The Long Golden Afternoon E-Book

Stephen Proctor

• Herausgeber: Arena Sport
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 662

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Shortlisted for the Sports Book Awards for Best Sports Writing of the Year and the USGA Herbert Warren Wind Book Award The Long Golden Afternoon tells the story of the transformative generation of golf that followed the rise of Young Tom Morris - an era of sweeping change that saw Scotland's national pastime become one of the rare games played around the world. It begins with the first epochal performance after Tommy - John Ball's victory at Prestwick in 1890 as the first Englishman and the first amateur to win the Open Championship - and continues through the outbreak of the Great War. If Tommy ignited the flame of golf in England, Ball's breakthrough turned that smoldering fire into a conflagration. The generation that followed would witness the game's coming of age. It would see an explosion in golf's popularity, the invention of revolutionary new balls and clubs, the emergence of professional tours, the organization of the game and its rules, a renaissance in writing and thinking about golf, and the decision that the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews must always remain the sport's guiding light. 'A beautifully crafted examination of a period in the history of golf that will never again be witnessed. It is not to be missed' - Jim Davis, The Golf

Leseprobe

THE LONG GOLDEN AFTERNOON

First published in 2022 by

ARENA SPORT

An imprint of Birlinn Limited

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh EH9 1QS

www.arenasportbooks.co.uk

Text copyright © Stephen Proctor, 2022

ISBN: 978 1 913759049

eISBN: 978 1 788855037

The right of Stephen Proctor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh

Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

CONTENTS

Chapter One: ‘Terrible Things’

Chapter Two: Golf Moves South

Chapter Three: A Hero for England

Chapter Four: Rose and Thistle

Chapter Five: Minds at Work

Chapter Six: Gentleman’s Decade

Chapter Seven: Home-grown Professionals

Chapter Eight: Golf Boom

Chapter Nine: ‘Cock of the North’

Chapter Ten: Final Innings

Chapter Eleven: ‘Ruthless Juggernaut’

Chapter Twelve: The True Game

Chapter Thirteen: Heartache and Triumph

Chapter Fourteen: Scotland Resurgent

Chapter Fifteen: Two Roads

Chapter Sixteen: American Invaders

Chapter Seventeen: Showdown at Troon

Chapter Eighteen: Humbled but Unbowed

Chapter Nineteen: Crowning Glories

Chapter Epilogue: After the War

Notes on Chapters

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Index

One

‘TERRIBLE THINGS’

Horace Hutchinson, the famed English amateur, had just slogged in from his final round in the 1890 Open Championship when he heard the news that was spreading like wildfire around the links of Prestwick. The talk was about John Ball Jr, a gentleman golfer from Royal Liverpool. At that moment, Ball was playing his homeward nine and, as Hutchinson recalled, doing ‘terrible things’.

Hutchinson, of course, meant ‘terrible’ in that peculiarly British sense of the word that defines an accomplishment so unexpected as to be unthinkable. Ball was playing with such machine-like precision that the unimaginable might well happen. Hutchinson and his friend, Dr William Laidlaw Purves, both influential leaders in the rapidly growing world of English golf, hurried off to catch up with Ball and follow the nation’s rising star home.

By 1890 competitive golf had been played for a century and a half, and in nearly all that time the gentlemen who ran the game lagged far behind professional players, often laughably so. The best of the amateurs had come closer in recent years, but those watching the Open still must have raised an eyebrow when Ball started the Championship with twin nines of 41. His tidy 82 left him a stroke off the pace set by St Andrews professional Andra Kirkaldy, the heavy favourite. Ball’s admirers would not have been surprised. He entered the Open in magnificent form. Three months earlier he had won the Amateur Championship for the second time in its five-year existence.

In the afternoon round, as Kirkaldy struggled, Ball marched steadily along, making the proper figure on every hole. By the time he reached the 16th, it had become clear to Hutchinson, Purves and everyone else at Prestwick on that afternoon of 11 September 1890 that only an unforeseen calamity could prevent the Englishman from doing ‘the most terrible thing that had ever yet been done in golf – he, as an amateur, was going to win the Open Championship.’

Exactly the sort of catastrophe that might yet derail Ball had befallen his playing partner, Willie Campbell, three years ago on this very hole. The ill-fated professional from Musselburgh had a two-stroke lead in the 1887 Open when he stepped up to the tee of the 16th. Playing boldly, Campbell tried to carry his shot over a fairway bunker. It fell short, ending up mired in gnarly grass that rimmed the hazard. He needed five shots to get out and tossed away his best chance to become Champion Golfer. Not long afterwards, Hutchinson had seen poor Campbell and his caddie sitting atop upturned buckets in the professional’s shop, weeping uncontrollably. Ever after that sinister pot bunker would be known as Willie Campbell’s grave.

No such disaster would befall John Ball. In the end, he would win the Open by three strokes with matching scores of 82, for a total of 164. As the inevitability of his victory dawned on the two pillars of English golf, Hutchinson remembered, Purves turned to speak to him. ‘“Horace,” he said to me in a voice of much solemnity. “This is a great day for golf.”’

Even those forward-thinking men had no idea just how great a day it was. Golf had been growing slowly but steadily in England since the institution of the Open Championship and the rise of the game’s first superstar, Young Tom Morris of St Andrews. Ball’s historic victory at Prestwick turned that smouldering fire into a conflagration.

The quarter century that followed would witness the game’s coming of age. It would see golf’s popularity explode – in England and Ireland, in the Americas and Europe, in Africa and India, and in Australia and New Zealand.

It would see the emergence of professional golf tours, and the anointing of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St Andrews as the game’s governing authority and guiding light.

It would see the beginning of a relentless quest to make golf easier that has shaped the game from that day to this, as well as the blossoming of a literature that remains the envy of other sports.

And it would see, against all odds, the first period in history in which the gentlemen golfers who had ruled the game since time immemorial could actually compete against the professionals whose prowess had always humbled them, even as they sneered at the men as ruffians.

These revolutionary changes unfolded against the backdrop of something else Hutchinson sensed on the 18th green at Prestwick as he, Purves and the crowd lustily cheered John Ball as the first amateur to be hailed Champion Golfer of the Year.

