SOME REMINISCENCES
Not enough golf--"Reduced to cricket"--I move to Bury--A match with
Alexander Herd--No more nerves--Third place in an open
competition--I play for the Championship--A success at
Portrush--Some conversation and a match with Andrew Kirkaldy--Fifth
for the Championship at Sandwich--Second at the Deal
tournament--Eighth in the Championship at St. Andrews--I go to
Ganton--An invitation to the south of France--The Championship at
Muirfield--An exciting finish--A stiff problem at the last hole--I
tie with Taylor--We play off, and I win the Championship--A tale of
a putter--Ben Sayers wants a "wun'"--What Andrew thought of
Muirfield--I win the Championship again at Prestwick--Willie Park
as runner-up--My great match with Park--Excellent arrangements--A
welcome victory--On money matches in general--My third Championship
at Sandwich--My fourth at Prestwick--Golf under difficulties.
No true golfer is satisfied with a little of the game, if there is no
substantial reason why he should not have much of it. I was greenkeeper
as well as professional to the Studley Royal Golf Club, Ripon; but golf
did not seem to have taken a very deep root there up to that time. There
was so little of it played that I soon found time hang heavily upon my
hands, and in the summer I was reduced to playing cricket, and in fact
played more with the bat than I did with the driver. There were one or
two good players on the links occasionally, and now and then I had some
good games with visitors to the place. One day after such a match my
opponent remarked very seriously to me, "Harry, if you take my advice
you will get away from here as quickly as you can, as you don't get half
enough golf to bring you out." I took the advice very much to heart. I
was not unduly conceited about my golf in those days, and the
possibility of being Champion at some future time had taken no definite
shape in my mind; but I was naturally ambitious and disinclined to waste
any opportunities that might present themselves. So, when I saw that the
Bury Golf Club were advertising for a professional, I applied for the
post and got it. It was by no means a bad nine-holes course that I found
at Bury, and I was enabled to play much more golf than at Ripon, while
there were some very good amateurs there, Mr. S.F. Butcher being one of
the best. I was now beginning to play fairly well, and the first
professional match of my life was arranged for me, Alexander Herd of
Huddersfield being my opponent in this maiden effort, upon the result of
which a stake of a few pounds a side depended. Herd was by that time a
famous player and accomplishing some very fine golf, so that on paper at
all events the unknown Bury professional had no chance whatever. So
indeed it proved. It was fixed that we were to play thirty-six holes,
home and home, Herd having the privilege of playing on his own course
first. I forget how many he was up at Huddersfield, but it was so many
that I had practically no chance of wiping out the difference when I
brought my opponent to Bury, and in the end he won quite easily. "Sandy"
Herd, as we all call him, and I have had many great matches since then,
and many of them of far greater consequence than this, but I shall never
forget this beginning. Neither in those days, nor in the others that
soon followed, when it became clear that I had a chance of becoming
Champion, was I ever in the least troubled with nervousness. I was
completely cured of my early complaint. Moreover, I have not known what
it is to be nervous even in a Championship round when my fate depended
upon almost every stroke, and particularly on those at the last few
holes. The feeling that was always uppermost in my mind was that I had
everything to gain and nothing to lose. It is only when a man has
everything to lose and nothing to gain that he should become uneasy
about his game. When you have won a few prizes and there are critical
eyes upon you, there may be some excuse for nerves, but not before. All
young players should grasp the simple truth of this simple statement;
but it is surprising how many fail to do so. No stroke or game ever
seemed to cause me any anxiety in those young days, and my rapid success
may have been in a large measure due to this indifference.
In 1893 I decided that I would enter for the Open Championship, which in
that year was played for at Prestwick, and I went north in company with
my brother Tom, stopping on our way to take part in the tournament at
Kilmalcolm, which was attended by most of the other professionals. I did
fairly well in this, the first open competition for which I entered,
being bracketed with poor Hugh Kirkaldy for third place. But I failed in
the Championship competition, as, of course, I fully expected to do.
That was Willie Auchterlonie's year, and I was some way down the list. I
started in great style, and, though I broke down badly later on, there
was just the consolation left for me that after all I did better than my
partner, Willie Campbell.
