“It is just as well that the average person in the gallery does not appreciate the emotions to which the competitors are subject; otherwise, we should all be regarded as utter fools.” -Bobby Jones
By the time they reached The Round Table, Morgan had decided to surrender to the dream or the psychotic break or whatever it was. He was sure he was actually still lying in the grass, unconscious, EMT’s on the way and Tex kneeling next to him, repeating his name. Just before entering the pub he stopped and closed his eyes, listening hard for his name, but heard nothing.
Inside the pub there was, indeed, a ludicrously large round table that dominated the room and around which sat at least a dozen somewhat boisterous men, all drinking.
“Lads,” called Kay. “Lads, lads, I’d like to introduce my new friend, Morgan Hanks. He’s from America and, more importantly, he’s a golfer, though clearly an unorthodox breed.”
There was a mild cheer, raised glasses, much muttering about his clothes, and a chaotic mix of invitations to sit and join them. Kay guided him to two chairs and almost as soon as they were seated, two glasses of beer arrived. He didn’t normally drink during a tournament but smiled at the thought now and took a long pull of the room temperature beer.
They went around the table, introducing themselves. Each introduction was treated as a toast and everyone took a drink. Morgan’s first beer lasted through Lance, Wayne, Garrett, and Percy. He needed a second beer for Boris, Tristen, Harris, Gale, and the club president, Arty. There were a few others, but he stopped listening when he felt a light buzz coming on and wondered if his injury in the real world was serious and he was feeling the effects of medication.
He noticed everyone dressed more or less in the same style as Kay, plus-fours and tweed. It occurred to him that he didn’t know what year he was dreaming about, even though everything looked so detailed. He leaned over to Kay and asked what year it was.
Kay squinted at him for a moment and then smiled, “Why, it’s 1922. Tuesday, September 19, 1922.”
“Right, 1922. And what is the tournament that begins tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is an exhibition of sorts. The official tournament is Thursday and Friday and it’s The Links at Saint David’s Invitational. Unofficially, it’s King Arthur’s Call. If you ask me it should be the other way around. In fact, it was King Arthur’s Call for 20 years, from 1888–when Old Tom came down and helped us expand from nine to 18 holes–to 1908 when we started to invite players from America and Europe.”
The Links at Saint David’s Invitational sounded vaguely familiar to Morgan but King Arthur’s Call didn’t. He wondered if his brain had just made it up. He would ask Tex when he woke up if there had ever been a tournament named King Arthur’s Call.
“It was thought by some,” said Kay, “that King Arthur’s Call was too colloquial, not serious enough for an international event. Bosh! I voted against it. Not that it matters much as everyone still calls it King Arthur’s Call just like they call the course King Arthur’s Course.
“The Older Course,” said Morgan.
Kay’s face lit up and he started laughing, “Oh, that’s brilliant … brilliant. Nicely done, I must remember that.” Wiping at his eyes, he added, “and maybe, one day, The Wales Open.”
Your golf correspondent arrived by train at Haverfordwest and bus to Saint David’s on Sunday as the golfers themselves began arriving from every point on the compass . They traveled by ship, by train, by automobile. French golf champion, Eugene Lafitte, arrived in an airplane that he landed by way of a pre-arranged stunt on the fairway of the first hole. This year marks the 29th edition over 34 years of The Links at Saint David’s Invitational, formerly and forever known as King Arthur’s Call by the Welsh and true lovers of the game around the globe, many of whom believe that golf was first imported if not invented by King Arthur, who some say ruled these lands in ancient days and created three golf holes which are today the first, seventeenth, and eighteenth holes on King Arthur’s Course.
On Tuesday, this year’s U.S. Open and PGA Championship winner Gene Sarazen was spotted sharing a practice round with Walter Hagen, fresh off his victory at The Open Championship at Royal St. George’s this past June, the first American born golfer to do so. American amateur golf star, Francis Ouimet, was also spotted taking in a practice round on Tuesday alongside those beacons of British golf, Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, which had every appearance of a reunion to this golf writer. It is said Mr. Ouimet is here to gain more links golf practice ahead of next year’s Amateur Championship at Royal Cinque Ports and the International Team Match, now named The Walker Cup, at Saint Andrews. All in all the stage is set following tomorrow’s exhibition tournament for a thrilling competition to begin Thursday morning as 72 golfers pull out their grass clubs to do battle on King Arthur’s Course.
