“No one admires the heroic more than I do on the golf course, and no one admires determination more than I do , but there comes a time when the heroic and the determined cease to be such and become out-and-out misplaced ambition.” -Ted Ray  

Welcome to our live coverage of The Wales Open where 2022 marks the 124th time The Links at Saint David’s has hosted an annual tournament outside of war years and, of course, Covid in 2020. Inaugurated as an invitational in 1888,  the tournament became The Wales Open following World War II. Known by golfers around the world as King Arthur’s Course, and dubbed defiantly as The Older Course by locals,  The Links at Saint David’s has a storied golf history, even if you don’t believe that history stretches all the way back to the life and times of the surely mythical Lancelot and Guinevere. Let’s go now to the 17th, the infamous Castle Hole, where much drama has unfolded over the years. American Morgan Hanks has just found the fescue far right of the fairway which is, unfortunately, familiar territory for the once and, we can only hope, future champion. 

Morgan looked up at the castle walls and then down at his golf ball, only partially visible in the wispy grass. 

This is bullshit, he thought, and not for the first time that day. It’s the goddamn Wales Open and we’re playing putt-putt golf. An angry slice off the 17th tee had put his ball in the fescue far to the right of the fairway and nearly out of bounds. Now he had to decide whether to hit his ball safely back into the fairway while gaining almost no distance, or to try negotiating the ruins of a castle. His first time on this course, his round had been mediocre at best, which described his career over the last four years. 

“What are you thinking?” asked his caddie, Tex. 

“I’m thinking King Arthur’s castle doesn’t belong on King Arthur’s Course,” he said. If he played his ball safely back into the fairway he might par the hole or possibly lose a shot if he found one of the fairway bunkers and drop into tenth place. If he could take a more direct route and get past the castle ruins, his approach shot could set him up to birdie the hole, gain a shot, and move him into a tie for fourth. It was only Friday,  a good time to take a risk.

“Well, to be fair,” said Tex, “the legend is that King Arthur built three holes of the golf course, not the castle. It’s not nearly old enough. I mean those ruins are only, what, maybe a thousand years old?”

“Really?” said Morgan. “We’re going to do the history crap right now?”

“Sorry.” Tex set the golf bag down. “Are we going around, over, or … uh, through?”

Morgan blinked at his caddie. Going through the castle was possible in the same way that threading a needle blindfolded was possible. The broken arch in the south wall was a full 30 feet wide, but his ball would also need to clear a second opening in the west wall and the angle left less than 15 feet of square clearance. Nick Jackson, a.k.a. The Silver Badger had famously done this in the final round of the Wales Open in 1972 from nearly the same spot. Considered one of the greatest golf shots ever, Jackson hit a bullet with his 1-iron that cleared both openings. His ball flew over 170 yards and then bounced another 20 yards onto the green where he sank a 17-foot putt for birdie and went on to win. 

Local golfers supposedly hit high lobs over the castle ruins regularly, but not with any distance on the other side. Not only did he need to thread the needle, he needed at least 150 yards, something that wouldn’t happen if he went over rather than through. 

“I don’t even carry a 1-iron,” whispered Morgan, staring at the ruins. Before looking back he knew Tex was pulling the 3-iron and as he took it he saw his caddie flash three fingers for the television on-course commentator. The gallery began to murmur. Whatever happens, he thought, I just made today’s highlight reel on the Golf Channel and a few dozen YouTube Channels.  

As he hit the ball he knew instantly he wouldn’t be threading the needle today.  He wasn’t sure where the ball would go but he didn’t want to watch. He spun away quickly and looked at Tex whose eyes widened as he started to say something. Just before the world went black, as his knees buckled under him and his head started ringing, Morgan thought, “You dummy, you walked into someone’s practice swing.”

As we’ve noted, the 17th hole on The Links at Saint David’s, the Castle Hole, has been the scene of some excitement over the years but rarely, maybe never, of injury. That may change today as Morgan Hanks, attempting perhaps to replicate Nick Jackson’s famous bullet through the castle, as so many have tried and failed to do over the years, became a victim of his own errant shot when his golf ball ricocheted hard off the castle wall and returned to strike him in the head and he fell to the ground.