‘What interested me much at the moment,’ Hutchinson wrote, ‘was the attitude of the professionals towards the result. I had expected that they would feel rather injured by seeing the championship which they had regarded as their own going to an amateur. To my surprise that did not appear to disconcert them in the least. What they did resent, however, so far as resentment may be carried within the limits of perfectly good sportsmanship, was that it should be won by an Englishman.’

That autumn afternoon at Prestwick stoked a rivalry as passionate as any in sport. Scotland now had a genuine competitor at its national pastime. In the years leading up to the First World War, the battle between Scotland and England for supremacy on the links provided the dramatic backdrop for this transformative generation.

As one century ended and another began, Scottish stalwarts like John Laidlay, Freddie Tait, Willie Park Jr and James Braid fought bravely to turn back the rising English tide represented by John Ball, Harold Hilton, John Henry Taylor and Harry Vardon.

These golfers became childhood heroes of the writers who chronicled that glorious era, especially The Times correspondent Bernard Darwin. Their fierce skirmishes would produce an astonishing number of performances that will stand for the ages. By the time war was declared on 28 July 1914, the outlines of golf’s future were well established. The struggle for superiority between England and Scotland had also been settled – and the most important result was that the game itself had won.

The heart-stopping drama of the championships and celebrated matches of that era – coupled with dramatic advances in balls, clubs and science – positioned a game that for centuries had been played only by Scots to become a worldwide obsession. In the aftermath of the Great War, that truth would be almost immediately revealed.

Two

GOLF MOVES SOUTH

Golf arrived in England the same way it would nearly everywhere else – through connections with a Scotsman.

In 1853 a British Army engineer named William Driscoll Gosset was stationed in Ayr, on Scotland’s west coast, to work on drafting topographical maps of the nation. He arrived two years after the famous St Andrews golfer Tom Morris Sr had moved to neighbouring Prestwick to lay out a golf course and become keeper of the green. Captain Gosset came to know Morris, learning the game from him and drawing the first map of the dastardly links he had crafted along the shores of the Firth of Clyde.

Later that year the captain paid a visit to his cousin, Isaac Gosset, the Vicar of Northam, a small village in an area of southwest England known as North Devon. Isaac had also been bitten by the golf bug, having been introduced to the game while visiting his sister in St Andrews. She was married to General George Moncrieff, a prominent member of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. While the captain was visiting the vicar in Devon, the two of them took a stroll along Northam Burrows, a vast sprawl of links land on the picturesque shores of Bideford Bay. Captain Gosset couldn’t help but note what General Moncrieff would later observe on one of his visits to Northam: ‘Providence obviously designed this for a golf links.’

Clubs and balls were promptly ordered from Tom Morris and the Gossets began playing on the Burrows in the same way golfers in Scotland had done for centuries – by cutting holes in the ground with a knife every few hundred yards and hitting shots to them. Gosset’s neighbours gradually began to take an interest in this curious new Scottish game. By 1860 – the same year the Open Championship made its debut at Prestwick – Tom was asked to pay a visit to North Devon. He stayed a month, teaching the locals how to play golf and helping Reverend Gosset improve his rudimentary course.

Four years later, on 18 May 1864, came a momentous occasion for the game – the formation of the first golf club that could fairly be described as English: the North Devon and West of England Golf Club. It was not, of course, the nation’s oldest club. Golf had been played on English soil, although almost exclusively by Scotsmen, since King James I brought his royal court from Edinburgh to London in 1603. Golfers played at Blackheath, where the nation’s first golf club was established in 1766. Expatriate Scots also played at Kersal Moor in Manchester as early as 1818.

North Devon was something different. It came to be acknowledged as the ‘cradle of English golf’ for the simple reason that fully three quarters of its original 51 members were Englishmen new to the game. In time the club would come to be better known as Westward Ho! That nickname was adopted from the title of an adventure novel Charles Kingsley had written in a hamlet next door to the Burrows not long before the captain and the vicar discovered its possibilities for golf.

His club now established, Reverend Gosset knew what to do next – invite Tom Morris for another visit. Tom arrived that August as a celebrity, having twice won the new Open Championship at Prestwick. He spent eight days at Northam, during which he designed a formal 18-hole golf course on the Burrows, the first seaside links outside Scotland. Tom also played a daily foursome, introducing southerners to the most popular form of the game in those days. It consisted of a match between two-man teams, with players on both sides alternating shots until the ball was holed, a sublime and volatile format.

When Tom returned home, he would begin an important new chapter in his own life. That year, he was persuaded to return to his birthplace in St Andrews and tend its famed links. He would stay in that ancient seaside town all his days, gradually emerging as the Grand Old Man of Golf.

Gosset’s next step was to do what every club founder would do for decades to come, recruit a Scotsman to be North Devon’s golf professional. The club hired Johnny Allan, who had grown up in Prestwick as a childhood friend of Tom’s precocious son, Young Tommy. It is a testament to how quickly golf took root in England that only three years passed before Gosset’s venture received recognition deeply valued in a nobility-conscious nation. The Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, became the club’s patron and gave it a new name – The Royal North Devon Golf Club.

Among the club’s founding members was Colonel William Nelson Hutchinson. He had a precocious son of his own named Horatio Gordon, after the famous British admiral. A tall, striking figure who preferred to be known as Horace, Hutchinson quickly emerged as one of the best golfers at Westward Ho! In 1875, aged 16, he was admitted as a club member. That autumn, Hutchinson recalled, he ‘committed the blazing indiscretion’ of winning the club medal, which made him captain of Royal North Devon. That meant he, a mere teenager, had to take the chair at the club’s general meeting. ‘I do not know that I made a much bigger hash of it than any other boy forced into the same unnatural position would have done,’ he wrote.

Hutchinson wasn’t one to make a hash of many things, despite a lifelong struggle with frail health. He would go on to study Classics at Oxford, flirt with taking up sculpture, see his hair turn prematurely white, become a leading amateur golfer, and emerge as an important voice on golf. Hutchinson’s work inspired a generation of writers who grew up reading his books and magazine articles, chief among them future Times correspondent, Bernard Darwin.

