THERE was a time, long before this bewildering age of Playstations and dot coms, when children used to go to cinemas on Saturday mornings to seek their entertainment at the Mickey Mouse Club or some other source of riotous fun.
Among the delights on offer was usually at least one serial, some rollercoaster adventure in which each week's instalment ended with the hero or heroine in dire straits and with no apparent means of escape. All was resolved in the next episode when,
after a brief run-down of what had gone before, whoever had been in trouble last week, managed, with one mighty bound, to break free.
Pretty tame stuff, I suppose, compared to the real-life dramas now available on the telly, ripping yarns such as the one produced in the recent French Open where the 25-year-old Spaniard, Pablo Larrazabal, fled from the fish farm to instant wealth and acclaim and left the big names of the European Tour wondering what had hit them. Colin Montgomerie was so winded he couldn't remember the lad's name, which was astonishing considering it had been at the top of the scoreboard for four days.
Larrazabal, it seems, had been consigned to the fish farm by his father who was determined that he should grow up to appreciate the value of working for a living. This down-to-earth, if slightly watery, upbringing should do young Pablo the world of good as he settles down to appreciate the £527,800 he picked up for playing four rounds of golf in an idyllic setting with not a farmed fish in sight.
The scene really has changed beyond all recognition in a relatively short space of time. The year 1960 doesn't seem all that distant to me though I realise that for many a stripling it must seem Jurassic. It was, however the year of the Centenary Open Championship at St Andrews and the first prize was £1,250. The total purse available for the first ten places was £4,780. Kel Nagle of Australia scooped the pool and the man who was second (winning £900) was Arnold Palmer, whose emergence was to change the fortunes of both the championship and the game worldwide. Young Pablo might consider sending the great man a note of thanks.
It might seem odd in an age in which superstars such as Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson began their professional careers on multi-million dollar contracts before they'd hit a ball as members of the paid ranks, but there were times when things weren't quite so comfortable. I remember a match between Palmer and Gary Player at St Andrews which was being televised for future viewing. It was a cold, grey day and play was, of necessity, slow and painstaking.
By the time the match was staged, Player had taken his first Open title and gone on to become a major figure on the American scene. At one point during the round, the clouds grew even darker and there was a hint of rain in the air. The South African anxiously scanned the skies, then, peeling off his sweater, turned to his caddie. As far as I can recall, the exchange went thus: "This is cashmere, brand-new. Give me out the other one." The caddy duly produced a lambswool sweater from the bag and the cashmere was carefully folded away. Player had made a lot of money, but the old habits were dying hard.
On his way to winning the 1922 Open, Walter Hagen changed his shoes and ate in a hired limousine at Royal St George's because he wasn't allowed to use the clubhouse. Traces of such goings-on lingered even in 1953 when Ben Hogan won at Carnoustie. In W.A.S Dryden's fascinating history, "Panmure Golf Club," it is recorded that Hogan was given permission to practise at Panmure where he could count on some privacy.
He was invited to use the clubhouse lounge and dining room, but declined, knowing that the club's own professional was not allowed in the clubhouse. Hogan had his meals in the kitchen with the steward and his wife.
There being no practice ground at Panmure at the time, Hogan used the fairway and green of the seventeenth hole. One day, after a session with the putter, he asked the greenkeeper if the blades of the mower could be lowered so that the speed of the green would match more closely the speed of the surfaces at Carnoustie. The greenkeeper replied: "There's the mower, Mr Hogan," and left him to it. Hogan cut the green, then cleaned the mower before handing it back.
This is an interesting and revealing slant on a man who has tended to be regarded as having been rather remote and, when the mood was upon him, virtually unapproachable. There might be the odd top professional going about today who would get down to it and mow a green if called upon to do so, but I can't think of any offhand. I can think of a few who might turn bright red, have trouble with their breathing, or break down in tears, but few who give the impression that they'd relish a spot of light mowing at the behest of a greenkeeper who's done for the day.
The full article contains 892 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
