield and Hickory Hills Country Club. Since moving to Branson nearly six years ago, Williams has become a familiar sight at Hickory Hills, situated on the rolling hills straddling Farm Road 136.

Truth be told, Williams is not the most famous member of Hickory Hills. A room beside the golf shop is a testament to the Stewart family, father Bill and son Payne, complete with memorabilia from each of their playing careers. The late Bill Stewart was for years one of the most formidable players in the state, doubling up the Missouri Amateur and Missouri Senior. His son won the state title in 1979, became an All-America pick at Southern Methodist University that same year, and in 1981 turned pro. Within 12 years he'd won two majors, including the 1991 U.S. Open at Hazeltine National.

Payne Stewart developed his game on Hickory Hills' tree-lined fairways and well-bunkered, deceiving greens. Though it does not have much in the way of water to offer as a defense, the undulating fairways result in few level stances and the subtle movements of the greens make any putts, not just five-footers, a test of reading and putting ability.

Stewart visits his mother in Springfield a few times a year now, making Williams the Hickory Hills regular most likely to be asked for his autograph when he's outside the state's third-largest city. Yet unlike Stewart, Williams came to Hickory Hills after winning the "majors" in his career: three Emmys and more than a dozen gold albums. He had a singing voice that wrapped around the listener like a comfy blanket, a knack for dance that put him on equal footing with some of the world's best gliders and tappers, and an unquenchable thirst for golf.

No, instead, the impact Williams made was felt by Branson, due south of Springfield on U.S. Route 65, a few miles above of the Arkansas border. Williams reshaped the performing community not just with his talents but with the theater he built. Branson is country-and-western music's version of Las Vegas, a gambling-free entertainment throwback for middle America. The main road in Branson, West Highway 76, runs along the spine of a rocky ridge that seems ill-suited for the burgeoning traffic it is expected to handle. Yet in a clearing overlooking the valley beneath Branson, atop a shelf of limestone rocks, is where Williams nestled his $12 million dream.

The Moon River Theater (what else?) was the 26th showplace built in Branson, but it may never be bumped from its No. 1 spot on the depth chart. The theater made its way into the pages of Architectural Digest shortly after its opening, not exactly the stereotypical image of this part of the country.

The Moon River is the embodiment of every outstanding feature Williams came across in his years of touring, from the 1940s when the Williams brothers sang at radio stations around the country through his nine years of performing on NBC's top-rated series carrying his name. Nothing was left to chance in creating the facility, from the artwork on the walls of the lobby, much of it from his own collection, to the accommodations seamlessly incorporated for the hearing impaired, sightless and physically challenged.

"I have performed in places where the acoustics were wonderful," he says wistfully, "and the lighting was poor. Or places where the lighting was top-rate and the dressing room was a tiny closet."

None of those obstacles hinder him at Moon River, and it's reflected in the two shows he brings to the stage in a nine-month season beginning every April. The first seven months it's a lively review in which Williams performs all the memorable tunes in his career: the themes from Love Story and The Godfather, and, of course, Moon River.

November and December are dedicated to the Christmas Show; anyone who remembers the Johnson Administration recalls the Williams family's televised specials. The same spirit is captured in a seven-week run, with the more than 600 trees outside the theater covered with lights and the stage stuffed with decorations.

"Christmas has always been such a special time for our family," Williams says. "I've always said that I have the best home movies that anyone could ever ask for, thanks to those shows."

Christmas week spells the end of his performing season in Branson, and Williams is soon reunited with the links. Not that he ever left -- it's a good bet that he's played at least nine holes on any day a show is scheduled. During his "off-season" he escapes to Palm Springs, where 36-hole days are the rule, not the exception.

Williams' introduction to golf came in 1961, when he relocated to Los Angeles and dove into his television work. The next year he joined Bel-Air Country Club, and from that point his life has operated on a toggle switch between work and golf. Within two years he was a staple on NBC and the ratings climbed.

It was in 1967 that his two passions officially crossed paths. San Diego was having difficulty supporting its PGA Tour stop -- it had visited three courses in the last seven playings -- and needed something to boost the San Diego Open Invitational. It's not that the tournament was lacking for name winners -- in those seven years it crowned Arnold Palmer, Gary Player and Billy Casper, among others. It was lacking financial firepower.

Tournament officials asked Williams for his help, and he responded by guaranteeing $100,000 for the purse and lending his name to the event. He became the third celebrity, behind Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, to have a PGA Tour stop named in his honor, and from that point on the event was secure. He hosted a performance in San Diego during that first tournament week, with The Osmonds and Jack Benny, that was a smashing success.

"Those were some of the most rewarding times I've spent on a golf course," Williams recalls. "To get to know the players, to see their magnificent games, and to know what we were doing for San Diego and the charities."

Other tournaments added celebrity sponsors: Danny Thomas in Memphis, Glen Campbell in Los Angeles, Dean Martin and then Joe Garagiola in Tucson, Sammy Davis Jr. in Hartford. Williams and San Diego were partners for two decades, one of the longest tenures. Together in that first year they grew the purse into six figures and moved the event to Torrey Pines. By the time he stepped aside in 1988, to accommodate a corporate sponsor, the purse was up to $500,000, already a figure fearful of being left behind in an era of purses zooming toward a seventh digit.

Williams has not severed all ties to the tour, playing in the Hope nearly every winter. He keeps in touch with several players, and heartily digests the previous day's scores in the newspaper. He talks about the newcomers, dissecting their games, but clearly his fondness is for those who won at San Diego on his watch: Jack Nicklaus, Tom Watson, Fuzzy Zoeller and Johnny Miller, to mention a few. "Every one of them was special," he says. "Every one a friend."

He has played in countless countries, both on the stage and first tee , but now limits most of his activity to this corner of the world. By late afternoon he's usually in his sprawling dressing room at the Moon River Theater -- the ultimate perk of being the theater's owner and star is a room big enough for a grand piano, a massive desk and room to spare -- taking care of correspondence or rehearsing for the next show.

But the mornings are for Hickory Hills, trying to improve a Handicap Index that hovers around 18. His wife, Debbie, is an 8 and dropping steadily, and plays beside him from the white tees. Williams maintains a dogged nature, good-humored but concentrating mightily lest he hit a stray. On the stage his singing and dancing appear effortless, infectiously fun. On the course the effort begins -- five-footers try anyone's patience -- but the game retains that sense of enjoyment. He has to hit those notes every night, but he wants to make those five-footers every day. -- Brett Avery