On the links, Hutchinson was a flamboyant player, taking a long, loose swing with what he described as ‘bombastic freedom’ – a move that saw both his knees bending, his right elbow flying, and his body never quite catching up to his arms on the follow-through. With that swing and his fearless approach to the game, Hutchinson was inclined to find more than his share of trouble. Thankfully, as Darwin put it, ‘Nobody was ever better at improvising a stroke for some difficult or, as it looked to the too confident adversary, impossible occasion.’

Important a figure as he was, Hutchinson would not turn out to be the most famous golfer in his household. That distinction would fall to a lad then working as a boot boy for the Hutchinsons – a small, thin, tow-headed young man named John Henry Taylor. Before the Great War drew the curtain on that formative era of golf, Taylor would emerge as a player for all time and an enormously influential figure in shaping the game’s future.

Royal North Devon may have been the birthplace of English golf, but it was hardly the only place where the game was taking root south of the border. In 1865, a year after the founding of Westward Ho!, the London Scottish Volunteers formed a club on Wimbledon Common. It, too, attracted English neighbours eager to take up the game.

By 1873 the Englishmen had split off to form a club of their own, playing from the other end of the common. Eleven years later the Prince of Wales became patron of that club, too. It would be known ever after as the Royal Wimbledon Golf Club. Wimbledon had the disadvantage of not being a seaside course, but that was offset by proximity to London. It became an important power centre of the English game, home to such influential figures as Henry Lamb and Dr William Laidlaw Purves.

Turning point

The pivotal moment for English golf, however, came in 1869. That was the year a golf club was established in a small fishing village along the Dee Estuary known as Hoylake. The village is 12 miles west of Liverpool, a bustling trade centre and England’s gateway to the world.

Being next door to Liverpool meant Hoylake was home to ambitious businessmen inclined to be bold in any endeavour they undertook. Its location by the seaside also meant that a club led by such forward-thinking men was far better positioned to be a dynamic force in the growth of English golf than one situated inland, as Royal Wimbledon was, or in a remote place like Westward Ho!

The centrepiece of Hoylake was the Royal Hotel, a resort founded in 1792 by Sir John Stanley as a way of capitalising on a fashion then sweeping the nation, bathing in the sea. The Royal stood on the edge of a vast rabbit warren that was also home to a racecourse. Since the mid-19th century the Liverpool Hunt Club had conducted race meetings there. By 1869 the hotel’s lustre had faded, but its fortunes were soon to be revived because the rabbit warren also happened to be ideal for golf, a game whose popularity had been surging in Scotland and England for the past two decades.

Golf was spreading ‘like Noah’s flood’, as golfer Andra Kirkaldy put it, because a genius known as Young Tom Morris had come along to take advantage of new technology – the arrival of the first hard-rubber golf ball in 1848. The ball was made of gutta-percha, a sticky substance drawn from trees in Malaysia. The ‘gutty’ replaced a ball made of leather stuffed with feathers. Those balls were extremely fragile and vastly more expensive than gutties, meaning that for centuries only wealthy men could afford to play proper golf. The arrival of the cheap, durable gutty opened golf to the masses and drew thousands of new players to the game.

A dozen years later, all those new players got a national championship to root for when the Open debuted at Prestwick. With the stars aligned for a golf revolution, along came Young Tom Morris to ignite the spark. The year before Hoylake was founded, aged 17, Tommy began his inexorable march to claim the Open’s first trophy, The Challenge Belt, by winning three Championships in succession. Young Tom’s prowess and star power attracted lavish attention from the London press. Not surprisingly, gentlemen reading about Tommy’s exploits in English newspapers began to take an interest in this newfangled game emerging from Scotland.

Those newly curious Englishmen often had Scottish acquaintances more than happy to introduce them to the glories of golf, in the same way that Old Tom Morris helped his friend, Captain Gosset, bring the game to North Devon. That was especially true at Hoylake, which was teeming with Scottish merchants – men like John Muir Dowie of West Kirby. He was married to the daughter of Robert Chambers Jr, an Edinburgh publisher and skilled golfer. Chambers was famous for having won the second of the three Grand National Tournaments for amateur golfers conducted in St Andrews beginning in 1857. On Thursday 13 May 1869, at the urging of his father-in-law, Dowie sent a letter to 20 prominent Hoylake residents. It began: ‘It has been suggested that Hoylake offers a suitable and convenient ground for playing Golf, and some friends have asked me to endeavour to organise a Golf Club.

‘Your name has been mentioned as a probable member, and I take this liberty of asking you to join.’

Twenty-one men attended a meeting held two days later at the Royal Hotel. Together they resolved to form Liverpool Golf Club, with Dowie as its first captain and a room in the hotel serving as its clubhouse. Later that night, in the sky above Hoylake, villagers witnessed a sparkling celestial display we now know to be the Northern Lights. Back then people thought the sky had been set alight by the tail of a comet streaking overhead. They considered that a portent of good things to come. For golf, at least, it certainly was.

Chambers was in town for the occasion and had brought along his personal golf professional, Old Tom Morris’s brother, George. The two of them laid out a crude nine-hole course in front of the Royal, and newly christened members celebrated the club’s birth by playing a few matches even as horses raced around the oval next to their links. By 1876 the racecourse would be gone and the rabbit warren left to the golfers.

In August 1869, Hoylake’s connections to the founding family of golf would deepen when George Morris returned with his son, Jack, to explore the possibility of his becoming Liverpool’s golf professional. Hoylake still seemed a bit sleepy to George. He worried that his son might not thrive there and suggested they return home to St Andrews. Jack ignored his father’s advice and decided to give it a go. He set up shop in a stable behind the hotel and stayed until his death 60 years later, becoming as much a fixture at Hoylake as the mighty winds that sweep over the links from the Dee Estuary.

From the start, the men of Liverpool Golf Club – which would receive its royal patronage from Queen Victoria in 1871 – proved themselves to be a forward-thinking lot determined to make a mark in the game. In the decades that followed, Royal Liverpool would become the English equivalent of St Andrews as an epicentre of the game. Unlike the Royal and Ancient, however, Hoylake would prove to be a dynamic agent of change, the club responsible for nearly every significant innovation in championship golf.

