Golf's Strangest Rounds

INTRODUCTION

Golf has many themes when it comes to strangeness. There are tales of tragedy (‘Boy Kills his Father’), interference from wild life (‘The Goose Incident’) and odd tactical ploys (‘With a Handkerchief over his Eyes’). There are stories about weird weather (‘A Gale at the British Open’), remarkable recoveries (‘Player and Lema’) and recondite rules (‘How to Win with the Wrapping Still on the Ball’). Golf has been played in unusual conditions, as indicated in chapters about ‘Nudity Par for the Course’, ‘Golf on the Moon’ and ‘A Round in Court’.

Other stories defy categorisation. There’s one about the mysterious star golfer who refused to compete in tournaments in case his past was discovered and another concerning the female pacesetter who, in the early 1930s, dared to play golf while wearing trousers. Recent additions include the golfer who fell down a sinkhole, a footballer whose leg was broken in an on-course golf-cart accident and golfers who have upheld the tradition of the cross-country game.

Inevitably, the stories in this book are a personal choice. In the first edition of the book, published in 1992, I opted to omit thematic team matches such as ‘Admirals’ v ‘Generals’. I also decided that some tales were too silly to include, such as one about a player who threw the ball round (left-handed from bunkers of course) and another about a man who regularly went round in low scores by firing the ball from a sling-shot.

My research practice has been to return to original sources, in particular contemporary local newspapers and the golfing press. The Golfer’s Handbook was an important starting-place, and other leads were discovered from friends, newspapers, magazine indexes and golf’s rich literature. Mark McCormack’s annual, The World of Professional Golf, was especially valuable. Much of the research for this book was done in five libraries – the Bodleian (Oxford), the British Library Newspaper Library (London), the Library of Congress (Washington DC, USA) and specialist golf libraries at St Andrews, Scotland, and Far Hills, New Jersey, USA.

Andrew Ward

HOLED IN ONE … BUT LOST THE HOLE

MUSSELBURGH, 1870

It was all-square in a foursome at Musselburgh, and almost dark, when Robert Clark played his tee-shot at the short eighteenth hole. The green wasn’t visible from the tee, and no one saw where Clark’s ball went. The golfers walked forward and started searching.

They looked everywhere. Clark and his partner were particularly concerned, given the balanced state of the match. Eventually, they admitted their ball was lost, conceded the hole and with it the match.

Yes, you’ve guessed. Clark’s ball was in the hole. They never thought of looking there.

Clark, an Edinburgh printer, was the author of an early golfing anthology, and we can assume he was a reliable witness. Since his unsuccessful hole-in-one, I believe the rules have been changed so that the ball is dead and the hole finished the moment the ball goes in the hole. Hence, even if you concede the hole as lost, the position of the ball takes precedence. Worth checking though. You never know when it might happen next.

Golfers have stumbled on other ways to lose a hole with an ‘ace’. One method is perhaps more obvious than Clark’s. Reverend H.C. Moor gives an example in a letter to The Times on 2 February 1940: ‘On the Castle Bromwich links, near Birmingham, there was, some 30 years ago, a green set in a hollow, blind from the tee. Two brothers playing together drove to the green and found that they had both holed in one. But it was not a halved hole, for one brother had to give the other a stroke.’

A third possible method of losing a hole with an ‘ace’ was discovered accidentally by two golfers at Walsall’s fourth hole in May 1950. The 182-yard (166m) hole was not visible from the tee, concealed by bunkers. Dr E.R.S. Grice and L. Watson, playing in a club competition, could see they had put their tee-shots somewhere on the green. When they walked on to the green they discovered one ball in the hole, the other nearby. Unfortunately, on examining the balls, they found that both were brand new and of the same make and number. There were no distinguishing marks on either ball. It was impossible to say which ball was which. All they could do was assume the balls were lost, return to the tee and start again. So the player who holed in one – whoever he was – may, or may not, have won the hole eventually.

No hole is safe. Even if you hole in one.

‘A CASE WILL BE DRAWN, AND THE MATTER REFERRED’

WESTWARD HO!, SEPTEMBER 1877

At 5.20a.m. on a September morning Captain Molesworth set out for a busy day at the Royal North Devon Golf Course. To win his match, he had to walk 3 miles (4.8km) to the links and play six rounds of golf under 660 strokes.

The outcome was a dispute that lasted several days.

In the 1870s it was fairly common for sportsmen to bet on such feats of stamina. One of the most famous was W.G. Bloxsam’s attempt to play 12 rounds of the Aberdeen Links and walk 10 miles (16km) home to Schoolhill within 24 hours. He won his bet between 6a.m. on Tuesday 6 July 1875 and 1.15a.m. the following morning. ‘During the day he kept up his strength by copious libations of Liebig’s Extract of Meat in a liquid state’, we learn from the Aberdeen Golf Club minutes. Captain Molesworth’s match, first agreed at the Whitsun meeting, was a focus for much talk and betting. His opponents were cheered by the moisture in the air that September morning. Having successfully walked ‘to work’, Molesworth was faced with a thick dew when he started playing at 6.10a.m. The conditions were as difficult as playing in heavy rain. The dew not only handicapped his first-round scoring – a 14 at the ninth hole, for instance – but also ruined his wooden clubs. The face of his driver dropped to pieces at the twelfth hole, and he was forced to rely on irons and his putter. His score of 120 was a brave one in the conditions, but it promised little for his supporters, who knew he needed to average less than 110 for his six rounds.

