“I suppose I should have picked up my ball, as most golfers would. I’ve never done that and I intended to show the British that I could take a beating and still smile. I took the beating all right. I trailed fifty-third in a field of fifty-four.” -Walter Hagen
Morgan had climbed into bed half expecting to wake up in 2022, lying in the shadow of the castle ruins on the 17th hole with Tex fretting over him; and he half expected what happened, waking up still in 1922. What he hadn’t expected or even considered were dreams. He’d dreamed he was standing at the 17th, the castle hole, and talking to Bobby Jones.
“What are you thinking?” asked Jones, echoing Tex.
“I was thinking I’d go through the castle, maybe a 3-Iron.”
“Ah, The Silver Badger, 1972, bullet through the castle.”
“Wait, didn’t you die in 1971? How do you know about that shot?”
“You’ve seemingly traveled in time from 2022 back to 1922 and the thing you’re questioning is how Bobby Jones in a dream knows about a golf shot that happened a year after he died?”
“Fair point.”
“Look, we need to work on your 1922 swing,” said Jones. “It needs to be looser, more fluid, less technical, and more handsy, I guess you might say.”
“Are you going to make me lift my left heel?”
“Don’t be a smart ass. Just follow me.”
Jones turned his back to Morgan and started swinging his club. He looked down and saw he was holding what looked like the same hickory shaft iron as Jones. He started swinging, trying to mirror Jones. As he started to come into line with Jones’ tempo and style he arrived on a swing thought: tranquility. He knew Jones had not been tranquil in his mind, but his swing always looked relaxed to Morgan.
Then Jones was hitting balls that were lined up, one after another without pausing, just stepping forward after each swing. Even though Jones was flushing each shot the sound of his club hitting the ball was the clicky sound Morgan associated with topping a ball, and it almost made him wince. Then the sound of golf shots became the sound of someone knocking at a door and Morgan woke up. Someone was knocking on his door.
It was a teenage boy with a canvas golf bag over one shoulder, a garment bag over the other, and a pair of brown and tan leather golf shoes, one in each hand. Handing Morgan the shoes, he said, “Sir, I’m Clarence, sir, sent along by Captain Kay his very self, sir, to deliver your clothes, golfing clubs, and golfing shoes, which I’ve done already as you can see, sir.” And then the boy, somewhat inexplicably, saluted.
Morgan was frozen by the onslaught, unsure he’d understood everything the boy said due to his accent and completely forgetting about the mystery of dreaming inside a dream. He shook it off.
“Please come in, Clarence, is it?”
“Yes sir, Clarence ‘tis indeed, sir.”
“Okay, okay, Clarence, do me a favor, enough with the sirs and for god sake no more saluting”
Looking serious, Clarence marched to the bed where he deposited the garment bag and then leaned the golf clubs against the wall. Then he suddenly grimaced, smacked his forehead with his palm, and exclaimed, “Ah ya tin ya.”
“What is it?”
“I forgot the most important part.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m to be your caddie for today’s tournament, if you’ll have me, that is.”
Morgan shut the door, put the shoes on a chair and crossed his arms. “Caddie, huh?”
“Yes, si…uh, Mr. Hanks”
“Do you have experience as a caddie?”
Clarence immediately thawed into the excited teenager he actually was.
“Of course I have and plenty of it. I’ve been a caddie at Tri Brenin since I was a wee lad of 13.”
“And how old are you now?”
“I’m 16 now, I’ll be 17 in December.”
“Are you a good caddie?”
Clarence made a face like he smelled something rotten as he sauntered over to look out the window and point toward the course. “I’m the best caddie on the Brenin and everybody knows it, and not a bad golfer myself neither.”
“You must know The Links at … Tri Brenin quite well then.”
“Like the back of me hand I do, the name of every blade of grass.”
“Okay, Clarence, you’ve got the job.”
“Tidy!” he chirped. “That’s alright then Mr. Hanks, we’ll give it a good go.”
“You can call me Morgan, please. If you have to call me Mr. Hanks around others who might find the familiarity inappropriate, that’s fine, but let’s keep it to Morgan when we’re alone, and I already need your advice.”
“More clubs, Mr. Morgan, I think you should bring more clubs. Fourteen isn’t nearly enough.”
“Fourteen suits me, it’s what I’m used to. How many clubs do you play?”
“Me? Why, I play seven because seven is all I have. I’m just a caddie, but the men at the club, most of them play 18 clubs at least.”
