“The mental processes of golfers like Walter Hagen and a few others has been that if their opponents make a great shot, it is not for them to worry about that shot but to make a greater shot themselves and thereby impress upon their opponents that it is no use to try and outdo them.” -Gene Sarazen
Morgan spent less than an hour practicing putting and then walked the course with Clarence. Because the tournament was in progress, he couldn’t make any close inspections but he got a decent look at the undulation on the greens and a chance to think about how the shorter yardages might make his course management different from 2022. The length of the course was significantly shorter in 1922, in the neighborhood of 6,500 yards, nearly 800 yards shorter than 2022. Most of the gains in yardage came from walk-backs from greens to the next tee. In 2022, the 17th tee literally and somewhat awkwardly flew the 16th green. The 17th tee was also the only hole with a different par than in 2022. A par 4 in 2022, it was a par 5 in 1922, which could take the castle out of play unless a drive was mishit or too ambitious.
Morgan arrived five minutes early for his start and found Kay to be the only member of their foursome already arrived. Unlike every other person who had seen him that day, Kay did not give him an up-and-down and appeared amused if not shocked. In fact, it seemed like Kay had expected him to show up in his own clothes.
“Nice cap,” said Kay, commenting on the only thing he was wearing from 1922. “I trust Clarence has taken good care of you, my Yankee friend.”
“Clarence has taken good care of this wayward golfer,” said Morgan.
Kay looked at Clarence and Morgan thought they shared some sort of moment, an acknowledgement or agreement, punctuated by a nod from Clarence.
“Clarence approves of me,” said Morgan. “Well, I approve of him too. And sorry about the outfit.”
Kay smiled. “Clarence warned me, but no matter. It will make for good conversation at The Round Table for months if not years.”
The club member that Morgan remembered as Vice president Lance arrived shortly, stunningly handsome and seemingly very confident. He too ignored Morgan’s clothes.
“I’m sorry that Arty was called away and cannot be with us,” said Lance. “But I am very glad you are here to stand in his stead, Mr. Hanks.”
“Is Gwen traveling to Normandy with Arty?” asked Kay.
“No,” said Lance. “I mean, no, I don’t know, I have no idea really.”
“Just so,” said Kay.
There was an awkward silence that Morgan didn’t understand but that he thought Clarence did seem to understand if he read the smirk on his face correctly. Before he could sidle up to Claranence and ask him what was happening a car horn fractured the silence. A car that Morgan thought of as antique parted the spectators and pulled up to the tee box and out of the back seat jumped Walter Hagen.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, sorry to cut it so close, I trust everyone is well,” said Hagen. Then he spotted Morgen. And then he spotted Morgan’s clothes. His smile erupted as he stretched out his hand.
“A fellow American and an experimenter, I’m told, a man interested in innovation, though you look like a car mechanic to me. Perhaps that is appropriate.”
Morgan assumed that because all of his clothing was more or less the same color that he looked like he was wearing coveralls, at least to Hagen’s eyes. “Yes, I guess so,” he said, somewhat sheepishly.
“Well, those shoes tell the story. I’m beyond intrigued. They’re so ugly but look so comfortable, like slippers. We are kindred spirits. Look here.” Hagen reached into his pocket and pulled out a wooden tee that looked very much like a typical modern tee from Morgan’s time.
“This is Dr. Lowell’s Reddy Tee,” said Hagen. “R-E-D-D-Y. It’s new and I’m their ambassador. And here, have one of these.” Hagen pulled a ball marker out of his pocket and handed it to Morgan. “After 8 years, I still have dozens of them.”
Morgan examined the green and red marker with an “M” in the center. Around the edge it read “1914 U.S. Open Midlothian C.C.”
“That’s great,” said Morgan, unsure of how to respond. “You won, I mean, in Chicago in 1914. Uh, could I maybe get a few of those tees?”
Hagen went to his golf bag and pulled out an overflowing handful of the tees and handed them to Clarence. “You can have as many as you want,” said Hagen, “but if anyone asks you about them, be sure to say they are Reddy Tees as used by Walter Hagen.”
“Happy to do it,” said Morgan. “You know, if they were willing to give you more money you might put their name on your hat or your sweater. Like this.” He pointed to the “ADP” embroidered on his left breast.
Hagen shook his head. “I don’t wear a hat. Why would I cover this hair? And why would I ruin a cashmere sweater by doing that to it? I thought those were your initials.”
“My name is Morgan Hanks. As an American, but also as a golfer, I want to congratulate you on your victory at The Open. I understand the conditions were brutal at times.”
“Brutal doesn’t begin to tell the tale,” said Hagen. “But today we have the sun and a sweet breeze.” He closed his eyes and Morgan realized Hagen was being sincere. He was actually trying to take in the moment.
“Why are you here, golfer Morgan, with your odd clothing and borrowed clubs?” Hagen asked abruptly.
“Well I …” Morgan hesitated, thinking of his conversation with Francis Ouimet, and decided he had nothing to lose by telling the truth. “I actually don’t know why I’m here, Mr. Hagen. To be perfectly honest, I don’t even know how I got here.”
“Call me Haig. Feeling out of your element, like you don’t belong here?” asked Hagen.
“That would be putting it mildly.”
“I had my driver stop so I could watch you practice from the road this morning. I’d heard there was a wild card in the field. I don’t believe in it myself, practicing so much. Why waste a shot in practice that I might need on the course? To each his own. You looked like a golfer to me. A little uncertain, perhaps, but a golfer, sure. I’m going to guess that you are carrying around a golf game from the past. Maybe that’s why you’re here, running away from the past, or trying to quiet the past. But all you have is this game today. I’m sure of it. The past is hanging all over you like Marley’s chains. You’ll swing easier if you drop them.”
“It’s more like the future, actually, and I can’t,” Morgan confessed, surprising himself. “It was probably the most important round of my life and I had a nine stroke lead going into the final round and I gave it all away.”
“You lost,” said Hagen.
“I choked,” Morgan rasped. “The guy who won gained just two lousy strokes that day. I double-bogeyed two holes, bogeyed six holes and birdied just one single hole on a course that I had dominated for three days.”
“You lost,” said Hagen. “That’s all that happened. You lost. But you continue to lose because you carry that day everywhere you go, every time you play. You’re not swinging a golf club, you’re swinging that day and it’s too heavy a thing.”
“Let it go? I’ve received that advice from many many people and no disrespect, but I think it’s bullshit because nobody can tell me how to do that. How do I let it go?”
Hagen squared up in front of Morgan, as if preparing for a physical confrontation.
“You can’t let go of something you haven’t embraced first,” said Hagen.
“What?”
“You lost,” said Hagen, breaking the spell and looking around at the others in their group who it seemed had not been listening to their exchange.
“Who is coming in second today?” Hagen called.
A Connecticut Golfer on King Arthur's Course 
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