He played his second round immediately, relying solely on iron clubs. He was lifted by a score of 105, but the third round was miserable. A 15 at the ninth hole led to a disastrous score of 122, and Captain Molesworth took his first rest (five minutes) at the end of the round.

Scores of 108 (fourth round) and 102 (fifth) brought him back into contention. He had now played five rounds in 557 strokes, and a second consecutive round of 102 would complete six rounds in the required figure.

His sixth-round score was 105. 662.

Three over.

Had he lost his bet?

He might, at that point of the day, have justifiably felt tired and defeated. He had walked 3 miles to the course and then played six rounds of golf while carrying his own clubs, each round involving about 100 minutes of hard walking. But Captain Molesworth had a bright idea – he would play another round. He did this seventh round in 104 strokes and argued that he had now done six rounds in 646 strokes, if you didn’t count the first round. It was now 5.30p.m. He walked home, arrived at 6.40, and spent part of the evening playing billiards.

The dispute was about whether he was entitled to play the extra round. Some spectators had gone home after the sixth round convinced that the bet had already been decided. The confusion was summarised in The Field: ‘Captain Molesworth’s backers say that the match was to play six rounds in one day, between the hours of daylight and dark: and, therefore, it did not matter how many rounds he played, if six rounds were played in under 660 strokes, and that he was entitled to leave out the first or any other round, so long as six whole rounds were done in under the number. The other side contended that, as six rounds were played, and the number of strokes taken was over 660, the match was lost. A case will be drawn, and the matter referred.’

A referee had been agreed when the match was originally made. He now read and assessed the case before him: ‘You will observe the first six rounds are 662 strokes, the best six 644, the last consecutive 646. Say whether Captain Molesworth has won or lost the match you made, and give your opinion.’

The referee gave his reply: ‘I think Captain Molesworth has won; if, as I understood the match, Captain Molesworth was to do six rounds in the day in 660 strokes, he was entitled to play a dozen rounds (if he could) till he did six within the number.’

So Captain Molesworth won his bet.

A FEE TO WITHDRAW FROM THE BRITISH OPEN

MUSSELBURGH, NOVEMBER 1889

‘It is difficult to realize the almost haphazard manner in which, in the ’80s, the great event of the year in golf was encompassed,’ wrote William Reid. ‘I am told that at one time it was advertised that the [British Open] Championship would be played on such and such a date, and that the competitors simply presented themselves at the first tee at the advertised hour of start and gave in their names.’

The 1889 Championship was the riskiest ever. It consisted of four rounds of a nine-hole course on a gloomy Friday in November. There were 48 competitors, and 22 of these were Musselburgh men. It helped to know the course, because, by the end of the third round, it was almost dark.

The tournament’s organisers, the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, needed to do something desperate to complete the tournament before it was totally dark. The field needed to be thinned, so they offered five shillings to any player who retired from the tournament at the end of the third round. The debate about elimination was beginning. Later we would have ‘the cut’.

The last round saw a riveting duel between Willie Park, Jnr, of Musselburgh and Andrew Kirkaldy of St Andrews, which took the Championship to a play-off, although Kirkaldy missed a 1in (2.5cm) putt at the fourteenth by casually playing an ‘air shot’ with one hand. Long before the last couple came in, the street lamps adjoining the course were lit, and scores were checked by candlelight. As The Scotsman recorded, it was so dark that ‘the markers could scarcely see to mark, far less the players to play’. In these atrocious golfing conditions, Kirkaldy’s playing partner, a local amateur called Robertson, produced a stunning cleek shot to hole in one at the eighteenth. The tournament organisers had a lot to learn. They had warned of strict punishments if players started late, but had caused problems themselves by starting the tournament as late as 10.30a.m. and limiting it to one day. Everyone agreed that the tournament needed an earlier start, a smaller field or a date when there was more daylight.

The organisation of that Open Championship was so haphazard that the play-off could not be played the following day (a Saturday) as it clashed with an amateur tournament at the Braid Hills. Park and Kirkaldy returned to Musselburgh on the Monday, and played a further 36 holes. The play-off was not as interesting as Friday’s tie, when both men had scored 155. Willie Park led by four after the first nine holes, and his total of 158 was good enough for a five-stroke victory.

There was a sequel to the play-off story. Willie Park issued a challenge to any golfer for a match over ‘four greens’ for £100 a side. Andrew Kirkaldy took him up, so Park and Kirkaldy met again.

