LIKE BEING ON PROBATION

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 90, Issue 167, 22 July 1946, Page 3

LIKE BEING ON PROBATION

GREAT NAMES FROM THE PAST The bi'i,ish Open Championship, the greatest golfing event in (lie world, has just concluded on the greatest links, the Old Course at St. Andrews, writes Leonard Crawley in the London “Daily Telegraph.” The last “Open” was played at St. Andrews in 1939, and 1 am not alone in my view that the Open should belong to St. Andrews, just as the Derby does to Epsom, the Grand National to Aintrre, and the Cup Final to XVcnibley.

The Old Course is the supreme est of a golfer. It not only tests

his ability to prove his skill with all his clubs, but, from the lirst teeing ground until the last putt is gobbled by the 18th hole it is a test of mind, of memory, and of temper.

Golf has been played on the Old Course without interruption for more than four centuries, and by an accident of nature it remains 'almost in its original form, unaltered and, in the unsull.ed splendour of its eternal youth, the infallible tribunal of the modern go!'. It is true that from time to time new teeing grounds have been made to keep pace with modern clubs and modern golf balls, but even these, to my mind, have not necessarily made the course more difficult. ] Its design is unique: Straight out and straight back w.th only one fairway and all the greens but four double. I have said that the Old Course is a test of memory. Why? It lies in flat country only broken by small humps and hollows, but many of the terrifying bunkers, some of which are no bigger than large foxholes, are hidden from the striker's view. I remember a well-known Yor::-

shire golfer I was playing there being hopelessly bunkered close to the llag on the 14th. green. He had forgotten that bunker’s ex stence and, his ball being unnlayable, he pathetically observ’d: “Ah’v cum all the way 'ere in two grand shots, but there’s nowt for it now but to set off back again.” I need hardly explain why the Old Course is a test of a golfer's temper. A bad shot is often disastrous, an unlucky kick is often too expensive, and lack of concentration even for one moment is sometimes the end.

Each hole is a problem; at eaeT hole there is, as it were, a precipice.

and the best feeling in the world *s to climb the steps beyond the 18th. green with a respectable score and the hope that Providence will one day allow you to try again.

Four Open championships were played on the Old Course between the wars, and I regret that I saw oniy one of them. There is the tragedy of the tie in 1921 between Jock Hutchison—a Scotsman resident in America—and Roger Wethered, who trod on his ball and incurred the fatal penalty stroke. There is the inimitable Bobby’s complete victory in 1926. There is the Shute-Craig Wood tie in 1933. when Wood drove 430 yards into a bunker before the sth. green and lost th? championship. There is Dick Bullen’s charrw: ,r.-

ship in 1939. He is perhaps the unluckiest champion, since the outbreak of war killed any prospect for him oi the considerable financial reward through business which in these days is part and parcel of the champion's crown. One name seems to be absent from that list. A giant in the h.story of the game. A man of great personality and charm. A man of immense courage and philosophy who could laugh at. himself in success or disaster. A mart who approached a championship wondering who was going to be second. The mighty Walter Hagen. i No American has won the British Open since 1934, when Henry Cotton came into his own. His victory inspired British golf, which by 1939 was looking after itself. There is an atmosphere at St. Andrews wh ch cannot bp created elsewhere. There is a feeling oi Headquarters, a feeling that one is on probation and there to be examined in 1 public. i I know of no sensation mere humij Hating and more terrifying titan the walk from the last teeing ground to the 18th. green. A laughable i nle when no one is looking. Nor a num-zer in sight. No rough, and acres to hit at. All fairway, all easy, and yet when on groat occasions Scotsmen—bless their hearts—line the rails in their thousands, and hundreds of faces appear at the windows of the Royal and Ancient, of the Grand Hotel, of Russacks, and from everywhere else, one walks across the burn into the arena feeling smaller and smaller. “The Valley of Sin” grows larger and larger, and the 18th. green is clearly going to be bewitched.

With a four to win the medal one friend of mine socketed his second into Forgan’s shop. In his agony he made a move to break the club over his knee, but on being reminded by his caddie that it had a steel shaft, he ’nri ric-i'l: “For sake, man, give me the umbrella!”