No one ever forgets their first time at The Open.
Or, in my case, the 36 occasions since. Just over half a century has passed since a wee boy closing in on his 10th birthday stood expectantly on one of the eight steps in front of golf’s most famous clubhouse, autograph book in hand. His little green volume worked overtime that week and it exists still. Full of signatures, most of them penned by men who competed in the 1970 Open Championship over the Old Course at St. Andrews, it catalogues the beginning of a (so far) 52-year long journey.
The original driving force behind my attendance was my late father, also John. Even before I started tagging along, he achieved something of a “Grand Slam” at the Open, having seen Ben Hogan win at Carnoustie in 1953, the first of Gary Player’s three victories at Muirfield six years later, Arnold Palmer’s romp to a six-shot triumph at Troon in 1962 and Jack Nicklaus’ completion of his own “impregnable quadrilateral,” again at Muirfield in 1966. The “Big Three” plus the “wee ice man” (never “mon,” a word I have never in my life heard a fellow Scot utter). Not too shabby.
My own relationship with the world’s oldest and most important championship has been both lengthy and varied. The diminutive autograph hunter morphed soon enough into a taller spectator, who became – one time – a caddie, then an (epically) failed qualifier, then a journalist.
In the last of those roles, I have ghost-written instruction articles for nine men whose names adorn the Old Claret Jug – Nick Faldo, Seve Ballesteros, Sandy Lyle, Greg Norman, Ernie Els, Tom Watson, Mark Calcavecchia, Nick Price and Mark O’Meara – and penned the autobiography of another, Paul Lawrie. But I have only ever played with two Open champions: one hole (the par-5 second at TPC Sawgrass) with Watson, as well as 18-holes at Victoria in Melbourne with 1991 champion Ian Baker-Finch.
Sporadic at first, my presence at the Open has been constant since 1995. And what follows are my most vivid memories.
1970 – ST. ANDREWS
It would be some years before I learned why Jack Nicklaus was in St. Andrews so early for the championship, he had won four years before at Muirfield. Months after losing his father, the Golden Bear was rededicating himself to the winning of majors, something he hadn’t managed in more than three years.
As I stood on the steps by the clubhouse and 18th green – autograph book in hand – I can still see the large crowd watching Jack moving up the 17th fairway past the Old Course Hotel. And when he finished on the 18th green, I was in there with all the other youngsters to get his inevitably scrawled signature. It was quite a scrum; one you never see today. The modern R&A would never allow fans to get that close to the players, such is the modern obsession with “protecting” the stars from the very people who ultimately pay for their lavish lifestyles.
Autograph hunting dominated the majority of my week, the nuances of the Old Course and most of the inside-the-ropes drama lost on me. Three signatures stick out. Billy Casper for its clarity. Lee Trevino for his charisma (he’s in my book multiple times). And Roberto DeVicenzo for his kindness.
It was my father who spotted Roberto, a massive figure beside my yet-to-reach five-foot frame, and pushed me in his direction for an encounter I have never forgotten. In my mind’s eye I can see him still, gazing down at me with a look of amusement on his face.
“You want my autograph?” he asked.
I nodded.
“But do you know my name?”
“It is Roberto,” I replied, much to his delight. After clapping my cheeks with his giant hands, he signed my book, thanked me for asking and went on his way.
For those few seconds of his time, he gained a fan for life.
Inevitably, however, the lasting image from my maiden Open is that of Doug Sanders missing the 30-inch putt that would have made him champion. I was right by the 18th green as he did so, taking in the first “I was there” moment of my golfing life. But as Sanders stood over his putt, my young eyes were actually on my new hero, Trevino, which turned out to be interesting. When the ball missed the cup, Lee turned away immediately, as if disgusted.
That confused me. I remember asking my father why Lee had behaved that way. His response was that, amongst other things, Lee had aimed at the wrong flag – the 13th – while playing the 5th hole. The history books will tell you that error led to one of five three-putts Lee had that day. Yet he finished only two-shots out of the play-off between Sanders and Nicklaus. So maybe he felt like he should have won.
Anyway, the brief silence and the wide-spread groans that followed the Sanders miss? Unforgettable. They live with me still.
