For me, a boy born and bred in Oregon, golf began as a cure for boredom. When I was thirteen, my Mom and I frequently visited my sister and her husband, who lived only forty minutes away by car. One summer day, not interested in the Canadian Football League game my brother-in-law was watching on T.V., I went into the garage and picked up one of my sister's clubs (her husband's a southpaw, so I couldn't use his) and started hitting plastic practice balls in the backyard. It was a challenge to hit the ball solidly, and the physical coordination required was not as easily achieved as the pros on T.V. made it look. This was fun, I thought. Soon I started bugging my brother-in-law to take me out to play for real, and after a couple months of badgering, he surrendered to my wishes.
The first real golf ball I ever hit full force was a five-iron off the first tee of a nice little par-3 course in Battleground, Washington on a drizzly day in September or October of 1973. I remember that first shot, it was a decent one, landing just to the right of the green 110 yards away. I proceeded to fluff a couple chip shots, but it didn't matter - I was hooked! There was something about trying to hit that ball into the hole, combined with the serene beauty of the course itself that was just exhilarating. It was like playing in a well manicured park, and I loved the feeling it gave me.
I guess because the game was so foreign to me, every aspect had its own thrill. I remember that first tee shot, I recall the first bunker shot I ever hit, I remember my first birdie. Conversely, I don't remember the first basketball I shot, or the first football I threw, or my first hit in baseball. What has made the difference? I don't know. Like a wonderful love affair, I've never tried to understand it all, but rather accept the game's ups and downs and remain faithful to it, unconditionally. My Mom gave me my first book on the game, Tommy Armour's classic How to Play Your Best Golf All the Time. That book taught me how to hold the club properly (the Vardon grip), and outlined the basic fundamentals for playing the game. I had no teacher until I began taking lessons almost a year later, and so I read books and magazine articles to educate myself about the game. I was intrigued by the stories of men (and women) playing a game that pits the individual against the elements of nature and a passive opponent, the golf course itself. Golf is a game that challenges one's self-discipline and composure in the face of adversity, a game Mark Twain once described as "a good walk spoiled." It is a game in which joy and angst exist within a heartbeat of one another, a game that drives some people to drink, others mad, and addicts many for life. It lured me in when I was thirteen and I never escaped - and would never want to.
When I was fifteen years old, Mom gave me a copy of Henry Cotton's History of Golf: Illustrated for Christmas. Here I read about the origins of the game I had grown to love in the two short years since picking up my first club. I was intrigued by the fact that King James II had banned golf in 1457 because it kept men from practicing their archery and was therefore a threat to the national defense of England. I learned that St. Andrews was once a 22-hole course, that Prestwick, the site of the first dozen Open Championships, had 12 holes which the competitors played around three times. I read of Young Tom Morris shooting 149 for 36 holes in the days of the gutta percha ball and rough hewn patches of grass that were passed off as "greens." Of John Ball and Harry Vardon, J.H. Taylor and James Braid. What a legacy the game has left!
I've read many other books on golf since then, including Robert Browning's History of Golf, Harry Vardon's The Complete Golfer, and Charles Blair Macdonald's Scotland's Gift: Golf, to name a few. They tell tales of golfers and the battle fields they have competed on, and describe how the simple premise of the game - to get the ball from the teeing ground into a hole hundreds of yards away - remains unchanged since the game came into being. These books are portals into another time, as they describe what was, opening our eyes to realities we would never have known had the thoughts and words not been recorded. There is comfort in this history, as we can see that golfers have always searched for techniques which would produce a better stroke. The human drama and passion which are integral to the game never wanes, only the time and the players change. For whether it be a hickory shafted mashie or a graphite shafted Callaway 5-iron, the shot still has to be executed. The player makes the game real.
So these books on golf opened up a new world to me, one the casual player never sees, or can imagine. Most wouldn't know Walter Hagen from Walter Travis from Jerry Travers, and that's O.K. But they are missing out on so much, like somebody who never gets to know their parents or children. Life can still be good, but not complete. Learning about golf's past made it complete for me and gave me the best it has to offer. Herbert Warren Wind, in particular, captured my imagination when I was 16, as he had a way of recounting the past in The Story of American Golf in such a way that I thought I was being taken in a time machine back to another age. All of the sudden, as he describes Bobby Jones' 2-iron off a bare lie to the 18th green at Inwood in the 1923 U.S. Open playoff with Bobby Cruickshank, I was there in the gallery.