There were some curious circumstances attending the first big success of
any kind that I achieved. This was at Portrush in Ireland, shortly after
the Championship meeting, and the competition was a professional
tournament. I was drawn against Andrew Kirkaldy in the first round, and
his brother Hugh was one of the next pair, so it seemed that the two
Kirkaldys would meet in the second round. Andrew assumed that that would
happen, as he had every right to do, and he was heard to remark that it
was rather hard luck that the brothers should be set against each other
in this manner so early in the competition. The night before the
match-play part of the business commenced, I was walking down one of the
streets of Portrush when I encountered Andrew himself, and in his own
blunt but good-humoured way he remarked, "Young laddie, d'ye think y're
gaun to tak the money awa' with ye? Ye've no chance, ye ken." I said
nothing in reply, because I felt that he spoke the truth. Next day a
heavy gale was blowing, and I started very cautiously. The first hole
was on the side of a hill, and when my ball lay a yard from the flag and
I had the next stroke for the hole, it was trembling in the wind and
threatening every moment to start rolling. So I waited for it to steady
itself, and my waiting exasperated Andrew to such an extent that at
length he exclaimed, "Man, d'ye ken I'm cauld? Are ye gaun to keep me
waiting here a' nicht?" Then I took the putt and missed it, so the hole
was halved. However, I set about my opponent after that, and had begun
to enjoy the game immensely by the time we reached the turn. At this
point two of the holes ran parallel to each other, and as we were
playing one of them we passed Hugh and his partner going up to the
other. "Man, Andrew, hoo's the game?" called out brother Hugh. "Man
alive, I'm five doon!" Andrew replied in tones of distress. "Ma
conscience!" muttered Hugh as he passed along. Andrew was more than five
down at the finish of that game, and in the second round I had the
satisfaction of removing the remaining member of the Kirkaldy family
from the competition, while in the semi-final I beat an old Open
Champion, D. Brown. But in the final, Herd defeated me on the last
green, and so I had to be content with the prize given for runner-up.
Shortly afterwards I won another prize in a tournament at Ilkley, this
time accounting for Herd as well as my brother Tom and many other
well-known players. Tom was professional at Ilkley, and the course there
was a very difficult nine holes.
I did better in the competition for the Open Championship in the
following year when the meeting was held at Sandwich, playing a
particularly good game on the second day, when my 80 and 81 were one of
the two lowest combined returns. At the finish I was fifth, and felt
very pleased to occupy the position, for the excellence of the golf that
I witnessed was a surprise to me. From Sandwich the professionals went
on to Deal, where a tournament was held, in which I managed to secure
second place. It was Herd who beat me once again. At St. Andrews in the
1895 Competition, I returned the lowest score in the first round, but
could only tie for the ninth place at the finish. My old friend, J.H.
Taylor, who made his first essay to capture the blue ribbon of golf at
Prestwick at the same time that I did, was the winner at both this and
the previous Championship meeting. A few months later I left Bury for
Ganton; Tom, who had been over there with some Ilkley players at the
Yorkshire meeting, having heard that they were in need of a new
professional, and written to me at once with advice to apply. Between
leaving Bury and going to Ganton I had three weeks of good golf at Pau,
in the south of France, the great and unexpected honour being paid me of
an invitation to form one of a small party of professionals for whom a
series of matches and competitions had been arranged there. Taylor,
Herd, Archie Simpson, Willie Auchterlonie, and Lloyd, the local
professional, were the others. Professional golfers when they are out
together usually manage to have a pretty good time, and this occasion
was no exception. Knowing a little French, I was once appointed cashier
and paymaster for the party, but I did not know enough of the language
to feel quite at home when large figures were the subject of discussion,
and I remember that the result was an awkward incident at Bordeaux on
the return journey. We were called upon to pay excess fare for the
luxury of travelling in the express, and, failing to understand the
ticket collector, I was filling his hand with francs, one by one,
waiting for him to tell me when he was in possession of the required
amount. But he needed more and more, and the situation was becoming
embarrassing, when the guard whistled and the train moved off. If it had
not been for that intervention we might still have been paying him
excess fare. I went to Ganton immediately on my return, and in the
spring of that year, 1896, a match between Taylor and myself was
arranged on my new course, when I had the satisfaction of winning.