Kirkaldy found the challenge match difficult on the first course, at Musselburgh, where the home gallery supported Willie Park. ‘Bullocks couldna hae behaved much worse,’ Kirkaldy reportedly said of the spectators. The match was still close after Prestwick, but, at Troon, Kirkaldy swung it his way and went on to win eight and seven on his home course at St Andrews. A new champion had arrived.

THE BATTLE OF ONE TREE HILL

PECKHAM RYE, LONDON, OCTOBER 1897

Thousands of people stormed the golf-course fence with sticks and stones and brickbats, and 500 policemen fought against them. It was a story to live in history and it was called ‘the Battle of One Tree Hill’.

The trouble began much earlier that year. Alfred Stevens leased his land to the newly formed Honor Oak and Forest Hill Golf Club, and local people objected fiercely when the golf club put up a fence. They believed it was common land, with public rights of way, and an enclosure was illegal. A Protest Committee was formed. The committeemen claimed they had evidence that the public had right-of-way across One Tree Hill and the whole area belonged to the people, not the freeholder. The land in question was on the border of Peckham Rye and Honor Oak. Alfred Stevens was in no doubt that he owned the land, and that the new tenants were within their rights to build the fence. Said Stevens, in a letter to the South London Observer: ‘May I say once for all that every foot of the land which I and my family hold was paid for either by my late father or by my brother and myself, that we have never enclosed any land or encroached on any parochial or private rights, but have, on the contrary, given to the Camberwell Parish lands to widen roads, and that the public have no rights of way over the property and that none of it is common land.’

This statement did not appease the protesters. Open meetings began in August, and local anger soared when two youngsters were charged with destroying part of the golf-club fence. A confrontation was slowly coming, and the protesters began to form two factions. Those loyal to the Protest Committee believed in collecting money to support peaceful action through the law. The others were growing impatient.

At a routine open meeting, early in October, Fred Polkinghorne captured the mood of the crowd when he appealed for more direct action. Angry with the lack of tangible progress, frustrated with a lack of information from the Protest Committee, he proposed an ultimatum. If the fence didn’t come down, the people would take back the hill.

‘To the Hill,’ people shouted.

The Protest Committee called for calm, but Polkinghorne motioned for an amendment.

‘To the Hill,’ came the massed shout.

The motion was put to the people, and hands showed the support of the majority.

‘To the Hill,’ they shouted. The motion was carried.

If the fence stayed, the hill would be stormed on Sunday 10 October.

At 3 o’clock on the afternoon of Sunday 10 October, a far from passive crowd assembled on the Triangle on the Rye. Polkinghorne told the gathering that his views hadn’t changed.

‘To the Hill,’ they shouted at him.

Other protest meetings were going on, but a crowd of over a thousand moved towards the golf course on One Tree Hill. Around 4.30p.m., a youth climbed the golf-club fence and opened the gate. The crowd raced through, and two policemen on duty could do little except send for support. They were soon joined by a further 30 Constables and Inspectors, but the only person arrested that afternoon was a youth who threw a stone through a clubhouse window.

Several quiet rounds of golf were soon disturbed. Intruders swarmed across the course, shouting and cheering, pulling out flags and damaging putting-greens. ‘The crowd, numbering several thousands, was largely composed of roughs and bird-catchers, ready for any scrimmage,’ stated Golf magazine. The golfers abandoned their game and headed for the clubhouse, accompanied by hoots and hisses from the crowd.

When the roaring mob threatened the clubhouse, some members pointed out that a frightened woman and child were inside. The crowd left them alone, but for two hours that Sunday afternoon, One Tree Hill returned to the public, and the general mood was cheerful and friendly.

It was different the next Sunday.

The protesters were still divided about how best to reclaim the hill. On Saturday 16 October, a group of five men, including Fred Polkinghorne, agreed to be served writs as a test case. At the golf-club gate, they amicably introduced themselves to Major Gilbert of Scotland Yard. While half a dozen golfers were going about a normal weekend round, the gang of five forcibly removed a few planks from the fence and awaited arrest peaceably.

It was a lovely autumnal afternoon the next day, ideal for a battle, and policemen waited in hiding. They were in the club-house, concealed by St Augustine’s Church, and tucked away in two empty houses near Honor Oak station. There were over 200 police, including about 20 on horseback.

By 3 o’clock, about 5,000 people had gathered on the Honor Oak Rise side of the hill. The golfers had sensibly stayed away from the course. Only journalists and newspaper artists occupied One Tree Hill.

The crowds started demolishing the planks of the fence. One man was arrested, and another defended him by attacking a policeman. He was arrested too, but his friends fought to rescue him. Sticks and flints were used, and the crowd stormed forward. ‘Women and children screamed in terror,’ stated one report.

The mounted police held the crowd back with a hard-fought struggle. At 4 o’clock the crowd regrouped on the open, furze-covered slope at the foot of St Augustine’s Church. There must have been about 10,000 of them, angry and intent, armed with sticks and stones and brickbats. They were faced by a solid row of over 200 policemen, shoulder to shoulder. The battle raged. The police held back the rioters, but one Inspector received a serious facial cut when hit by a stone.

At 5.30p.m. a furze bush was