by Dan Jenkins
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Three tall scotches and a Tylenol PM made me sleep like a run-over possum. But I still woke up mad. The haggis did it. First thing I thought Sunday morning when I opened my eyes was: What if I’d eaten any of that stuff and then found out what was in it? I’d have been long gone to Downtown Vomit City, and due to lingering illness I might have had to withdraw from a major championship I had a better than slim and none chance to win.
Gwen prepared a mammoth brunch. Eggs, hash browns, beans, sausages, English bacon—she trimmed the trichinosis—scones, toast, honey, and good coffee, as opposed to British coffee, which tastes like a combination of stewed dirt and melted wrought iron.
The sun was out, I noticed through the windows, but the wind was whipping around. Good, I said to Gwen. The course would still play tough. It wasn’t likely to give up any low scores to Els, Mickelson, Tiger, Cheetah, Knut, or any of the other heroes who were five to ten shots back. A 72 or 73 would be a good score in the last round.
I wasn’t meeting Mitch on the practice range until one o’clock, a full two hours before I would tee off. There was plenty of time to watch the early action on television, see how the course was playing, and browse through the Sunday papers.
Not much in the papers about the veteran campaigner from America. A man who’d been fourth at the magnolia joint and second in the U.S. Open. A man who was considered the actual British Open leader instead of one shot back by those who took experience into account.
The papers were all about the youthful Alfie Crangburn. Except for Monty in Ryder Cups, the Brits had been short of golf heroes since Nick Faldo hit the skids. Even their adopted Spaniards had become unreliable. But here was Alfie popping up, a heartwarming story.
Best of all, Alfie was a socialite. At least he was in the minds of the British press slugs. He was upper middle class, which was hardly royalty, but it meant that his dad didn’t drive a lorry for a living.
Alfie, now twenty-four, had been raised in a large house with hedges and gardens in a plush suburb of London. His father, Oliver Jeremy Crangburn, commuted to work in a Jaguar. The father was a vice-president of a firm in London that passed pieces of paper up and down halls.
His mother, Constance, confessed that her hobby was shopping. She preferred shopping at “Forty’s” and “Harvey Nick’s.” Alfie had a younger brother, Bowles, who liked to take things apart but not put them back together, and a teenage sister, Julia, who loved “going to clubs.”
The family liked to eat bubble and squeak and neeps and nips and baugers and mash and drink stickies and fizzies, but Alfie was partial to the Wimpies and whipsies, which Americans would recognize more easily as hamburgers and milkshakes.
Alfie had been playing golf only eight years, having taken up the game at sixteen. He had fiercely wanted to be an athlete of some sort. But he was too slow for tennis, track, or soccer. Too weak for rowing. Afraid of water anyhow—couldn’t swim. Not nimble or crafty enough for cricket. Horses frightened him terribly—equestrian events were out of the question. All outdoor winter sports were insane, especially bob-sledding. And he was too intelligent to race motor cars. Subsequently he looked to golf.
Alfie turned pro because he’d never won anything as a junior amateur or even as an adult amateur, therefore it seemed pointless to remain an amateur. He had been playing the European Tour for the past three years, but without any success whatever. His biggest paycheck was sixty pounds from a tournament in Algeria. He wasn’t even listed among the first 1,200 players rated in the world rankings. He had gone unnoticed through the qualifying process to enter the British Open, and had barely made it.
Asked to explain his performance in the championship, Alfie was quoted saying, “Well, it has something to do with the course, doesn’t it? I rather like the fact that as one goes round somber old Carnoustie, a bloody good shot can wind up in the hay while a perfectly horrid shot might very likely find its way to the green.”
Of all the players who were out on the course ahead of Alfie and me, nobody had made a move by the time we started.
One reason was because Carnoustie was playing differently. It had dried out and the winds were coming across on one hole, and from another direction on another hole. Helping here, hurting there. And the ball was running farther on the firmed-up fairways and hardened greens. Running too far in some cases, like across a fairway or over a green and into the rough.