1972 – MUIRFIELD
I was a lucky child. The son of a golf nut and brought up in the village of West Barns, only 14 miles from Muirfield, I was at the course every day of Open week. It was a very different event back then, one that still belonged to the ordinary golfer far more than the corporate world that increasingly dominates today.
One of the highlights was the exhibition tent, a huge marquee in which just about every equipment company had a stand. For years, a part of every spectator’s day was a wander round the tent to take in the stuff on display. The players went too. I spotted Jack Nicklaus buying a few cashmere sweaters at what had to have been either the Lyle & Scott or Pringle knitwear stands.
Lee Trevino was there too, of course. Having put right his collapse at St. Andrews with victory at Royal Birkdale in 1971, “SuperMex” was back to defend his title. And, as before, I was with him as much as possible. Even away from Muirfield.
Early in the week, he and I were in nearby Dunbar, where he officially opened the Greentree club-making factory. I’m not sure that Lee actually used the (whisper it) pretty crappy clubs, but “Greentree” was emblazoned on the side of his bag.
Back at Muirfield, my luck held. Three times I was in the right place at the right time.
On day two I was sitting by the 13th green as Tony Jacklin made a nightmarish triple-bogey six that included three shots in two bunkers.
48 hours later, I witnessed Nicklaus’s only – and ultimately crucial – bogey of the final round at the par-3 16th.
Then, maybe 45 minutes later, I sat mesmerised as Lee (we were on first name terms by then, at least in my mind) chipped-in for an unlikely and remarkable par at the par-5 17th, seconds before his playing partner, Jacklin, three-putted for bogey from maybe six-yards.
In the end, Lee won by one from Nicklaus and two from Jacklin.
They were the defining moments of what was Lee’s second successive victory and what turned out to be Nicklaus’ best chance of a calendar year Grand Slam. And I saw them all, as well as receiving a nine-hole education from four-time Open champion Bobby Locke.
The portly South African would have been 54 at the time. And I have no idea what made me follow him over Muirfield’s front-nine. But I’m forever thankful that I did. Unable to reach at least three of the par-4s in two-shots, Locke shot 37, one-over par, and used his putter only 11 times. It was a fascinating exhibition of how to score without actually “playing” that well.
One last thing. Around 14 months after claiming his second Claret Jug, Lee was back at Muirfield for the 1973 Ryder Cup. After the American team arrived in East Lothian after an overnight trip from the States, most went to bed in the Greywalls Hotel that sits directly behind the 10th tee. But two did not; Lee and JC Snead.
My Dad and I were two of maybe 30 people who watched the pair on the practice ground. Not many of those, I imagine, spent much time watching Snead. Almost 47 years on, the memory of what Lee did that day remains vivid in my mind. It was a masterpiece, a ball-striking and shot-making clinic, highlighted by an audacious piece of showing-off.
“Watch this folks,” said Lee as, wedge in hand, he took aim at a small piece of wood sticking up out of the ground maybe 75 yards away.
Opening the face of the club, Lee carved a ball miles in the air. It landed no more than a couple of feet from the “stick.” Then with the same club, he deliberately “thinned” another ball along the ground towards the same target. It pulled up a yard away.
Genius.
1973 – TROON
My Dad and I spent one, very grey and wet day at Troon. It was, as we Scots say, decidedly “dreich.” I did see Lee, of course. He looked just about as miserable as the weather. And never contended. Just about all I can really remember is sitting next to Ally McLeod, who would go on to manage the Scottish football team at the 1978 World Cup, in one of the grandstands. If I had known then what I know now, I would have told him not to omit Kenny Dalglish and Graeme Souness from the opening game against Peru.
Nick Faldo was at Troon too apparently. He and his dad stayed in a tent that week. Rather them than me.
1975 – CARNOUSTIE
We parked left of Carnoustie’s par-5 6th hole. Just as we had done at Troon two years before, my Dad and I were treating ourselves to a day spectating at the famous Angus links, maybe two-and-a-half-hours from home.
This time it was a practice day. And, as we entered the course, two unidentified players were making their way up the fairway that includes “Hogan’s Alley,” the narrow gap between bunker and out-of-bounds fence. Ben had apparently hit his tee-shot there in all four rounds back in 1953. I have my doubts though. Why an habitual fader would start his drive over the OB and not at the bunker in the middle of the fairway remains an unfathomable mystery to this observer.