‘The Englishman who golfs today,’ Hutchinson wrote years later, ‘may do well to think that, had it not been for the zeal and energy of the early members of the Royal Liverpool Golf Club, we, in the South, might never have come into our golfing heritage.’

The first sign of that zeal wasn’t long in coming. In the spring of 1872, Royal Liverpool staged the Grand Tournament for Professionals, the first major golf competition held on English soil. Club members subscribed more than £100, an enormous sum, to finance lavish prizes. These included a payout of £15 to the winner, the largest prize ever offered. By comparison, the Open paid the winner £8 that year.

Just as remarkable, however, was that Royal Liverpool agreed to cover the railway expenses of every golfer who competed in the tournament and to provide them with dinner in the evening. That was an enormous gesture of respect, perhaps even a turning point for professional golfers, at a time when they were viewed by gentlemen like Hutchinson as ‘feckless, reckless creatures’. The idea, of course, was to make certain Hoylake attracted the biggest stars in the golfing firmament – Young Tom and his St Andrews sidekick, Davie Strath.

The timing could not have been more perfect. Eighteen months earlier, Tommy had set the golf world aflame by winning his third consecutive Open at the age of 19. That victory ended a decade-long quest to claim The Challenge Belt by making it Tommy’s personal property. It also left the Open in limbo for a year, as its founding club, Prestwick, reached out to St Andrews and Musselburgh to subscribe for a new trophy and create a bigger, brighter future for the game’s premier championship.

That made the Grand Tournament a marquee event, and it came off precisely as planned. Tommy, Davie and every other leading golfer turned up to compete at Royal Liverpool on Tuesday 25 April 1872. The only glitch was that it rained so torrentially that play occasionally had to be suspended. The nasty weather didn’t stop a hardy crowd from following the action, among them a ten-year-old from Hoylake who was soon to make his own mark in golf – young Johnny Ball. True to form, Tommy and Davie staged a fierce battle for the largest purse ever offered in golf, with Davie taking the lead in round one and Tommy rallying on the second 18 to win by a single shot.

Bold stroke

If the Grand Tournament put English golf on the map, it was two amateur events launched over the next dozen years that secured the future of the game south of the River Tweed.

The first was the annual University Match between Oxford and Cambridge. That competition debuted on 6 March 1878 at the London Scottish Volunteers’ course on Wimbledon Common. Both teams fielded four players, who faced off man to man. Oxford’s team, led by the ever-present Hutchinson, won every match, a lopsided victory to begin a contest in which honours have been fairly even over the decades.

The University Match immediately became the only first-class amateur event in an age when the golf calendar contained just a single certain fixture, the Open. More important, however, was that it signalled the acceptance of the game by Oxford and Cambridge. Generations of students destined to become Britain’s leaders and brightest minds would grow up steeped in golf. That was no small thing in the 1870s – a time when, ‘you could not travel about with golf clubs . . . without exciting the wonder and, almost, the suspicions of all those who saw such strange things,’ Hutchinson wrote.

Significant as the University Match was, however, the most transformative development in English golf unfolded half a dozen years later at Royal Liverpool. On 13 December 1884, during a meeting of the club’s committee, Honourable Secretary Thomas Owen Potter proposed that Hoylake host a tournament open to all amateur golfers during its spring meeting the following year. His idea received near unanimous approval at an extraordinary general meeting of the club on 28 January 1885.

The notion of a national amateur championship was not a new one. At the instigation of Prestwick’s James Ogilvie Fairlie, patron of Old Tom Morris, St Andrews had hosted three such championships beginning in 1857. That was the event in which Robert Chambers made his name a decade before he helped found Hoylake. The competition lapsed after its third year because it interfered with the Royal and Ancient’s Autumn Meeting. In the years since, the idea had resurfaced. In 1884, an R&A member urged the club to host a championship open to all amateur golfers, but his suggestion was not taken up. Still, there continued to be agitation in the press, much of it coming from newly minted English players, for an amateur championship to rival the Open.

Those dreams were realised the following spring. Beginning on 20 April 1885, 44 players from 11 clubs in Scotland and England competed in the first Amateur Championship. The format was different from the one used in the Open, where the trophy went to the golfer with the lowest score over 36 holes. The Amateur featured a series of one-on-one battles in which the player who won the most holes prevailed. The last man standing won the title. With its thrust-and-parry drama, match play was everybody’s favourite form of golf in that era. Scots considered it the only true test of a champion.

The competition could not begin, however, until the committee in charge of the event, Hutchinson among them, dealt with a ticklish situation – defining what constituted an amateur golfer. The issue arose because an entry was received from a Scotsman named Douglas Rolland. He had finished second in the 1884 Open, earning a modest prize. It would have been easy to bar Rolland as a professional, but for an awkward truth. Hoylake’s favourite son, young Johnny Ball, had also pocketed a £1 prize when he competed in the 1878 Open, finishing fourth as a boy of 16.

In the end, the committee did what committees often do. It split hairs, deciding that any player who hadn’t accepted a prize in five years remained an amateur. Hutchinson considered that grossly unfair. Ball’s case and Rolland’s were ‘fundamentally on all fours’, he wrote. Hutchinson resigned in protest before the vote was taken. The committee also barred any player who made clubs or balls for a living, worked as a caddie or gave lessons for money – the rough outlines of what would become the rules for amateur status.

Once that messy business was concluded, players set out for three days of match play in an event that quickly emerged as one of the major championships that golfers and fans looked forward to each season, a worthy companion to the Open. Every leading club in the kingdom was represented – from the Royal and Ancient and the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers to Royal Blackheath, Royal North Devon, Royal Wimbledon and more. The gentlemen who had presided over golf since its earliest days now had a championship of their own, guaranteeing that English interest in the Scottish game would only redouble.

The first Amateur Championship did not come off perfectly – mostly because the committee running the competition decided that both players would advance to the next round if a match was halved, rather than having them play off until a winner was determined. The unfortunate result was that three players, not four, made it into the semi-finals. One of them, Allan Macfie, received a bye into the final, an absurd situation. Not surprisingly, that led to play-offs being adopted in future Amateurs.