He thought his phone was vibrating, but who would be calling him in the middle of a golf tournament, and why was his phone being pushed against the back of his head and why was he lying down and why was Tex poking him in the stomach with a golf club?

His eyes cracked open and he realized the vibration was actually his head buzzing.

“Come now young fella,” said a voice, “we can’t have you sleeping it off on the golf course, not while we’re preparing for the tournament anyway.”

Morgan opened his eyes and saw it wasn’t a golf club poking him, it was an umbrella, and it wasn’t Tex it was a man wearing plus-four knickerbocker pants and a matching old fashion tweed suit. 

Jesus, he thought, how did a hickory shaft golf nut get inside the ropes? 

“Dude,” said Morgan, “I’ll try and keep security from tackling you but you have to back off. Tex, get him back where he belongs.”

Morgan lifted himself onto an elbow and waited. Nothing. He listened. Nothing. The air was empty of the murmur of crowds or distant cheers or overhead drones. It was dead quiet.

“Tex?” Nothing.

“I see you’re still drunk,” said knickerbockers. “No mind, just move off the property and we needn’t lodge a complaint. All of us have been known to overindulge when celebrating the tournament.”

As Morgan attempted to stand the man reached out to help him.

“I might have slept a night or two on the course myself,” the man said. “But never during tournament week. Some things are sacred.”

“Where is everybody?” asked Morgan, looking at all the emptiness around him.

“By now, everyone is at the pub,” said the man. “The Round Table.” 

“But, I mean, how long was I out? They wouldn’t just leave like that. This isn’t right. And I’m not drunk.” 

The man folded his arms around his umbrella and said, “Well, be that as it may, here we are now. You can come with me to The Round Table if you like.” 

Morgan spun slowly, surveying his surroundings. Everything was the same, but different. In one place there was too much gorse, and in another too little. The fescue was too long here and too short there. There were bunkers missing from the fairway. The sky, the light, all different. Even the castle looked different somehow. He looked around but couldn’t find his hat. 

“I need to talk to an official,” said Morgan, “or just anyone, really, who can explain what is happening.”

The man laughed and said, “I suspect they are all at The Round Table by now and well into their cups.”

Maybe grinding just to make the cut every week could cause psychosis, thought Morgan.

“My name is Kay,” said knickerbockers, “I’m the club’s Golf Captain.” He took Morgan’s elbow and started walking him away from the castle. “Who might you be?”

Morgan stopped. Was it possible that anyone associated with golf didn’t recognize him, the man who had gone into the final round of The Masters expecting to win his first Masters and his fourth major with a nine shot lead and against all odds, failed to win? It was only four years ago but was regularly referred to as one of the most iconic collapses in golf history. It made all of the lists and when combined with his ongoing fall in golf rankings, ensured he remained a golfing news story. At least once, at every event, he would hear someone in the crowd mention his lovely new moniker, “Morgan Shanks.” 

“I’m a professional golfer,” he said, feeling hapless. “My name is Morgan Hanks. ”

Kay raised his chin. “Professional? Well, let’s just keep that between us then, if you don’t mind.”

“Just wait a minute, I am a professional golfer from America and I was just playing the 17th hole in the Wales Open and there were hundreds of people on the course and officials and cameras and hospitality tents and grandstands and … now it’s all gone.”

“Come, come,” said Kay, “there’s a good man. I see you’re having a rough time of it so let’s get you inside and in good company and we can talk more about the Wales Open, an intriguing idea to be sure. Most of the lads are go along and get along types, but I think they might take exception to your clothing, so be prepared. Are these your pajamas?”

Morgan was wearing his typical Friday uniform, black pants and black windshirt over a polo that matched his Citrus Glow Footjoy golf shoes. “This is mostly normal where I come from,” he said.

“Right,” said Kay, “a Martian then. Understood.”

[CHAPTER 2: THE ROUND TABLE]

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