“And the professionals?” asked Morgan.
“The professionals,” said Clarence, “they ain’t golfers at all, they’re magicians and jugglers and some of them play even less than 14 clubs.”
“Well, 14 is my number, but I do need your advice regarding my shoes.” Morgan reached into the wardrobe and pulled out his 2022 Citrus Glow Footjoys which looked more like running shoes, even to his eyes, than golf shoes.
Clarence made his rotten smell face. “Blydi … what are those?”
“Well, these are my golf shoes.”
“But why do they have to be that color? They hurt me eyes.”
“Here, feel the material.”
Clarence backed away.
“My question,” said Morgan, “is can I get away with wearing them? Will people freak out?”
“I don’t know anything about any freaks at all but you will be the talk of the tournament, I dare say.”
“Talk? Believe me, I don’t care about talk. I just don’t want to create a problem for Kay or the club with rules officials, or embarrass anyone other than myself.”
“Plenty of men out there might take the piss out of you, to be sure, but I don’t see any problem with the rules. It’s not that sort of day, it’s more of an exhibition, though a lot of money will change hands and that will be taken seriously, you can count on that.”
“Okay, fair enough. Do you know our start time?”
“First group starts at 11:00 and you’re in the final group with Captain Kay, Vice President Lance, and Mr. Hagen, start time 3:30.”
Morgan almost dropped his shoe and he suddenly found himself searching again for the feeling of this all being a dream. But it wouldn’t come. He’d crossed a line and, as he thought about it, he didn’t really care. Dream. Delusion. Dementia. It didn’t matter because he was going to play a round of golf with Walter Hagen, a golfer to whom he had been occasionally compared early in his career.
“What time is it now?”
“It must be nearly 9:00 as it was almost a quarter to when I walked through the pub downstairs.”
“Is there a practice range at Tri Brenin?”
“Range?”
“A place to practice, especially with my driver?”
“Driver?”
“I mean, you know, the club I use to drive the ball further than any other club. What did Kay call it?”
“Your long club, your play club you mean. There is a pasture just east of the course that players use and boys you can hire to fetch the balls. I did that myself before I became a caddie. Behind the clubhouse is short grass where men have a go with their putting cleeks.”
“I don’t have any money,” murmured Morgan, thinking out loud.
“No you don’t,” said Clarence, patting his pocket, “I’ve got all the pres we’ll need courtesy of Mr. Kay.”
Morgan grabbed the golf bag and examined the clubs. He pulled one to get a closer look. The back of the iron indicated it was manufactured by R. Forgan & Sons, LTD, St. Andrews, and added for good measure Made in Scotland. Mashie. “Holy Shit. These things are insane.”
He looked up to see Clarence blushing and handed him the bag. “Meet me at the pasture in 30 minutes and bring someone to fetch balls. We have balls?”
“We will,” said Clarence, catching his energy. “Maybe not all strictly legal these days but good enough for a practice bout.”
Clarence moved toward the door and as he opened it Morgan asked him to wait.
“I’m a little fuzzy on a few details for golf over here,” he said. “When we hit a shot with our long club do we use a wooden tee or sand or something else?”
Clarence reached into his coat pocket and removed a handful of small wooden cones. “Nowadays most members use these, though a few old timers still use sand, but there won’t be sand at the tees today unless someone makes a request.”
Morgan took one of the wooden cones and examined it closely. “What the hell,” he said, and gave it back to Clarence, who was blushing again. “I’ll see you soon, Clarence, and the more balls and boys for the fetching, the better.”
Your golf correspondent is at King Arthur’s Course, The Links at Saint David’s in Wales to report on stiff competition among some of the best golfers in the world, but he cannot ignore the lark that is Wednesday’s exhibition tournament wherein some locals play a round with some official tournament players. A bit of fluff in terms of golf, perhaps, but this correspondent has it on good authority that behind the scenes there is serious money at stake with handicaps in play. The field includes several of the world’s best golfers old and new, members of King Arthur’s Golf Club, and some local officials, including the mayor of Saint David’s who has declared himself to be, without fear of contradiction, the worst golfer on the course this day. Playing with Open Champion Walter Hagen are the club’s Golf Captain Kay, Vice President Lance, and an American said to be a friend of the club but whose name has yet to be provided to your correspondent. The club president, Arty Penn, who would traditionally compete in the Champion’s group, was called away just last night on personal business in Normandy.
A Connecticut Golfer on King Arthur's Course 
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