The most compelling match of that inaugural Championship turned out to be the hotly contested 18-hole semi-final between Hutchinson and Ball, the up-and-coming 23-year-old from Hoylake. Hundreds of the faithful turned out to root for their young champion as he and Hutchinson waged a desperate battle on a lovely afternoon marred only by a boisterous south-west wind. The partisan crowd’s hopes were raised as Ball played the outward nine flawlessly, displaying the exquisite long game that would be his hallmark.

By the time the players turned for home, Ball was leading by a hole. The tension reached boiling point when he pocketed the tenth to go 2 up. Hutchinson, however, was not one to wilt in a crisis. He won the next four holes, taking his own 2-up lead with four left to play. The young son of Hoylake fought valiantly through the finishing stretch at Liverpool, one of the toughest in golf. Ball won the 17th to give his fans a glimmer of hope as the tandem approached the final hole, with Hutchinson leading 1 up.

Alas, the home crowd’s hopes were dashed when Hutchinson laid his approach to the 18th stone dead, winning the hole and the match 2 up. That battle with Ball clearly exhausted Hutchinson. He was a shadow of himself in the final, going down meekly to Macfie, who ‘rested in peace while Horace and John went out to cut each other’s throats’, as Bernard Darwin put it.

A Scotsman born in Liverpool to a family of sugar merchants, Macfie belonged to both Hoylake and the Royal and Ancient, but always entered tournaments as a representative of St Andrews. He closed Hutchinson out on the 12th green, going seven holes up with just six left to play. Macfie became the first player – and the first Scotsman – to be crowned Champion Amateur of the Year.

What Hoylake did next would turn out to be pivotal to golf’s future. The club decided that no new championship would be recognised as such unless it were conducted under the auspices of the institution revered wherever the game was played, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. It was the earliest indication that England would make a choice one might consider unthinkable for a nation which had so often fought with its northern neighbour – that in golf, at least, it preferred to be ruled by Scotland.

In January of 1886 Hoylake sent the R&A a letter asking the club to take charge of the event going forward and invite other leading clubs to subscribe for a trophy. Never inclined to seek out leadership, the Royal and Ancient was reluctant at first, but by May it had agreed to organise a meeting of leading clubs to discuss the Amateur’s future.

The meeting took place three months later in Edinburgh, where it was decided that the Championship would be administered by the R&A and played alternately at St Andrews, Hoylake and Prestwick. Twenty-three clubs contributed a total of £159 to buy one of the most handsome trophies in sport, an enormous silver cup topped by a likeness of Old Tom Morris.

That decision would, at least temporarily, erase Macfie from the record books. Thereafter the 1886 tournament would be viewed as the first official Amateur Championship. It would not be until nearly four decades later, in 1922, that the R&A recognised Macfie as the first champion, adding one more victory to Scotland’s tally in that contest.

With the Amateur firmly established, and one of England’s three Royal clubs at the centre of it all, golf was poised to grow in earnest south of the border. What English golf needed was a home-grown champion like Scotland’s Young Tommy – a player capable of whipping the Scots at their own game. Nothing could do more to spark English interest in the Scottish game than taking the fight to their age-old enemy.

Three

A HERO FOR ENGLAND

The boy who would grow up to be the first idol of English golf made his debut a few months after having watched in awe as Scotland’s King of Clubs – Young Tom Morris – took down a stellar field in the Grand Tournament for Professionals at Royal Liverpool.

In the summer of 1872, still six months shy of his 11th birthday, Johnny Ball won the first Hoylake Boys’ Medal, a competition for sons of members aged 15 or younger that is still contested today. The club’s records include no score for Ball that year, although he won the medal a second time in 1875 with a score of 98.

It was the year after that second Boys’ Medal that Ball began to play the kind of game that made Hoylake members realise they might be witnessing the emergence of the first truly consequential English golfer. That September a match was arranged between young Ball and the latest winner of Royal Liverpool’s Gold Medal, a scratch player named John Dunn.

Given that Ball was 14 years old, it was decided that he should be given six strokes over the 18 holes. Ball humbled Dunn, closing the match out on the 12th green, taking a seven-hole lead with just six holes left to play. Dunn and Ball played three more matches after that with no strokes given. The precocious youngster won two of those and halved the third.

Not long afterwards, Ball was chosen to be a partner in a foursome match that may be among the saddest ever recorded. In early 1875, a challenge had been issued for Ball to team up with Young Tommy and take on Davie Strath and any amateur of his choosing. Davie picked Arthur Molesworth, a prominent gentleman golfer from Westward Ho!

How Ball must have looked forward to that match, a chance to play alongside his hero. It never came off because of Young Tommy’s tragic death on Christmas Day in St Andrews. The following year, perhaps to honour his friend’s memory, Strath took Tommy’s place as Ball’s partner in a match against Old Tom Morris and Molesworth. They played four rounds over the Liverpool links. Strath and Ball romped it by seven holes up with five left to play, having led in every round.

Those matches marked the beginning of a love affair between Hoylake and John Ball that would be as passionate as any golf would ever see. Over the next three decades, Ball would amass a record rivalled by few amateurs in history. The people of Hoylake, from the wealthiest merchant to the lowliest fisherman, responded with an outpouring of affection the reserved Ball often found too much to bear. Years later one of those who fell most deeply in love with England’s rising star, Times golf correspondent Bernard Darwin, would reflect on the devotion of the Liverpool faithful.

‘I am profoundly sorry for those who never watched Mr Ball playing a big match before a big crowd at Hoylake,’ he wrote. ‘The hero, himself, always with a buttonhole presented by some admirer, the bodyguard of rosetted stewards, the fishermen in their blue jerseys carrying the rope with the air of men performing a sacred rite, the tramp of the crowd behind the rope, the very errand boys on the road neglecting their work to hear how “John” was getting on – I have seen many scenes of enthusiasm in my wanderings over many links, but never one like that. It possessed some quality of its own – touching, exciting, bringing a lump to the throat – which no words can depict, and we shall never see its like again.’

It is, perhaps, not surprising that Ball fell in love with the Scottish game. He grew up literally on the Hoylake links, as his father was proprietor of the Royal Hotel, situated just off the links and headquarters of the golf club. When the day’s chores were done, young Johnny could do what he loved best, slip out to a quiet corner of the golf course and practise this new game that had captured his imagination.

