It’s a very weary blogger who sits before her keyboard, aware that there’s unlikely to be enough golf in this piece to satisfy the sister. Golf usually requires a bit of research and because I was playing in a club match I’ve only caught a few glimpses of the first day of the AIG Women’s Open (even had to check the title after years of inserting a British somewhere along the line) at what looked like quite a benign Carnoustie, if chilly, judging from the bobble hats and waterproofs on show.
At one Open there, there was a wonderful aerial photo of the last two or three holes, three of the toughest finishing holes you could ever wish to play with anything more than a few quid or some beers on the line. I thought, “Great, I’ll study this pic and work out how to play those holes”, factoring in my limitations of course. I looked and looked and looked – and still had no clue how any vaguely normal being could negotiate them with any certainty. I think Justin Rose birdied the last, a brutal par 4 as many will attest (pas de noms, pas de drill de pack), all four days the year Francesco Molinari won.
Still saving this silly tile in the hope of getting Padraig to sign it (I didn’t paint it myself, I bought it!!)
Ben Hogan travelled to Scotland early and spent two weeks absorbing every aspect of the course prior to his comprehensive Open victory in 1953. He finished four shots ahead of his fellow American Frank Stranahan, an amateur, Dai Rees, Peter Thomson and Antonio Cerda (blimey, some research!) – a Welshman, an Aussie and an Argentine who were no joke when it came to golf.
Harold Riley, the artist who is one of Salford’s most famous sons, then 18, walked every step of the way with Hogan (I think), sketching, awestruck and recording his admiration for posterity.
Hogan, exhausted but triumphant, supported by his wife Valerie and his chauffeur, carrying a coat that Valerie insisted her husband put on.
Harold’s captions were in the form of a letter to his brother Michael and he said, “This was undoubtedly the greatest year for any golfer since Bobby Jones’s grand slam in 1930. He’d won the Masters, U.S. Open and the Open. Hogan had entered six (6) tournaments and won five (5) of them.”
From the sublime to the faintly ridiculous. The main reason I’m cream-crackered is that I trekked down to north London (from Lichfield) on Sunday to watch Spurs play Manchester City in the first league match of the season. They increased the seating capacity at the swanky (see my pic at the top of this piece), state-of-the-art (but far from glitch-free) Tottenham Hotspur Stadium (think that’s the official designation, it’s certainly no longer White Hart Lane), so I bought myself a season ticket. It was now or never and there are some advantages to being an old codger, such as getting seats half price.
I mulled over the travel options, decided against risking Sunday trains and opted to drive….I chose the M6, M1 (is there a reason why the exclamation mark is above the 1!!!?) It was a route I used to travel regularly but that was decades ago and nowadays I go to great lengths to avoid the M1. To begin with, all went well, then there was a delay at junction 11a where there’d been some sort of prang and we crawled along for a bit because of the lane closure. I don’t know how serious the accident was but on reflection missing a football match would not rank as the worst thing to happen on a Sunday.
By this time, I’m wondering if I’ll make the 1630 kick-off and stop at something called the London Gateway to stretch out my aching bones, go to the loo and ponder the rest of my route. Mostly I like to do it the old-fashioned way, with a map, only using the phone (my car is too aged and basic – it has wheels and an engine – to have a built-in sat-nav). Mo once threatened to buy me some sort of directional gizmo for Christmas but I put her off, insisting that was the equivalent of buying me an iron and an ironing board.
Anyway, I decided against the M25 and renewed my acquaintance with the North Circular. The last time I was on it, heading home from a game at Royal Mid-Surrey, I exulted in the thought that I’d be dead before I had to use it again. Bits of it ran ok but there was a lot of stop start and I eventually bailed out down to Wood Green (are you getting the impression that this was not the most meticulously planned excursion?) By the station I saw a load of people in Spurs shirts making their way up the hill so I took a left, another left and another left and found a parking space. The phone was called upon and lo and behold I was about 150 yards from White Hart Lane. Miracle of miracles.
Off I trek and am starting to worry that I’ve got my 50-50 chance wrong and turned right when I should have turned left (by Dai’s reckoning I got 90 per cent of my 50-50s wrong), when I spot two people getting out of a car, one in a Spurs shirt. “Are you going to the match?” sez I, feeling suitably pathetic. “Yes,” they say. “Where is it,” I say, feeling even more pathetic.
They point in the direction I was heading (phew!) and say that it’s quite a long way. “Fifteen minutes?” (hoping they’re not great walkers). “More like thirty.” And off they stride, having assured me that it was straight all the way. I thought of John Jacobs when I realised that at least getting back to the car was just like the golf swing: two turns and a swish.