I could see Jones look at the lie, and I observed the serious expression on his face, as he must have been thinking of the double bogey 6 he took on the same hole the day before. He and Cruickshank were all tied and this hole could decide the outcome, another mistake would be fatal. Bobby took the club out of the bag. I saw the swing, heard the click of the ball, as it was struck pure and took off toward the target, settling 6 feet from the hole. With two putts, it was all over. Cruickshank took a six. As a fan, I shared the joy and relief of Jones winning his first major title. In my mind, after the trophy was presented, I walked back to the spot where he hit that long iron from, and looked at the shallow divot he took, thinking this is where Bob stood when he hit it! The course is quiet now, but what took place on it those days of July 13-15 will never be forgotten. People like Mr. Wind have made sure of that.
I am sure that my love of history in general carried over to golf, and to me studying its past has been part of being a golfer. Playing the game has always meant more because of my knowledge of the game's traditions and lore. I have galleried golf tournaments since I was 16, including a U.S. Open and U.S. Senior Open, but nothing can compare to attending the British Open at St. Andrews in 1990 and '95. If one considers him or herself a true devotee of golf, and appreciates the traditions and history of the game, I would suggest (quite emphatically) a pilgrimage to Scotland generally, and St. Andrews, specifically. Like visiting the home of one's ancestors, this experience will make a golfer more fully realize and appreciate what the game means. To walk in the footsteps of the great players is to bridge history and become a part of it. The spirits of the long departed live on, and inhabit the links for all eternity. If a person walks this walk and doesn't feel moved by it, then he or she is not a true golfer.
In 1990, my cousin Ron and I made the journey to the Old Course together, traveling from London to St. Andrews on a night train (via Perth, Dundee, and connecting bus), arriving in the early morning hours with stiff backs and heavy eyelids. Five years later, in 1995, I made the trip again and this time took a bus from London, but it didn't provide any more comfort than the train. Certainly, I was weary (or as the Brits would say, "knackered") from the trip, but after drawing a few deep breaths of fresh air I was quickly revitalized. As I made my way across North Street and onto Golf Place, my heart was pumping with anticipation at seeing the old clubhouse again, and my mind was racing as I thought "I'm here again." Gladly surrendering a few pounds sterling from my wallet to the man at the ticket booth, I entered the grounds - and golfing nirvana. God, there's the 18th, which Ted Blackwell drove over with a gutty near a hundred years ago. An absolutely mammoth shot, but one that is reproduced frequently by today's players, who benefit from graphite shafts attached to oversized metal woods, and golf balls that fly forever. Standing by the 18th green I'm in a daze, almost overwhelmed by the thought of the men who have played over this course. I can feel the ghosts of Allan Robertson (who was the first man to break 80 at the Old Course in 1858), of Old Tom Morris playing in the Open until he was 75 years old, of Harry Vardon, of Walter Hagen, of Bobby Jones. I got goosebumps walking down the second fairway, the adrenalin coursing through my body. It doesn't get any better than this for a lover of golf and its history.
I headed out to the Loop, numbers 7 through 11, where a lot of golf can be seen from one spot. Low and behold, as luck would have it, I came across the group of Tom Watson, Raymond Floyd, Jack Nicklaus, and some guy by the name of Arnold Palmer. They were playing a "friendly" match, Arnie and Tom against Raymond and Jack (the former would win), and there was a lot of bantering on both sides. On #11, a par three of 173 yards and a little uphill, Arnold asked his caddie Tip Anderson for the yardage, and then pulled a 7-iron out of the bag. Nicklaus commented to him, "That's enough club, just hit it as hard as you can...as hard as you can." They all chuckled a bit when the King proceeded to dump the shot into the Strath bunker guarding the front of the green. Arnie turned to Tip and gave him a disbelieving look, seeming to question the yardage given to him by the man who caddied for Palmer at St. Andrews (with the exception of 1964) since his first trip there in 1960. Jack caught the look, and observed that "Tip's yardage hasn't changed," suggesting that perhaps the Great Man wasn't as strong as he was in his prime. Even Arnie had to chuckle at this one, and off they went. Palmer made about three nice birdies on the way in, and hit some good shots. I saw this man at the age of 65 and marveled at how strong he must have been at my age, as he still hit the ball a good distance. I just soaked it all in and savored every step and breath of it, knowing that I was seeing a significant chunk of golf history represented in the form of these four great players.