Ball’s father turned out to be something of a natural athlete himself. Having taken up golf when Hoylake was founded in 1869, he reduced his handicap from 36 to scratch in a year and became a player to be feared. When he and his son were in top form, Ball’s father was fond of issuing challenges in Hoylake’s clubhouse that they would take on any two players in a foursome. Few were inclined to try.

A Christmas Eve baby – born in 1861 to the former Margaret Parry – Ball shared a name with his father and grandfather. Over the years, that created a bit of confusion as to how the young golfer ought to be known. As a boy, he was John Ball Tertius, a Latin word meaning the third. When his grandfather passed in 1887, he became John Ball Jr, the name he would be known by during his glory years on the links. Eighteen years later, when his father died, he would become, simply, John Ball.

Young Johnny grew up differently than most men who dominated amateur golf in his day. They attended fashionable public schools and went on to university. Ball took a simpler path. He learned the basics at the local primary school until he reached an age when he was old enough to work, typically twelve at the time. Work meant helping out at the hotel or on his grandfather’s 55-acre farm nearby. The solitary life of working the land proved more appealing to Ball than the public business of running a hotel. When his grandfather became too old for such backbreaking work, young John would become the farmer in the family.

That life of rigorous labour showed in Ball’s frame. He stood 5 feet 9 inches tall and weighed 154 pounds, all sinew and muscle. He could be recognised anywhere for his thick moustache and the way in which he always seemed to lean forward as he walked, a curious-looking gait that provided fodder for cartoonists. At golf, Ball wore the player’s standard uniform, a tweed or Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers. On the right occasion, he was not afraid to adopt a bold look, sometimes wearing loud patterns of checks or pinstripes. He also displayed a fondness for red-topped stockings and, on occasion, white shoes.

Ball’s most distinguishing characteristics, however, were shyness and modesty, traits that no doubt endeared him to his fellow Englishmen. He was a man of few words, although when he did speak it was usually something witty and memorable. One famous story about him concerns a medal competition at Hoylake played in the kind of merciless wind that so often blows off the Dee Estuary. Ball’s score was so low it left mouths agape. With the subtlety of a knowing wink, he explained that he happened to be hitting the ball just the right height for that day.

Ball never could become comfortable with the attention lavished on him. At the peak of his powers, Royal Liverpool had his portrait painted and hung on a stairway in the clubhouse. Ball responded by doing everything he could to avoid walking up the stairs. The face that stares out from that portrait has none of the dash and fire in the eyes that characterises the iconic picture of Ball’s boyhood hero, Young Tom Morris. It is, rather, the face of a brooding man with a faraway look – the image of the kind of player Ball was, ‘a dour and bonny fighter’, as Darwin described him.

Despite the nationwide fame that came with his exploits, Ball would be the least-known, most enigmatic player of his time. He was one of the few among his peers who never wrote about his own life, and he loathed speeches and interviews, once telling an inquisitive reporter that he couldn’t think of anything to say that readers might find interesting.

A self-taught player – he never took a lesson even from Hoylake’s resident professional Jack Morris – Ball had an odd-looking grip and an unusual stance but a gorgeous swing. He held the club with his right hand so far under the shaft that his knuckles pointed towards the target. He stood with his feet wide apart, his legs stiff, and the ball back almost as far as his right toe. Bobby Jones never could understand how Ball could make such a lovely move through the ball holding the club that way. But what a lovely move it was.

‘I have never seen a player whose hitting was such a pleasure to watch.’ wrote Horace Hutchinson, ‘such a beautiful exhibition of grace and power, showing such ability to concentrate in a moment, and on a spot, all the muscular power that the human frame was master of. It was a beautiful sight.’

On the links, Ball’s strengths were his driving and laser-like approach shots with a brassie or a cleek, the equivalents of a modern fairway wood and 2-iron. His shots started low then rose gradually and stopped nearly dead when they landed, building on the standard Young Tom had set for banging the ball right up to the flagstick.

‘It was his business,’ Darwin wrote, ‘to go faultlessly down the middle and let the other man make the mistakes, and the more intense the crisis the more closely he stuck to his business.’ Ball might have been invincible but for a weakness he shared with Old Tom Morris. ‘He was,’ Darwin wrote, ‘not entirely trustworthy over the short putts.’

New challenges

Not long after Ball had trounced Hoylake’s Gold Medal winner one on one and played so admirably alongside Davie Strath, it was decided that the time had come for the young man to try his hand at competition outside Hoylake.

In September 1878, escorted by Jack Morris and his assistant George Lowe, Ball took the journey north to Prestwick to compete in his first Open. What a grand adventure that must have been for a 16-year-old boy, travelling to the links where the Championship had been born and the heroes of this new era had been crowned. It was an exhausting trip, requiring more than ten hours of travel by horse-drawn tram, ferry and train.

Ball played better than one might have expected, finishing the first round three shots off the lead held by St Andrews legend Jamie Anderson, who would win the second of his three consecutive Opens that year. Ball’s performance would not have been entirely unexpected. Given that Old Tom’s nephew was the professional at Hoylake, the Prestwick crowd would no doubt have heard about the promising young Englishman coming to test his mettle against Scottish players on a Scottish green.

Ball fell out of contention afterwards, finishing with a respectable score of 165 that left him tied for fourth. He was eight strokes behind the winner, Anderson, but 14 in front of Hoylake professional Jack Morris and 16 ahead of George Lowe. The lad won the princely sum of £1. Morris suggested he slip it into his pocket, the advice that created an awkward situation later during the birth of the Amateur Championship.

Ball may not have been old enough yet to become a member at Royal Liverpool, but he was already one of the best players at that club or any other. In August of 1881, three months before he became a member, Ball played for the Hoylake team that travelled to North Berwick to take on Tantallon Golf Club in one of the home-and-home matches (inter-club fixtures) that were a staple in those days. Ball played against A. Mackenzie Ross, a first-class Scottish amateur. When Ball calmly took Ross’s scalp, newspaper writers were deeply impressed.

‘Better and more dashing (as well as careful) play than this exhibited by the Hoylake representative in the latter portion of the final round we never saw, and it was no disgrace to succumb to it,’ The Sporting and Dramatic News reported. ‘Nothing was missed, he could not do wrong and the most difficult shots were done with apparent unconscious ease.’