We began the round amid the pomp and circumstance that goes along with the final pairing in a major. There must have been a dozen black-blazered Royal & Ancient officers and invited observers inside the ropes with us as well as the “foot soldiers,” the ex-players turned announcers who were working for British, American, Euro, and Japanese TV.
The group included Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft, “Mr. Rules,” who was a guest official. He had the gall to give me a broad, well-wishing smile and go-get-’em gesture with his fist before I teed off.
Like we were two old buddies from the USA over here on foreign soil. Like I couldn’t possibly harbor a grudge against him for the two crippling rules interpretations he’d given me at the Masters and our Open—he’d only been looking after the integrity of the game, after all. Surely I understood that.
I gave him a straight-faced nod. Didn’t want to. Did.
I was dressed in a white golf shirt under a tan slipover cashmere sweater, gray slacks, black shoes, and my checkered Hogan cap. The bareheaded, shaggy-blond Alfie wore a too-tight red sweater over a blue Knit shirt, brown slacks, and white shoes.
Keeping the ball in the fairway off the tee was helpful at Carnoustie. I Knew this, but it didn’t seem to matter to Alfie. He consistently found other ways to play the course.
The 1st hole was a good example. The 400-yard hole was a straight-away par-4. My drive found the center of the fairway and I put a pitch shot on the green twenty feet from the pin. Swinging good.
In contrast, Alfie duck-hooked his drive into the rough, and was forced to chip out sideways. But no problem for Alfie. He hit some Kind of long iron about 220 yards to the back edge of the green, and sank a monster putt for a par. After I two-putted for my own par, I walked to the second tee saying to Mitch, “Well, I tied him.”
Tee to green, over the next eight holes, I hit nothing but good shots. Cruise-controlled it off the tee. Clubfaced it into the greens. No drama with the flat stick. I birdied Hogan’s Alley again, number 6, and made routine pars everywhere else.
I was out in thirty-five, one under for the day, even for the championship, and under normal circumstances, on any other day, in any other British Open, against any other opponent, I’d have been working on the victory speech I’d be making while I fondled the claret jug.
But despite my excellent display, I gained only two shots on Alfie, and I was only one ahead of him with the tough back nine to go.
After his miracle save on number 1, some of the things Alfie did on the front nine would have brought permanent disfigurement to his face and limbs if he’d done any of them in certain gambling games back in certain parts of Texas.
Examples:
He got up and down out of a greenside bunker for par on number 2.
He scooped his approach shot on number 3 but holed out a pitch from twenty-five yards for a par.
He clumsily played three shots out of the rough on number 4 and then chipped in from eighty feet for a par.
He sank a thirty-foot putt for par at number 5.
He drove out of bounds on number 6—into the firing range, where I should have gained at least four strokes with my birdie—but he sank a sixty-foot putt for a bogey, holding it to a two-shot swing.
His second shot to number 7 hit a spectator’s chair on a hill and bounced down onto the green to save him a par.
He hit a goofy slice at the 183-yard 8th—he must have been fifty yards from the green—but he got up and down for his three.
He butchered number 9 with a top, a chunk, and a balloon ball, then bladed his fourth shot from forty yard
s away, but the ball hit the flagstick, popped up in the air, and dropped down in the cup for a par-4.
The roars of the British grew louder with each one of Alfie’s exploits.
In the instances when I caught Gwen’s eye in the gallery, I could only shrug and turn my palms up in bewilderment.
Tee to green on my chart, Alfie Crangburn had played a nine-over forty-five but he’d scored a one-over 37.
On our way to the back nine, Mitch shook his head, and said, “What we got goin’ on here is somethin’ else. I’d volunteer to turn into one of them gay dudes if I could Kiss this motherfucker goodbye.”
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he last thing on my mind was that I’d contribute to the lore of the 10th hole at Carnoustie. Lore isn’t good for anything but a page in a history book. Near as I can tell, your basic lore doesn’t do anything but sit around like a gravestone in the weeds of an old cemetery and wait for lore people to care about it.