My thoughts drifted back to 1990, when, with the exception of Watson, I got the autographs of each member of the group. Even though I'm not an autograph hound, these signatures had meaning to me not only because of the hands that wielded the pen, but because of the book upon which their names were inscribed. It was a reprint of an 1887 edition of Reminiscences of Golf on St. Andrews Links, and I was able to add a few other names to it before I was through. Walking around the back of the Old Course Hotel during the second practice round, I ran smack into Gary Player, who was having a chat with his son Wayne concerning their dinner plans later that evening. As Player turned to walk away, I hustled over and as unobtrusively as possible asked him if he would mind signing the book. I told him it was a reprint describing what golf was like at St. Andrews in the 1840s and 1850s and he was very enthusiastic, saying how marvelous that was. As he signed, he noticed the signatures of Arnold Palmer and Greg Norman, saying that they have signatures people can read, pointing out how Palmer's was especially beautiful. I wished him good luck and went on my way.
Walking back to the Loop, I passed a gentleman sitting in a golf cart watching the action hard by the 16th hole. He looked familiar and was wearing a Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews blazer. I approached him and it struck me that it was Michael Bonallack, then President of the R&A and 5-time British Amateur champion. I said "You're the five time Amateur champion, aren't you?" He sheepishly admitted that he was, but that those days were long ago, and was then kind enough to sign my book. A few other players would add their autographs, including Curtis Strange, who holds the course record of 62, but it seemed anti-climactic, as I felt I had the best in Messrs. Palmer, Nicklaus, and Player, plus the head of the Royal and Ancient itself, Mr. Bonallack. They were all very pleasant, and impressed me as true gentleman.
Five years later, I reflected on these memories after following the Nicklaus/Floyd-Palmer/Watson match and walking the fairways of the Old Course with hundreds of other spectators after the last players were off the course. As the grounds crew was busy mowing the greens and changing the cup locations, I strolled out to the farthest point on the links, and looked out over the Eden River as the sun sank low on the horizon. What a magnificent feeling, to stand upon this ground and touch its history. It was time to go - for now - but the next day I would return. I made my way home, past the Hell bunker on #14 and the famous Road Hole which is #17, and across the Swilcan Burn bridge up the 18th. I stopped for a moment, and stood on it, imagining all those who have walked over its ancient stones. Allan Robertson, the Morrises, and Open champions at St. Andrews like Jamie Anderson, J.H. Taylor, James Braid, Bobby Jones, Sam Snead, Peter Thomson, Jack Nicklaus, Seve Ballasteros, Nick Faldo. And the men I had seen play earlier in the day, Palmer, Floyd, and Watson.
Walking up the 18th, across the little roadway known as Grannie Clarks Wynd, and past the Valley of Sin, I felt like I did as a child when my mother would call me in for dinner while I was busy playing in the back yard. I didn't want to go in, but knew that I could return to play again. So it was with my sojourns to St. Andrews, and golf in general, as the game always remains to be returned to another day. I envy the players of the last 150 years, who have been able to hit a golf ball with a precision and control I can only dream of. To just be able to play one round like Vardon or Nicklaus - wouldn't that be a touch of heaven? When I started playing the game in my youth there was the dream that I would one day be a great golfer. That dream is gone now, but replaced by the realization that the game itself is as meaningful as playing it well, because those of us who love it can tinker with it and study it all of our lives, and in the process experience a certain spiritual union unique in all of sport.
In the year 2000 the Open will return again to the Old Course, and I hope to be there again, to return to my fields of play as I did when I was a kid and supper was finished. In the meantime, I will continue to explore the game as something greater than simply an exercise to propel a little white ball into a hole four and a quarter inches in diameter. It's a game tied to the earth, wind and sky itself, one played in nations big and small throughout the globe, and a very personal experience for those who allow their souls to reach out and touch its true essence.
In 1881 a man named Robert Forgan wrote a book called The Golfer's Handbook. Years later his son David wrote the "Golfer's Creed." In part it reads:
Golf is a science, the study of a lifetime, in which you may exhaust yourself, but never your subject. It is a contest, a duel, or a melee, calling for courage, skill, strategy and self-control. It is a test of temper, a trial of honor, a revealer of character. It affords the chance to play the man and act the gentleman...It means going into God's out-of-doors, getting close to nature, fresh air, exercise, a sweeping away of mental cobwebs, genuine recreation of tired tissues. It is a cure for care, an antidote to worry. It includes companionship with friends, social intercourse, opportunities for courtesy, kindliness and generosity to an opponent. It promotes not only physical health but moral force.
To me, it is the greatest game of all.
©1998