I was looking forward very keenly to the Open Championship that year. It
was at Muirfield, and it took place only four or five weeks after this
encouraging victory over Taylor. In the meantime I had been a little off
my game, and when I teed my first ball at Muirfield it seemed to me that
I was as likely to make a bad drive as a good one, and I was equally
uncertain with all the other clubs in my bag. But as it happened I was
fortunate enough to be playing well during the competition, and was
close up at the end of the first day, with Taylor in the next place
above me. The next day I was again playing well, and the result was
exciting. Taylor was doing his rounds only a few holes in front of me,
and late in the contest it became apparent that the issue would be left
between us. I did not know exactly what I had to do to win until about
four holes from the finish, when someone, who had seen Taylor putt out
at the last green, came up to me and told me what number of strokes was
still left to me to play if I were to tie with him. When I came to the
last hole I had set me what I think was the most anxious problem that
has ever come my way since I first took up golf. I had five strokes left
to play in order to tie with Taylor and give me the right to play off
with him for the Championship, and four left with which to win it
outright. It is a fairly long hole--a drive and a good brassy, with a
very nasty bunker guarding the green. Thus, while it was an easy 5, it
was a difficult 4, and the bold golfer who made his bid for the low
figure might possibly be punished with a 6. My drive was good, and then
I had to make my choice between the bold game and the sure one. A
Championship hung upon the decision. The prospect of being the winner in
less than five minutes was tempting. The brassy would give me the
Championship or nothing. The iron would admit me to the privilege of
playing off with Taylor another day. I hesitated. I think I would have
taken the iron in any case; but just when I was longing for an
inspiration, my eye wandered among the spectators some sixty or seventy
yards in front of me, and I caught sight of my friend James Kay of
Seaton Carew making frantic efforts to attract my attention, and
pointing with his hand to the ground on the near side of the bunker as a
hint to play short. That settled it. I played short, got my 5, and tied
with Taylor with a total score of 316.
The play-off was full of interest and excitement. Taylor and I were
granted permission to take part in a tournament at North Berwick before
we settled the question between us. When at length we teed up again at
Muirfield, I felt as though I were fit to play for anything, and started
in a way that justified my confidence, for I picked up a useful lead of
five strokes in the first half-dozen holes. After that Taylor settled
down to most brilliant golf, and brought my lead down to a single
stroke; but at the end of the first round I was two to the good. To my
exasperation, this lead disappeared with the very first stroke that I
made after lunch. There is a wood running along the left-hand side of
the line of the first hole on this course. With my cleek shot from the
tee I pulled the ball into this dismal place, and by the rule in force
at the time I lost two strokes and played again from the tee, Taylor
holing out in 3 to my 5. However, at this crisis I came out again and
won a stroke at each of the next three holes, and only lost one of them
from that point to the seventeenth. Two strokes to the good and two
holes to go--that at least seemed good for the Championship. On the
seventeenth green, my brother Tom, who was carrying my clubs for me,
took a lot of trouble to point out the line of a putt the whole length
of the green, but something prompted me to take an entirely different
course, and I holed the putt, gaining another stroke. There we were,
Taylor and I, at that last hole again, but this time we were together,
and I had a big advantage over my good friend on this occasion. There
was more mental golf to be played, and though Taylor's ordeal was the
more trying, neither of us had any difficulty in coming to a decision.
My course was clear. With a lead of three strokes I had to play for a 5,
as on the previous occasion, because it was certain to give me the
Championship. Taylor's only chance was to blaze away with both his
driver and his brassy, and trust to getting his second shot so well
placed on the green as to secure a 3, which, in the event of my dropping
a stroke through an accident in the bunker or elsewhere and taking 6,
would enable him to tie. I obtained my 5 without difficulty, but
Taylor's gallant bid for 3 met with an unhappy fate, for his second shot
was trapped in the bunker, and it took him 6 to hole out. And so with a
score of 157 to Taylor's 161, I was Open Champion at last, and for the
first time in my life I felt some emotion as a golfer. I was too dazed
to speak, and it seemed as if my feet had taken root on the eighteenth
green, for I don't think I moved for several minutes.
There is a little tale I want to tell about that Championship,
illustrating the old saying that golf is a very funny game, and giving
some point to a recommendation that I shall have to make later on. Never
in my life have I putted better than I did in those two rounds. If, when
I had a putt the whole length of the green, I did not actually rattle it
into the tin, I laid it stone dead on the lip of the hole; on no green
did I take more than two putts. Yet in the various rounds I had played
on several days before my putting had been very indifferent. How came
this remarkable change? It seems to me that it was entirely due to a
chance visit that I paid to Ben Sayers's shop when I was at North
Berwick in the interval between tieing with Taylor and playing the
deciding rounds. I told the clubmaker who was in charge that I was off
my putting, and wanted a new putter. Hitherto I had been playing with
one of the bent-necked variety. While I was looking about the shop my
eye was attracted by an old cleek that lay in a corner--a light and
neglected club, for which nobody seemed to have any use. The strange
idea occurred to me that this would make a grand putter, and so I told
the man to take out the old shaft and put a new and shorter one in, and
when this process had been completed I determined to experiment with it
in the play-off with Taylor. I fancied this new discovery of mine and
had confidence in it, and that was why I got all those long putts down
and achieved the golfer's greatest ambition. But though I keep it still
and treasure it, I have never played with that putter since. It has done
its duty.
