R. Whitcombe Won Open In Gale At Sandwich In 1938

Press, Volume XCVIII, Issue 28930, 25 June 1959, Page 11

R. Whitcombe Won Open In Gale At Sandwich In 1938

|' Golf 4/k/

HENRY LONGHURST, noted British, golf writer, recalls two magnificent rounds, in appalling conditions, played in British open championships. ... This article is the fifth in a series of eight. TT is natural to recall earlier Open championships' more vividly than those of the recent past, not so much, I like to think, because of approaching senility but because they were won by different individuals, whereas nowadays one has to sort out whether it was a Locke year or a Thomson year.

I find that the memory crystallises sometimes on the finish, sometimes on the scene in general, sometimes on the man. In 1935 it was the finish.

Many people have one chance-in-a-lifetime and miss it by suddenly becoming afraid to win. Alfred Perry had his at Muirfleld and took it as though the thought of losing had never entered his head. He used to slash at the ball with joyous abandon, and I have a film of him driving off for his final round. Whenever I show it, there is a momentary silence, followed by “A-a-a-a-h!” and admiring laughter. In the end he

needed two fives to win. At each of the two long finishing holes he disdainfully skirted the bunkers with his drive, slammed the ball to the heart of the green with a wooden club and knocked off a couple of fours as though in a summer evening fourball. His oration at the prize-giving was a model of its kind. "I’d rather play a round of golf than make a speech,” was all he said.

Simple

He was succeeded by Alfred I Padgham, whose huge hands enveloped the club as though it were a toy and who played with a serenity that I myself have not seen equalled. You didn’t worry when you watched Padgham. The game, after all, was simple, especially the matter of rolling the ball into the hole, so why try to make it look difficult? He won every worth-while tournament except one in 1936, including the Open at Hoylake, which he finished with a six-yard putt and no change of expression.

People often ask me what is the finest round of golf I have ever seen. I am not at a loss for an answer. It is "Cotton's last round at Carnoustie in 1937.” What a day, and what a triumph that was! This time the Americans really were there—the whole victorious Ryder Cup team. The last day’s play was nearly cancelled while the greenkeeping staff battled to "squeegee" the water off the greens, and in the afternoon the rain came down with such a din as to silence the clattering of the typewriters in the Press tent. In these conditions Cotton went round this gigantic course in 71 to edge out poor Reginald Whitcombe, who had already been photographed as the winner, by two strokes. It was his finest hour.

Satisfaction

That the great Whitcombe family should pass on without winning the championship seemed unthinkable but increasingly likely. I dare say, therefore, that when Reginald won at Sandwich in 1938 no win had ever given more general satisfaction. Such, certainly, was my own reaction, though for an added reason. When

the last day began, such a gale blew up as had not been known in golfing history. By 9 a m. the vast eight-masted exhibition tent had sunk with all hands. Steelshafted clubs were twisted grotesquely into figures of eight; pullovers had already reached the sea a mile away. In the last round only seven players broke 80, and four and even five putts per green were 10 a penny. Padgham drove the eleventh, 392 yards, and got a two —and took four wooden-club shots to reach the fourteenth in the opposite direction. In these conditions the simple two-fisted style of the Whitcombcs came into its own and Reginald, his feet anchored to the ground, finished with 75-78 for 295. And I, through sundry wagers with friends on the Stock Exchange regarding the winning score, finished with what it would take £lOOO worth of honest toil to earn, tax free, today. It’s an ill wind, indeed.