Anyway, we stopped to watch. Both pros hit good shots. So, we continued to follow them. The names on the bags turned out to be Tom Watson and John Mahaffey. No one else was watching, but we trailed them all the way to the 18th green. Both were beyond impressive. And, less than a week later, Watson was the Open Champion.
Okay, so I failed to recognise the eventual five-time winner of the title. But I have never forgotten the first time I saw him.
1978 – ST. ANDREWS
I had been watching the Open on television since 1969, when Tony Jacklin won at Royal Lytham. This year was a bit different though. This year I was watching from San Diego, more than 5,000 miles from the Old Course at St. Andrews. I was there to play at Torrey Pines in the World Junior Championship, having somehow won the Scottish Boys Championship three months earlier. (Long belated thanks are due to John King, who missed a 30-inch putt that would have eliminated me in the fourth round of the match-play event).
So, there I was, sitting in front of the box, as a strangely blurry Open unfolded. My memory of the coverage is scant, although I do recall laughing out loud at some of the cliche-ridden commentary. It was as if ABC was covering an event from the mid-19th century. Clearer is the sight of Jack Nicklaus walking up the 18th fairway en route to his third – and last – Open victory, which was a lot better than I managed all those time zones away. Missed the cut.
1980 – MUIRFIELD
My closest friend, Paul, played in the 1978 Open at St. Andrews. Three-putting the 18th green twice, he shot a brace of 74s and missed the cut by two shots. Agony. But two years later, he was having another go at qualifying. This time with me on the bag at Gullane No. 2, just down the road from Muirfield.
A 68 in the first round of the 36-hole contest left Paul with a good margin of error second time out. And he needed it all. Playing the back-nine in a stuttering 40 shots, he shot 74 and made it through with nothing to spare. Thank goodness he was able to lean on my calm and reassuring advice – “don’t hit it over there, whatever you do” – over those frenetic last few holes.
At Muirfield, it’s safe to say we had some fun, despite Paul’s pair of 77s proving five shots too many to make the cut.
My boss, in fact, suddenly became obsessed with yardages. Despite me knowing the course well – and how far he hit each club – I was asked to calculate how far it was from ball to target. Fine. But I drew the line when he asked how far it was to the short grass from the waist-high rough left of the 9th fairway. I looked at him, silently handed over the sand wedge and walked away. Point made.
The range was a popular and profitable spot. One time we – we caddies always say “we” – hit balls alongside Jack Nicklaus and overheard the great man telling the head greenskeeper how bad the putting surfaces were. To be fair, they weren’t great. And, apologies to the R&A, but the couple of hundred balls that went missing that week? Guilty as charged, your honour.
The hole-in-one Paul made at the par-3 4th was another highlight, the cover on the (balata) ball ripped to pieces by the sharp edge of the cup. And the walk up the 18th on day two was brilliant, at least for me. I kept my boss waiting for his putter by the green as I strolled up the fairway, waving to the crowds in the grandstands. Hey, it was my moment.
1983 – ROYAL BIRKDALE
I thought I was playing well, so why not? This was the first of my two attempts to qualify for the Open. Not that my hopes lasted too long. Playing at Hillside – next door to Royal Birkdale, where Tom Watson would win his fourth title – I started with a nifty eight on the 1st hole after driving OB left. In the end, I missed out by only three shots. But standing on the 2nd tee I had a feeling it was over. And I was right.
1984 – ST. ANDREWS
These days, my friend John Grant is the Director of Golf at the St. Andrews Links Trust, the body charged with running the seven courses in and around the Home of Golf. But back in 1984, he and I were just a pair of impecunious students. Which is why, early on the morning of the final round of the Open, we sneaked into the Old Course without paying.
Taking refuge in the grandstand that sat right of the 1st tee, we ended up staying all day. It was a good choice. Not only did we have a fine view of the players hitting their first shots of the day, we could also see their final putts too. The 1st and 17th greens weren’t out of sight either. And we had the giant yellow scoreboard behind us. Just as it does on the 18th hole at Augusta National during the Masters, waiting for the new numbers to appear in the relevant holes brings with it an intoxicating mystery and excitement. All in all, good thinking by us, although I say so myself.
