“I bear constantly in mind the conviction that the best way to win any important event is to play just as one would play a private round at home, and not endeavor to accomplish the performance of a lifetime. There is such a thing as trying too hard; it begets anxiety, which is usually fatal–especially in putting.” -Harry Vardon
Clarence and four young boys stood at attention as Morgan approached the well manicured pasture, all of their eyes looking at him in shock, even Clarence, who had only seen him in his borrowed pajamas. The only thing he was wearing from 1922 was a cap because his hat had apparently fallen off and been left behind in 2022.
“I’m sorry Clarence, I couldn’t wear those clothes, they were just too restricting, especially that jacket.”
“The coat you mean?” said Clarence. “Most of the men will be down to their jumpers, sort of like you’ve got on, without those letters. But dim pryderon, no worries, the golf goes on.”
Clarence apparently gave some sort of signal because the four boys suddenly dispersed, running off into the field and he produced a ball and one of the cone-shaped tees and handed them to Morgan.
The ball felt smaller and somehow harder. The dimples were squares, or attempts at squares. He pushed the ball and wooden cone into the ground and Clarence presented his long club and then backed away with a bow.
“A little less ceremony, if you don’t mind,” said Morgan. “I think you’re going to be disappointed with my performance. These clubs are very different from what I normally use.”
And yet, the long club, with its relatively small club head size felt comfortable in his hands, though the leather grip felt more than a little thin. He took a few practice swings. The 100 year old driver didn’t feel as alien in his hands as he had anticipated and he decided to err on the side of power over precision on his first attempt. If he was going to break a shaft, best to get it done at the start so he had a feel for the tolerance.
He sliced it but it was a long slice, he guessed, for a golfer of this era, maybe 200 yards. The ball left surprising clear evidence of a swipe on the club face.
“I don’t suppose I could get a glove from the pro shop?” asked Morgan, though he had a vague feeling as he spoke that there was no pro shop and there were no gloves.”
“Gloves?” Clarence seemed a little exasperated. “It’s a little warm for gloves.”
“Nevermind.”
Morgan asked him to take all the clubs out of the bag and line them up by distance. “Send one of the boys for paper and pencil.”
When Clarence finished laying out the clubs, Morgan counted. “Clarence, that’s 16 clubs, you added two.”
“I confess I did Mr. Morgan but I couldn’t stand the thought of it. Captain Kay had pulled your Jigger and Baffie to get to 14 but it’s just not right, sending you out there like that.”
“Okay, fine, 16 it is. Now tell me their names?”
“You don’t know their names?”
“Let’s just say I’m unsure of the order. I play with a group who think golf clubs should have numbers not names. I guess we’re a little eccentric when it comes to golf, but we’re very committed to the number system.”
Clarence nodded at Morgan. “These men, they wear shoes like that too?”
“Some of them do.” Morgan liked that Clarence was loosening up and giving him some grief. “Start with the Long Club and work back to whatever that is next to the putter… the Putting Cleek.”
“That there is the Jigger, just so.”
After he’d listed down all the mashies and niblicks Morgan got to work, pausing and trying to call back Bobby Jones’ swing from his dream. He settled on something between his 2022 swing and Bobby Jones’ swing. For more than three hours he hit through the clubs, staying with each until he felt some sense of control and the most likely distance if he hit it straight. Straight was the strategy, his only goal being to not make Kay regret the invitation. Attempts at shaping shots were wildly inconsistent.
When he finally stopped, it was more to give the boys fetching balls a break. Most of the clubs on his list now had two numbers next to each name, the first being the approximate distance he thought he might, on average and with a decided lack of precision, hit that club with a full swing and solid contact, and the second being the number he assigned to each club . He rounded all the yardage down to reflect his pessimism, his tendency to guess high without a range-finder, and to make everything simple and easier to organize in his mind. Even as he finished his list he realized the modern names were irrelevant. It was like trying to factor the exchange rate during every transaction when traveling overseas. It didn’t really matter. Things cost what they cost and you have what you have to spend. Value can be relative to your resources in the moment. Nevertheless, having the modern era numbers helped him relax, even if they were giant approximations.