I must tell just one other story concerning this Muirfield Championship.
Among the favourites at the beginning of operations were Ben Sayers and
Andrew Kirkaldy, and a victory on the part of either of them would have
been most popular in the North, as it would have settled the cup on the
other side of the Tweed. Ben was rather inclined to think his own
prospects were good. Someone asked him the day before the meeting who
was the most likely Champion. "Jist gie me a wun' an' I'll show ye
wha'll be the Champion," he replied, and he had some reason for the
implied confidence in himself, for he knew Muirfield very well, and no
one had better knowledge of how to play the strokes properly there when
there was a gale blowing over the course, and pulling and slicing were
constantly required. But neither Ben nor Andrew was as successful as was
wished, and not unnaturally they thought somewhat less of Muirfield than
they had done before. Therefore it was not fair to ask Kirkaldy, after
the competition had been completed, what he really considered to be the
merits of the course. I was standing near him when a player came up and
bluntly asked, "What d'ye think o' Muirfield now, Andrew?" Andrew's lip
curled as he replied, "No for gowff ava'. Just an auld watter meedie.
I'm gled I'm gaun hame." But the inquirer must needs ejaculate, "Hooch
ay, she would be ferry coot whateffer if you had peen in Harry Fardon's
shoes."
There was an exciting finish also to the 1898 Championship, which was
held at Prestwick. The final struggle was left to Willie Park and
myself, and at the end of the third round, when Willie was three strokes
to the good, it seemed a very likely victory for him. In the last round
I was playing a hole in front of him, and we were watching each other as
cats watch mice the whole way round the links. I made a reckoning when
we reached the turn that I had wiped out the three strokes deficit, and
could now discuss the remainder of the game with Park without any sense
of inferiority. I finished very steadily, and when Park stood on the
last tee just as I had holed out, he was left to get a 3 at this
eighteenth hole to tie. His drive was a beauty, and plop came the ball
down to the corner of the green, making the 3 seem a certainty. An
immense crowd pressed round the green to see these fateful putts, and in
the excitement of the moment, I, the next most concerned man to Park
himself, was elbowed out. I just saw his long putt roll up to within
about a yard of the hole, which was much too dead for my liking. Then,
while Park proceeded to carry out his ideas of accomplishing a
certainty, I stood at the edge of the crowd, seeing nothing and feeling
the most nervous and miserable man alive. Never while playing have I
felt so uncomfortable as during those two or three minutes. After what
seemed an eternity there rose from all round the ring one long
disappointed "O-o-o-h!" I didn't stop to look at the ball, which was
still outside the hole. I knew that I had won the Championship again,
and so I hastened light-heartedly away. I must admit that Park was
playing an exceedingly fine game at that time, and it was only the fact
that I was probably playing as well as ever I did in my life that
enabled me to get the better of him. The day after winning the
Championship I gained the first prize in a tournament at the adjoining
course of St. Nicholas, and thereafter I frequently took part in
competitions, winning much more often than not.