As soon as he became a Hoylake member, Ball pocketed the club’s two most cherished trophies, the Dowie Cup and Kennard Gold Medal, then kept right on winning one title after another. He took four of the six club medals the following season and ended that year with an astonishingly low handicap of plus 6 at Royal Liverpool.

Hoylake’s love affair with Ball was in full flower, further stoked by the game’s Grand Old Man, Tom Morris, telling anyone who would listen that, ‘Mr Ball is the best amateur player in the world.’ Ball’s backers at Royal Liverpool were hot to prove it. In the summer of 1883 – the year Robert Louis Stevenson published every British schoolboy’s favourite, Treasure Island – they issued a challenge in The Field offering to back their man against any Scottish amateur.

The challenge was taken up by one of Old Tom’s favourites, Douglas Rolland of Earlsferry. He was still considered an amateur in those days, two years before Hoylake’s decision to bar him from the first Amateur Championship as a professional. Dougie, as his friends called him, was a dashing figure who stood 6 feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. Working as a stonemason, he had developed a thick chest and massive forearms. Not surprisingly, he was among the longest drivers of his day, fond of exclaiming as he bashed one off the tee, ‘Awa’ she sails with a dashing spray!’

The match was set for early December. It would feature 36 holes each at Rolland’s home course in neighbouring Elie and Ball’s at Hoylake. There were no stakes involved, except that the loser had to pay travel expenses for the players. That didn’t stop golf fans across England and Scotland from placing a bob or two on their man. Among those who staked a shilling on the outcome was a young Liverpool golfer then away at boarding school. His name was Harold Hilton, and like every boy growing up in Hoylake he worshipped Ball and believed he knew no equal.

‘I was at school in Norfolk,’ Hilton recalled, ‘and it so happened that there was another boy at the school who knew something about the game of golf. He was a native of Musselburgh, and occasionally we had little arguments about the game. He used to quote Bob Ferguson and other Scottish celebrities, and was quite impartial, but he could always find about six Scotsmen who could beat any Englishman. I had only one reply as to the prowess of his many celebrities, and that was that Johnnie Ball was quite good enough for me.’

One afternoon between classes the two of them noticed in The Field that the challenge issued by Ball’s backers at Hoylake had been taken up by Rolland, a golfer who was then a mystery to Master Hilton. ‘I had never even heard of his name before, and possibly spoke a little contemptuously of his chance, and scorned the idea of anyone beating Johnnie,’ he wrote. ‘Whatever it was I said, it evidently aroused the ire of the Scotch boy, as he promptly remarked – “I will bet you a shilling that Rolland wins.” I didn’t hesitate a moment in accepting the offer, only thinking at the time that I hoped he had an honest and good memory.’

Unfortunately for Hilton, Ball was not yet ready to live up to his billing. In the first 36 holes at Elie, he succumbed to his Achilles heel, timid putting. Rolland bombed away, establishing a nine-hole lead as a huge crowd followed the young stars around the course. Back at Hoylake, the faithful expected the real John Ball to show up and stage one of the furious rallies that would become his trademark. Young Ball apparently was too discouraged by events at Elie to deliver his best. He slogged in with rounds of 90 and 91 as Rolland ran away with the match.

A well-known yet beloved roustabout, Rolland decided to stay at Hoylake another day to avoid a court date back home involving what Ball’s biographer referred to discreetly as ‘an affair of gallantry’. It was, in fact, a paternity suit. The extra day left time for a rematch. Ball showed his typical mettle to start, taking a 4-up lead with five holes to play. Redemption seemed at hand. Down the stretch, however, Ball let the holes slip away, and Rolland prevailed again. Poor Master Hilton had to part with his shilling.

‘I couldn’t make it out at all,’ Hilton wrote. ‘I was simply dumbfounded at the result. I tried hard to forget the incident, but that boy Gibson would not let me. Eventually I had to recourse to the extreme measure of wilfully avoiding him – I was getting really tired of the subject.’

The true believers of Hoylake could not have known it then, but the next five seasons would be Ball’s equivalent of Bobby Jones’s famous ‘lean years’ – the desultory stretch between the Dixie Whiz Kid’s first appearance as a prodigy in the US Amateur of 1916 and his first victory in a national open at Inwood Country Club in 1923.

Ball’s drought would continue from the debacle against Rolland into that first Amateur Championship in 1885. Despite high hopes that he would prevail on his native green, Ball could not hold back Hutchinson. The remainder of that year would see one disappointment heaped upon another. That September Carnoustie hosted an event to rival Hoylake’s Grand Tournament of 1872, a multi-day affair that featured a matchplay event for amateurs and a tournament for professionals. It provided a perfect opportunity to travel north for that competition and stay for the Open the following week at St Andrews.

Ball entered the amateur event at Carnoustie, but was humiliatingly put out in the third round by a fellow Hoylake member to whom he would have conceded five strokes at home. The Open at St Andrews came to an even drearier end. Ball continued to be far off form, so much so that he never turned in his card – the same fate Jones would meet 36 years later in his first Open over the Old Course in 1921.

The story would not be much different in the 1886 Amateur – the first held under the auspices of the R&A at St Andrews. Ball had no trouble dispatching the middling players he faced in the first three rounds. In the fourth, with a berth in the semi-finals on the line, he came up against a competitor he would face many times in years to come – a Scottish amateur named John Laidlay. Both Johnnies played undistinguished golf, with Ball prevailing 3 and 2 as The Field noted with dismay that, ‘the scoring was rather high’.

Ball’s supporters had every right to expect he would make short work of the man he would face next, Henry Lamb of Royal Wimbledon. Unfortunately, ‘Ball’s play was wretched,’ The Field wrote. ‘His troubles seemed to be as many as Job’s.’ Ball made a horrifying 54 on his outward nine and went down meekly as Lamb closed him out by going 7 up with six to play. The following afternoon, Hutchinson demonstrated how easily Ball ought to have moved on to his first Amateur final. He trounced Lamb by the same 7 and 6 to claim his first Championship.