I got there with half an hour to spare but several queues (nothing seamless about electronic ticketing in my seat’s neck of the woods) and a lot of swearing (not me, there were plenty of others willing to do that and the man next to me had two children with him) later, I found my seat, several minutes after kick-off. City were battering our goal but we survived somehow and went on to win 1-0. “Fantastic,” messaged a friend in Ireland, “worth the price of the full season ticket.”
And she was right.
The view from my seat (heads not usually in the way!)
Going home I took the A10, A14, M6 – it rained a lot of the way – and staggered in the door, exhausted but exhilarated at 2300.
Still, alternative travel arrangements are on the agenda and it turns out the young man in the farm shop has a brother who is a Spurs season ticket holder and goes to every home game…..
Never seen these letters before. What a wonderful record of a epic achievement by an incredible man. I am a keen Hogan fan reinforced by the experience I had playing at Carnoustie with my son. Adding to your note about planning and preparing for a round of golf a few thoughts on the history of the great man and also his psyche for success.
Carnoustie is such a special place and my birdie on Hogans Alley will go with me to the grave.Treasured memories especially as it was all captured on tape.
Ben Hogan was born in Stephenville, Texas on August 13,1912, starting as an 11-year-old caddying at Glen Garden Country Club in Fort Worth. He turned pro aged 19 but struggled for several years to establish his tour status, and it was seven years before his first victory.
In the USA he was known as “The Hawk” and in Scotland became known as “The Wee Ice Mon” as a result of his cool and calm demeanour and the fact that he required regular ice baths to be able to continue to walk after the car crash that nearly took his life.
In February 1949 he was involved in a head-on collision with a bus in foggy conditions. His wife, Valerie, was in the passenger seat and he threw himself over her to protect her just before impact. He was left with a catalogue of serious injuries, including a double fracture of the pelvis, and a fractured collarbone and left ankle. He broke several ribs and the surgery caused him to develop severe blood clots that plagued him for the rest of his life. He was told that he was unlikely to walk again never mind play golf but after 59 days he left hospital and began a rehabilitation programme.
It was constructed in his usual meticulous manner using the mantra “work, study, endure” – and it worked. Between 1940 and 1956 Hogan played in 30 majors and finished in the top five 22 times. What an incredible record of achievement.
Hogan became a real sporting celebrity when Hollywood made a film of his life called Follow the Sun. It detailed his biography and his battle back to health after the crash. In 1953 he won The Masters and the US Open. He was persuaded to travel to Carnoustie to compete in The Open, where, for the first time in his life, he used the smaller British golf ball.
As part of his preparations he arrived two weeks early to practice. However, his practice rounds at Carnoustie were disrupted because of the level of interest he attracted from the Scottish fans. He initially struggled to acclimatise to the alien conditions. Hogan was not used to links golf – or the Scottish weather.
He travelled to the UK in the company of John Derr, an American golf correspondents. He was granted exclusive access to Hogan as he was the only American correspondent covering the event.
Hogan initially stayed at The Bruce Hotel in Carnoustie but they were unable to provide the ice baths he required as they had only newly fitted showers so Derr took up the room vacated by Hogan. Hogan was moved to the Tay Park guest house, owned by National Cash Registers Dundee. Its managing director was Nelson T Carne, a member at nearby Panmure Golf Club. He arranged for Hogan to have unfettered access to the club for practice.
Hogan made such a positive impression on staff at the club that they pooled their meat rations to allow him to eat steak. He was invited to join the committee for a meal but declined to enter the dining room. At that time the club professional was not allowed in the dining room as he was classed as a club servant and Hogan ate his meals with the steward and his wife in the kitchen in protest with the door between the two rooms open.
He was left alone to practice at Panmure but realised that the green speeds were different to those at Carnoustie. He was given permission to cut the surface of the 17th green to replicate the pace of the surfaces at Carnousite. Hogan did the work himself and then returned the mower in pristine condition, having stripped it fully and cleaned it himself.
Having played several rounds at Panmure with the club secretary, Hogan suggested an alteration to the sixth hole. He believed that constructing a small pot bunker to the right of the green would add to its appeal. This was done and is now known as Hogan’s bunker.
Having won The Open at Carnoustie on the one and only occasion in which he played in the tournament, Hogan was asked what his favourite hole was. Quick as a flash, he replied: The sixth at Panmure.”
Good stuff Andrew, thanks. And congrats on the historic birdie.