Eventually, Morgan had to ignore his fear that if he used the restroom in his dream he’d be doing the same thing in real life, minus the restroom. Four beers took their toll. When he came back to the room with the round table Kay beckoned him to a seat at the bar.
“I’ve asked Sandy, our barkeep and proprietor, to prepare one of her special bedtime toddies for you,” Kay said.
“Bedtime? I don’t. I mean, I’m not sure…”
Kay put a hand on his shoulder. “Morgan, I’ve made the arrangements, your room is upstairs, along with fresh nightwear. I know that the life of a professional golfer can be … well, shall we say, inconsistent if not unpredictable. Walter Hagen has a lovely suite not far from here, but at The Open two years ago he had a room at a Pub in Deal.”
“Kay, I don’t know what to say.” And Morgan actually didn’t know what to say. If this was a dream, it didn’t matter what he said. Nothing mattered. But he felt like this moment did matter, even if he was actually just talking to himself. It felt meaningful. Why would his mind create this situation, these words, if it meant nothing? His golfing career had been in free fall since he crumbled at The Masters and he’d been on the receiving end of much advice and many kind words and gestures but few of them had meant as much to him as how he was being treated by Kay. If this were 2022, he’d be recognized and treated well by default, but he was a complete stranger to Kay.
“Say thank you,” said Kay, “or maybe save that because I now need a favor from you. Tomorrow we have a sort of pre-tournament event, a bit of nonsense that attracts good attention. Some of the club members and prominent locals play a round of golf with some of the official tournament players.”
“A pro-am,” said Morgan.
“Pram?”
“No, Pro and Am, it’s a combination of the words professional and amateur, pro-am.”
“But many of the tournament players are amateurs too, your own Francis Ouimet, for example.”
The idea that he was in the same time and place as Francis Ouimet and Walter Hagen, even if it was all just an impossibly lucid dream, caused Morgan to pause.
“Nevertheless,” Kay continued, “my group is suddenly short one golfer. I was hoping you might agree to play.”
“You mean hickory shafts and cleeks and mashies and the ball, I don’t even know about the ball.”
“Cleeks and mashies, yes, of course, what else? As for the ball, most of us around the club are playing Dunlop these days.”
“It’s just, well, I’ve been playing with some pretty innovative equipment lately and I might not be able to adjust.”
Kay shook his head. “Are you talking about those Bristol steel shafts? I hear they’ll rust over in one season and cause pain in the hands with every shot. But no matter, I can put together your bag quickly. How many clubs do you normally carry?”
“Well 14, always 14,”
“A little light to my way of thinking,” said Kay, “but stick to 14 clubs if that is what you know. Ted Ray wrote in his new book that he only uses 10 clubs. I can’t imagine, but to each his own. I think I can get you from long club to putting cleek in 14.
Morgan felt himself giving in to whatever was happening, to the dream or his broken brain. “Sure, okay, I’m in, I’ll play golf with you and use whatever clubs you can give me. But Kay, you have no idea if I’m any good at golf.”
“Good man,” said Kay. “I know a golfer when I see one. Keep your secrets if you must or pretend to amnesia for whatever reason, I care not, but you are a golfer. I know it. Once on the course, the golfer will come forth. Here now, write down your sizes, we can’t have you wearing these … hmm, shall we say innovative clothes on Tri Brenin.”
Morgan was about to ask what Tri Brenin was when Kay anticipated his question.
“Tri Brenin means King’s Three, referring to the original three holes,” then he winked and added, “built by King Arthur his very self. Sometimes you’ll hear the caddies say The Brenin.”
A Connecticut Golfer on King Arthur's Course 
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