We saw everything that mattered at the climax of the event. Peering to our right we watched as Tom Watson hit what former PGA champion turned television commentator, the late Dave Marr, called “the wrong shot with the wrong club at the wrong time.” Tied for the lead with Seve Ballesteros, Watson struck his 2-iron approach to the 17th green over the eponymous road and against the wall on the other side.
That error led to a Watson bogey, just as Ballesteros was settling over his 15-foot putt for birdie and almost certain victory on the 18th green. The ball took an age to drop – we both thought he had missed at first – but when it toppled in, the place went mad. As Seve indulged in what has to be the most iconic celebration in golf history, we stood in tribute. So did everyone else around us, as the Spaniard punched the air over and over. It was an unforgettable scene and buzz for all concerned.
A few minutes later, Seve’s second Open win was confirmed. Definitely an occasion where the boast “I was there” counted for something real.
One last thing. Five days later, another golfer – me – holed out on that same green (and to the same pin position) to win the Boyd Quaich, an international student event run by the University of St. Andrews. No one clapped. No one cheered. And no one stood up in the grandstand. But it still gave me goosebumps. Seve and me, together forever.
1985 – ROYAL ST. GEORGES
If you play golf long enough, there are going to be inevitable disappointments. Some are bigger than others though. And this was my biggest.
I was playing well when I teed-up at Princes – next door to Royal St. Georges – in my second attempt to qualify for the Open. Three weeks before I had reached the quarter-final of the Amateur Championship at Royal Dornoch, so hopes were high.
Anyway, 35-holes in, I arrived on the 18th tee figuring I needed a par to at least make a play-off (I was right) and a chance to make it into the championship itself. A good drive found the fairway and my 9-iron approach looked equally promising. Well, it did until the ball landed on a metal sprinkler head, bounced miles in the air and ended up in long grass over the green.
You know what’s coming right? I needed three to get down, made bogey and missed qualifying by one shot.
Not long after that happened, I began consuming alcoholic beverages. How many, I have no idea. But I do recall waking up the next morning on the living room floor of the house where I was staying. Strangely, my clothes were covered in dirt. Where had I been?
My landlady solved at least part of the mystery. “Ah yes,” she said. “You were last seen (and heard) in the field over the road from the house sometime after midnight. More heard than seen in that you were howling at the moon.”
To this day, I have no memory of that performance. And no, my night out did little to dull the pain. 35 years on I can still see that ball flying over the green.
My week at St. Georges wasn’t over either. I hung around to watch. And, on the last day a friend who was working for the BBC, gave me an armband that would hopefully get me inside the ropes for a better view. It did too. It’s amazing what a wee bit of official “clothing” does for your credibility. But my luck ran out, perhaps because I aimed too high.
Settling myself down directly behind the 18th green, I had the perfect view. Not for long though.
“John,” said the voice behind me.
“Can’t be me,” I thought.
“John,” said the same voice again.
I still didn’t turn round.
“John.”
It was Michael Bonallack, then the secretary of the Royal & Ancient Golf Club. In other words, the guy running the show. He and I were old acquaintances. Six years before, we were paired together in a 36-hole event called the Hampshire Hog. Michael shot 67 in the morning and was leading. So, we had a bit of a crowd watching us after lunch.
On, I think, the 7th tee he stepped up, threw his pipe to the ground and whack one up the middle. Watching the ball, I then stood on said pipe and broke it into two pieces. The gasp from the spectators will live with me forever.
“Oh,” said Michael, “’I shall have to take up cigarettes’.”
In the other words, Michael is a nice man. In 1983 I had been selected by the R&A to play in the Indian Amateur Championship. The official letter arrived, all neatly typed. But, at the bottom, Michael had added – in his own handwriting – “please don’t stand on any Indian snake charmer’s pipes.”
Back at St. Georges, he was clearly amused to see what I was up to.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Oh, hello Michael, I’m working for the BBC and I’m on a break.”
He looked at me. I could almost see his mind digesting that information. Clearly, he knew what I was up to. He’s an intelligent man and he knew a fraud when he saw one. But all he did was smile, wish me well and wander off. My nerve was shot though. Less than five minutes later I retreated to a less conspicuous spot.
(From here on, my attendance at every Open is as a journalist. So, I’m not going to bore you with every year. What follows is just what first comes to mind …)
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