When the 1887 season opened, Ball put his admirers at ease by going right back to being all but invincible over his home links. That year he won all six of the scratch medals at Hoylake, an extraordinary feat, with an average score of 80, superb in those days over that treacherously narrow, rugged and difficult course. In the six years since he had been made a club member, Ball had won 28 of the 39 medals competed for at the club. Hopes naturally were running high when the Amateur returned to Royal Liverpool that August.

The opening rounds went according to Hoyle. Ball cruised through his early matches and, much to the joy of his followers, easily won his semi-final. Now, at long last, he would have a chance to realise the dreams that had been harboured for him by winning the Amateur before an adoring crowd at Hoylake.

In the other half of the bracket, meanwhile, an unexpected development was unfolding. Ball’s father had made it to the semi-final. Along the way, he dispatched a rising Hoylake star making his Amateur debut, 16-yearold Harold Hilton. In the semi-final, to everyone’s surprise, the elder Ball was leading Hutchinson by a hole as they approached the 17th. That’s when Ball made a fatal mistake. Standing on the fairway, having just taken his second shot to that long hole, he said to Hutchinson, ‘It would be a funny thing if father and son had to play it off together.’

Hutchinson, as Darwin noted, ‘had a quick temper, and played all the better for it, sometimes in a cold anger that was rather alarming’. He turned to Ball and snapped, ‘Wait a bit, Mr Ball, you haven’t finished with me yet.’ It clearly unnerved Ball, who slapped his next shot into a bunker short of the green to hand Hutchinson the hole. On the 18th, Ball watched in dismay as Hutchinson dropped his putt for a three to claim the match and take his spot in the final against the hotel proprietor’s son.

The match between Hutchinson and Ball, a replay of their semi-final battle in 1885, proved to be an equally tense and dramatic affair. Both reached the turn in 42, and the match remained halved as they played the 14th. There young Ball displayed some of the magic that had earned him such a devoted following. On the green, Hutchinson laid Ball what was known as a stymie. That meant his putt stopped directly between his opponent’s ball and the hole. Players were not allowed to touch the ball then, even on the green. Ball had to go around or over the obstacle in his path. When he calmly curved his putt past the blockade and saw the ball drop into the cup, the crowd erupted in cheers. Ball now had his first lead in the match with just four holes to play.

Those four holes, however, present a brutal test of golf, and in the heat of that moment neither player mastered them. They halved the 15th, but on the 16th Ball hit one on the heel of his club and it sailed out of bounds. Under penalty of a stroke, he calmly dropped another ball and played it with his favourite brassie. Tragically, the shaft broke during his swing. There went the club, the hole, and the lead. On 18, Ball found himself badly bunkered and, for the second time, lost to Hutchinson on the final hole.

What was it, exactly, that stood between the young Hoylake star and the realisation of his obvious talent? It may simply have been that Ball was still young, just 25 years old when he faltered on that final hole. Hutchinson had a different idea of what was holding the Hoylake star back. Ball, he concluded, had not yet convinced himself he was a great golfer. ‘Possibly it was Mr Ball’s modesty that prevented him from doing better,’ Hutchinson wrote. ‘It was a long while before he had a belief and a confidence in himself.’

Breaking through

Britain was enjoying those harbingers of spring, blooming snowdrops and a chorus of larks, when Ball signalled during an early April visit to Lytham and St Annes that the 1888 season might finally see him realise his vast potential.

The course required precise shot-making or all manner of trouble might ensue. Ball calmly marched around in a record score of 73, extraordinarily low in those days. That may have been the round he needed to convince himself he had what it took to win a championship. A month later Ball would have a chance to prove it at Prestwick. He had fond memories of success there as a boy, although with all the misfortunes he had suffered since that must have seemed ages ago. Ball was among 38 hopefuls who gathered during the second week of May to contest the fourth Amateur Championship over a course where desperate trouble was never more than a shot away.

With the links in mint condition and ‘the meteorological deities smiling auspiciously’, as The Golfing Annual reported, ‘everything bade to go as merrily as the oft-quoted bridal bell.’ Gorgeous as the days were, with the majestic Isle of Arran shimmering in the sun off the coast of the Firth of Clyde, the only complaint that could be mustered was that a brisk wind blew continuously across the links from the sea.

As he had done in his previous Championships, Ball breezed through his opening rounds with little trouble but for a brief scare in the fourth round when he needed all 18 holes to dispatch his rival. Shockingly, Hutchinson fell by the wayside in round three, a development Ball must have noted with relief. It was another familiar opponent who earned the right to face the rising English star in the final – Scotsman John Laidlay.

Laidlay was one of the most successful golfers of his day. A year older than Ball, Laidlay was born on 5 November 1860 to a well-to-do family in Seacliff, two miles east of North Berwick. His father, John Watson Laidlay, was a fellow of the Royal Society of Edinburgh, Scotland’s national academy of science and letters. The elder Laidlay was a master of languages, specialising in those of India and the Middle East. His skills earned him opportunities overseas with the East India Company, where he made his fortune overseeing indigo factories and married an Edinburgh woman named Ellen Johnston Hope. By 1854, the couple were back in Britain and living in Seacliff.

Young John Ernest Laidlay attended Loretto School near Musselburgh, where he excelled at cricket and golf and became an acolyte of the Honest Toun’s golfing hero Bob Ferguson. Laidlay did not go on to university, and with his family well situated was able to lead the life of a sporting gentleman. In his final years at Loretto, he earned a reputation as one of cricket’s best slow bowlers, and in 1878 played for Scotland’s national team. Beyond sports, Laidlay’s principal passion was photography, a new art then. Years later he would produce photographs for the first instructional book ever written by a professional player, Willie Park Jr’s The Game of Golf.

A trim man who sported a bushy moustache under his prominent, aquiline nose, Laidlay liked to spice up the classic, knickerbockered look with a flashy checked cap. His eyes were close together, which tended to give him a rather quizzical look. His approach to golf was quizzical, too.

‘Mr Laidlay’s style is indeed the despair of the golfing instructor,’ Hutchinson wrote. ‘Its special peculiarity is that the swing is entirely “off the left leg”. The ball, when Mr Laidlay addresses it – whether with driver, approaching club or putter, and perhaps in this uniformity there is to be found some explanation of its success – is placed far to his left, very nearly, if not quite, opposite his left foot.’