Carnoustie’s 10th is a 470-yard par-4, up a slight rise, with the burn crossing in front of the green and angling around to the right of it. The hole was another place where Hogan planted lore in the ’53.
Or his caddie did.
Hogan’s caddie was a Brit named Cecil Timms, and Cecil dined out for years on both sides of the Atlantic with the story about the one and only time over the seventy-two holes when he helped the Wee Bantam Ice Hawk.
They played thirty-six the last day back then, same as the U.S. Open— this was in the days when stamina was thought to be a more vital part of the game than TV money—and in the morning round Hogan had parred the 10th with a good drive and a crisp four-iron to the green.
Cecil Timms said Hogan’s drive in the afternoon was close to the same spot, but the second shot had more riding on it now. Hogan at the moment was holding a slender one-stroke lead over his challengers, who were formidable. They included Robert de Vicenzo, Dai Rees, Bobby Locke, Peter Thomson, Tony Cerda, and Frank Stranahan.
There in the 10th fairway, Hogan reached for the four-iron again. But Cecil bravely—Cecil’s word, “bravely”—put his hand on top of Hogan’s hand, preventing Ben from taking the club out of the bag.
Hogan glared at him, as only Hogan could.
Cecil said, “The wind’s changed, sir. It’s a two-iron now.”
Hogan stared at Cecil for what seemed to the caddie like a year. Then Ben reluctantly took the two-iron out of the bag, moved to the ball, took a stance, addressed the shot, waggled the club.
But paused—and looked at Cecil again.
“If this goes through the green,” Hogan said to the caddie, “I’m going to bury this club in your damn forehead.”
Whereupon Hogan took the biggest, hardest, most vicious swing at a shot he’d taken in the entire championship, almost as if he was trying to prove his caddie wrong.
But the shot turned out perfect. The ball wound up ten feet behind the flag, from where Hogan easily two-putted for his par.
“And that’s how I won the Open,” Cecil Timms would say, permitting someone in his audience to buy another round.
My drive at the 10th was embarrassingly void of lore. I thin-pulled it and the ball found its way into the rough on the left. I was lucky with the lie. The rough wasn’t high in that spot. It had been trampled down by fans. I thought I could get a long iron through it and clear the burn, which was forty yards short of the green. I thought I might reach the front edge of the green.
I went with a three-iron but I Knew at impact I hadn’t gotten all of it. I watched the ball land short of the burn and take a bounce. I didn’t see how it could stay out of the water.
Meantime, Alfie drove straight for a change and hit safely onto the green. My immediate job was to stop the bleeding. I was thinking, OK, two in the burn, drop out in three, pitch on in four, one putt for a bogey, or, worst case, two-putt for a double. Looks like he’ll make four. Lot of holes left.
I spent a moment looking for my ball on my side of the burn, making sure there was no chance it might have stayed out, hung up in the grass.
As I walked along the edge of the burn, I noticed the blue blazers huddled in a group, Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft among them.
Alfie wandered past me and nodded in a friendly way as he headed toward the green. A moment later I was approached by Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft and the R&A’s chairman of the championship committee, Sir Nigel Fox-Dudley.
Squadron leader? Group captain? Wing commander?
“Mr. Grooves, I must inform you of an infraction,” Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft said. “If you’re looking for your ball, it’s lost.”
I said, “I was making sure it didn’t stay up.”
“You were looking for it. The lost ball penalty applies.”
“I wasn’t searching for it. The ball obviously went in the burn.”
“We watched you looking for your ball.”
“I walked along the edge, yeah. Making certain it was in the water.”
“The penalty for a lost ball is stroke and distance. I’m sure you are aware of the rule.”
“Uh-uh, you can’t strap that shit on me. My ball wasn’t lost and you Know it! My ball went in the hazard. There’s nowhere else it could be.”
Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft said, “I repeat . . . if you’re looking for the ball, it’s lost.”
Sir Nigel Fox-Dudley said, “Burchy is quite right.”
“ ‘Burchy’?” I said.
