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 …)
1986 – TURNBERRY
A change of scene; my first Open as a journalist. Just over a month earlier I had joined the staff at Golf World magazine in London as an “editorial assistant.” So, one week after attending my graduation ceremony at that esteemed educational establishment, the University of Stirling, I was back in Scotland at Turnberry.
Greg Norman won, as you may recall. But bigger in my mind is the second round shot by the Shark. There have been many 63s in male major championships (and one 62) since Johnny Miller set things in motion as long ago as 1973 at Oakmont. But Norman’s has to be the best of them. In awful weather and on a course all but covered in long grass, the Australian played an extraordinary round that ironically ended on a bit of a sour note. Three-putts on the final green was a huge anti-climax, albeit one that did little to diminish the awe I felt at the level of his play.
1987 – MUIRFIELD
Living in London was an experience I’m glad I had, but this Open at Muirfield really was a trip home for me. Nick Faldo would win the first of his three Open titles, but my memory goes first to, again, Greg Norman.
Not long before I had flown to the Isle of Man to play golf with Formula One driver, Nigel Mansell. A close friend of Norman’s and a two-handicap golfer, Mansell was “hot” at the time. As part of the trip a swing sequence of Mansell was shot, one that I presented to Norman for his thoughts over a pint of lager in the Greywalls Hotel.
I can’t remember what Norman said about Mansell’s ungainly action, but I can tell you that he paid for my pint.
Anyway, out on the course I followed all 18 holes of Faldo’s final round. That’s all 18 pars. The shot he hit to the 18th green – courtesy of his newly-reconstructed swing – was the highlight. An arrow-straight 3-iron to such an elusive target was exactly how anyone would want to win their first major.
1990 – ST. ANDREWS
Having missed the previous two Opens because I was now living in the United States in Connecticut, this was a welcome trip home for me. Nick Faldo won, en route seeing off Greg Norman by nine shots (67-76) in the last pairing of the third round. That was hard enough for the Shark, no doubt. But even worse was what I witnessed later.
Standing at the corner of Golf Place (just outside the Dunvegan pub), I was confronted by a long line of cars waiting to leave St. Andrews. In one sat Greg Norman. His window down, Norman hailed by a man as he walked by. “Hey Greg,” he yelled. And as Norman turned to wave, this guy clutched his throat and made loud choking noises. It remains one of the cruellest things I’ve ever seen.
Earlier that same week I had occasion to be standing outside the Scores Hotel, pint in hand, behind the 18th green on the Old Course. For company I had Bob Drum, the larger-than-life American journalist, who had covered Arnold Palmer since the King was just a wee Prince.
Drum had an interesting tale to tell about Arnold’s instruction book, “Hit it Hard.” With the deadline approaching, Palmer was short of time and told Drum he’d have to write the book himself. So, Drum did, by going to his local library, withdrawing six instruction manuals and re-writing a chapter from each. Disgraceful, yes. But also very funny.
1992 – MUIRFIELD
I know, I know, Faldo won again at Muirfield. And yes, his “singing" at the trophy presentation remains one of the most cringe-worthy moments in Open history. And yes, John Cook should have won.
But never mind all that. This was the week that this observer first set eyes on Ernie Els. The then 22-year-old South African made an instant impact on me and everyone else that week before finishing fifth. How could he not? That swing remains one of the most beautiful things in the game almost 30 years later.
1995 – ST. ANDREWS
Flew to Scotland. Got sick. Spent Open week in bed and never saw a shot live. Flew back to America one day later. John Daly won apparently.
Oh, there was one highlight. Before the virus set in, I attended a dinner for winners of the Standard Life Gold Medal, the oldest 72-hole amateur event in the world, at the Leven Golfing Society. In a previous existence I had somehow managed to win it twice on one of Fife’s most underrated links. Also at the dinner was Lee Westwood, another past champion. Often wonder what happened to him.
1996 – ROYAL LYTHAM
Back living in Scotland, I travelled to Lytham as the golf correspondent for the (Glasgow) Herald newspaper. And luck was with me on arrival. I bumped into Dave Musgrove, who had caddied for Seve Ballesteros when the great Spaniard won the Open at Lytham in 1979. Dave and I walked the last six holes, with him talking me through every shot hit by Seve. It was fascinating stuff, with a bit of humour thrown in.
Dave related how he had cajoled his man into getting down in two from short of the 18th green in order to win him some money at the bookies. He had bet on someone finishing under par. As ever, Seve came through.
This Open was notable too for confirming – in his own mind – that Tiger Woods should turn pro sooner rather than later. His 66 in the last round to clinch the amateur medal was just a sign of what was to come.
1999 – CARNOUSTIE
It was a chance encounter at Carnoustie. Minding my own business standing by a cross-walk, a buggy pulled alongside. In it sat one Paul Lawrie, who was heading to the 1st tee and his final round. Ten-shots back, the Scot was aiming to finish high enough to boost his chances of making a Ryder Cup debut later in the year. Not once during our brief chat did, he mention any hope of ultimate victory. Why would he?
A few hours later, of course, Lawrie was hoisting the Claret Jug skywards, having seen off Jean Van de Velde and Justin Leonard in a four-hole play-off. Who would have thought? Certainly not Lawrie.
2000 – ST. ANDREWS
This was the man who has surely played golf better than anyone ever has performing at, or close to, his peerless peak. Three weeks after Tiger won the U.S Open at Pebble Beach by 15 shots, he repeated that dose of overwhelming superiority with an eight-stroke win at the Old Course. It was a privilege to witness both.
That victory came a couple of years after I had dined with Woods, Mark O’Meara and a few others in a back room at the aforementioned Dunvegan. I can’t remember anything he said that night, but my lasting memory is of him vaulting the fence to the side of the 18th fairway and making his way back to the Old Course Hotel in the darkness. It was, one supposes, a rare moment of peace within a life of madness.
2004 – ROYAL TROON
More Ernie. This time a conversation he and I had not long after the big South African lost a play-off at Troon to Todd Hamilton.
“Ernie,” I said. “I can handle you losing the Masters to Phil Mickelson. But Todd Hamilton? Give me a break.”
He could only bow his head and nod in agreement.
2011 – ROYAL ST. GEORGES
I’m going to finish at Royal St. Georges, where we returned to last year. At least for the journalists present, the Monday-morning press conference less than 24-hours after Darren Clarke’s momentous victory was especially memorable. Clarke hadn’t been to his bed and was, not to put too fine a point on it, smashed. It was hilarious, although some stuffed shirts were no doubt tutting away in the background.
As chance would have it, I was in on the early stages of Clarke’s night on the tiles. On Sunday evening, along with a few others, I was invited to the house where he was staying. It was quite a party, as he proved conclusively the following morning.
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