But the most important event, and the biggest match I ever had with
anyone, was my engagement with Willie Park, who, not altogether
satisfied at having missed the Championship by a putt, challenged me to
play him home and home matches, thirty-six holes each time, for L100 a
side. There was some difficulty in arranging final details, but
eventually we agreed to play at North Berwick and Ganton, North Berwick
first. I have never seen such a golfing crowd as there was at North
Berwick the day we played there. All golfing Scotland seemed to be in
attendance, and goodness knows how many people would have been watching
the play if it had not happened that the lukewarm golfers went instead
to Edinburgh to see the Prince of Wales, who was visiting the capital
that day. As it was, there were fully seven thousand people on the
links, and yet this huge crowd--surely one of the very biggest that have
ever watched a golf match--was perfectly managed, and never in the least
interfered with a single stroke made by either Park or myself. The
arrangements, indeed, were admirable. In order to keep the crowd
informed of the state of the game at each hole, two flags were made, one
being white with a red "P" on it, and the other red with a "V" worked on
in white. When Park won a hole the flag with his initial was hoisted,
and the "V" was sent up when I won a hole, both flags being waved when
it was a half. At each teeing ground a rope three hundred yards long was
stretched, and fourteen constables and a like number of honorary
officials took control of it. In order to prevent any inconvenience at
the dyke on the course, a boarding, forty feet wide and fifty yards out
of the line from the tee to the hole, was erected, so that the crowd
could walk right over. Mr. C.C. Broadwood, the Ganton captain, acted as
my referee, and Lieutenant "Freddy" Tait served in the same capacity on
behalf of Park. One of the most laborious tasks was that undertaken by
the two Messrs. Hunter, who acted as forecaddies, and did their work
splendidly. In two practice rounds that I played before the great
encounter opened I did 76 each time, and I felt very fit when we teed up
on the eventful morning. And I played very steadily, too, though my
putting was sometimes a little erratic, and Park is one of the greatest
putters who have ever lived. The early part of the game was very
extraordinary in that the first ten holes were halved in 4, 5, 4, 4, 4,
4, 4, 5, 4, 4. Then Park drew first blood, but in the end I finished two
up on the day's play. When Park came to Ganton three weeks later, I beat
him on the two matches by 11 up with 10 to play. Naturally he was
disappointed, but he was very sportsmanlike. He was acknowledged to be
the greatest match-player of his time. I do not care for myself to lay
any more stress on the importance of this match, or of the value of my
own achievement; but those who have taken up golf quite lately can have
no conception of the stir that it caused. It was the event of my
lifetime.
The remembrance of this encounter brings forward the question of big
money matches generally, which several people have declared they would
like to see renewed. Fifty years ago they were common enough, and there
are great stories told of foursomes between Allan Robertson and Tom
Morris on the one side and the brothers Dunn on the other for a stake of
L400, and so on. The sightseers of golf ask why there are no such
matches now. I think it is because golf professionals have to work too
hard for the money they earn, and they do not care for the idea of
throwing it away again on a single match. They do not receive large
"benefits" or gate money, as do professionals in other branches of
sport. So they deem it best to be careful of their savings. Besides,
such matches tend to create bad feeling among the players, and we
professionals are such a happy family that we distrust any scheme with
such a tendency. Moreover, golf at the present time is a delightfully
pure game, so far as gambling is concerned--purer than most others--and
such matches would very likely encourage the gambling idea. That would
be a misfortune. I contend that after all, for the best and fairest and
most interesting trial of strength there is nothing like a good
tournament where each player has to test himself against all comers.
Every man plays to win, the golf is generally good, and what more is
wanted?
When I won the Championship again in the following year at Sandwich, my
success was chiefly due to my brassy play, which was better than it ever
was before or has been since. From my brassy strokes the ball was often
enough laid dead near the hole; certainly my second shots were always
the winning shots. The game seemed very easy to me then, and I gained
the Championship for the third time with less difficulty than on either
of the two previous occasions. In 1900 I made a long tour in America,
and won the American Championship. Concerning these events I desire to
write at some length in a later chapter. The greatest success which I
have ever achieved in face of difficulties was when I again became Open
Champion at Prestwick in 1903. For some time beforehand I had been
feeling exceedingly unwell, and, as it appeared shortly afterwards,
there was serious trouble brewing. During the play for the Championship
I was not at all myself, and while I was making the last round I was
repeatedly so faint that I thought it would be impossible for me to
finish. However, when I holed my last putt I knew that I had won. My
brother Tom was runner-up, six strokes behind, and, glad as I was of the
distinction of having equalled the record of the two Morrises in having
won the Championship four times, I could have wished, and did wish, that
Tom had been the victor. In all the circumstances I was very much
surprised that I did so well. The last day's work was an enormous
strain, yet on the following day I played in a tournament at Irvine, won
the first prize, and broke the record of the course. It is wonderful
what golf can be played when one's mind is given to the task, whatever
the adverse factors in the case may be.
However, these are the events of recent golfing history, and I have no
desire to inflict upon my readers a narrative of any more of them. As
nearly as I can reckon, I have up to date won the first prize in
forty-eight first-class tournaments, and by being four times British
Open Champion and once American have still that record to my credit. And
I hope to play many of my best games in the future, for it takes longer
to kill the golf in a man than it does to breed it.