Sir Nigel’s pocket-size R&A rule book was open. He said, “We do not have a twenty-six–one. I’m thinking . . . yes . . . should be twenty-seven–one, no exceptions. Local rule. Ball search. Twenty-seven . . . parenthesis, letter b, as in boy, not letter z, as in zed . . . easy to confuse . . . ignore letter c . . . dash, seven, paren, asterisk, see below, paren closed . . . footnote . . . smaller type . . . I should think official has discretion . . . twenty-four–three not applicable . . . ah, yes, there we have it. Return to spot, please.”
He closed the book and marched away sharply.
I said to Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft, “You’re telling me I have to play it as a lost ball? I have to go back two hundred and thirty fucking yards, drop in the fucking rough, and I’m shooting four? That’s what you’re telling me?”
“I am enforcing the rule.”
“If you’re looking for it, it’s lost. That’s what you said? If you’re looking for it, it’s lost. That’s not the fucking rule. That’s your fucking rule, you fucking asshole.”
“Mr. Grooves, you may wish to Know that I can report your foul language to the commissioner of your Tour and request a minimum fine of five hundred dollars.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. I took out my money clip, peeled off a wad of bills, folded them, and stuck them in the lapel pocket of Jarvis Phillip W. Burchcroft’s blazer.
“Here’s a thousand,” I said. “That ought to cover me calling you the sorriest, weak-chin, flabby-ass piece-of-shit son of a bitch I’ve ever Known in my whole goddamn life.”
I spun around and trudged back up the fairway to replay the shot. Mitch walked along beside me, Knowing not to speak, letting me sizzle.
Reaching for the seven-iron in the bag, I said, “Guess I’ll do now what I should have done in the first place—something smart —instead of thinking I was Arnold Tiger Fucking Nicklaus.”
I punched out of the rough well short of the burn. I pitched my fifth shot onto the green about thirty feet from the cup, and—small wonder, considering my frame of mind—I three-putted for a quadruple-bogey 8. Since Alfie made an easy 4, I was suddenly three strokes behind him instead of one stroke ahead.
Then another surprising thing happened. Alfie Kept on playing well.
We both parred the next seven holes, and Alfie found himself on the 18th tee, the 72nd hole, with a three-shot lead to win the first golf tournament of his life, which happened to be the British Open.
There are three opportunities to hit a ball into the water on number 18, a 487-yard par-4. The burn crosses the fairway in three dangerous plac
es. But Alfie Crangburn cautiously played the hole with three fiveirons. He went layup, layup, layup, chipped on the green, and calmly two-putted for a double-bogey 6—and the championship.
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housands of British fans went full nutso. They rushed onto the green, lifted Alfie on their shoulders, bounced him up and down, carried him around in a circle, and sang those incoherent songs like they do at soccer matches before the stands collapse and kill three dozen people.
The drunks fell about, joining the other early-day drunks who’d long since hit the dirt outside the Famous Grouse and the Bollinger tent and the other bars in the tented village.
Gwen was waiting when I came out of the scorer’s hut. We hugged, Kissed, and stood there holding each other and as we watched Alfie’s fans march, sing, stumble, and crawl. Even though Alfie Crangburn was an Englishman, the Scots would take it.
The Scots had always baffled me. I Knew one or two with a sense of humor, but most of the ones I Knew were relentlessly stubborn and seemed to enjoy their dislike of England as much as their dislike of the United States—England for historic reasons and America for improving their economy. I avoided arguments about it. Wrote it off to the fact that they eat haggis.
Gwen said, “You played so well. I was so proud all day.”
“Except for one hole.”
“Everybody around me said you got a bum ruling at ten.”
“Fate don’t have a head.”
“It wasn’t fair.”
“Alfie was in a coma, that’s the basic story.”
“Alfie’s a terrible golfer. He’s hopeless.”
I chuckled. “The guy can’t play a lick. But he held it together the last five or six holes. You have to give him that. Now I Know how Hogan must have felt when he lost to Jack Fleck.”
“You should have been permitted to play the tenth as a hazard, not a lost ball. It would have saved you two strokes.”