Long Club (230) Driver
Brassie (200) 3-wood
Wooden Cleek (190) 4-wood
Spoon (180) 5-wood
Baffie (170) 7-wood
Cleek (170) 1-iron
Mid Iron (160) 2-iron
Mid Mashie (150) 3-iron
Mashie Iron (140) 4-iron
Mashie (130) 5-iron
Spade Mashie (120) 6-iron
Mashie Niblick (110) 7-iron
Pitching Niblick (100) 8-iron
Niblick (90) 9-iron
Jigger (N/A) Chipper
Putting Cleek (N/A) Putter
He missed having wedges but he could open and back off the Niblicks and make due. Still, he was curious. “Clarence, is there something with a little more loft, I mean, with the face a little more like this?” He rolled his open palm toward the sky.
“You mean the Rut Niblick.”
Clarence started to run off but Morgan stopped him. “Trade it for the Jigger,” he said.
Clarence took the Jigger away but didn’t look pleased. When he returned, Morgan spent nearly a half hour with the club and then crossed out Jigger on his list and wrote:
Rut Niblick (75) P. wedge
“Time to putt,” he said. “But can we putt with just the balls we’ll be using in the tournament?”
“Those would be brand new Dunlops, orders of Mr. Kay, and they’re in the bag. You need to putt them all to see if any are off-center.”
“Off-center?”
“It happens, even with the best balls, a manufacturing error I guess you might say.
While a handful of golfers had come out to the pasture during his practice session, none stayed for more than 10 or 15 minutes and a few dozen balls. All of them stared at Morgan’s clothes, especially his shoes. The practice putting area by contrast was relatively crowded with eight men practicing. There were no holes, just small flags stuck in the ground at random spots, and no real undulation. The best he could do was get a sense of the green speed.
“Clarence, how does the grass in this practice area compare to the greens on the course?”
No answer. He turned to find Clarence staring across the grass, his mouth open. Following his gaze, Morgan found himself looking at a man who looked vaguely familiar.
“Who is that?”
Clarence frowned at him. “You don’t know Francis Ouimet when you see him? I got to see him play at the International Team Match at Royal Liverpool last year when I caddied for our local young man, Luke Butler.”
Morgan might not have been a history buff but the moment he showed promise as a golfer his dad made him start reading the biographies of all the great golfers. For every four days he spent obsessively watching Tiger Woods win yet again, he was expected to learn something about the life of another champion golfer. When he was in middle school he must have watched the movie “The Greatest Game Ever Played,” the story of Francis Ouimet winning the U.S. Open at age 19, more than a dozen times.
Before he even realized what he was doing he had walked across the grass and stuck out his hand.
Ouimet was examining the roll of his last putt. He looked up at Morgan, and then looked down at Morgan’s shoes.
“Mr. Ouimet, it’s an honor to meet you,” said Morgan.
Ouimet shook his hand but looked suspicious. “An honor? Mr. Ouimet? You mistake me for my father.”
“No, no,” stammered Morgan, “it’s just, well, as a teenager I was a little obsessed with your U.S. Open win.”
Standing up from his putting position, Ouimet looked even more suspicious and Morgan realized that right now he was a little older than Ouimet and would not have been a teenager in 1913, the year he won.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a little nervous. I meant my teenage brother and I were obsessed with your win.”
“You’re an American and a golfer?” asked Ouimet, nodding at Morgan’s putter.
“Yes, from Hartford.”
Ouimet bent back over his next putt. “I can’t claim to know every competitive amateur in America, but I think I can fairly claim to know most competitive amateurs in New England. I don’t remember ever meeting you, Mr…
“Hanks, Morgan Hanks, and I’m not someone you would have ever met or even heard of. Here and now I’m an amateur, for sure, but I don’t know how competitive I’ll be.
“A lawyerly answer,” said Ouimet. “What do you do when you’re not golfing?”
Not golfing, thought Morgan. Not golfing? When had he ever not been not golfing? He’d never had another job. But he did share ownership on a few golf courses, so he said, “Real estate.”
This seemed to capture Ouimet’s attention. “That might explain your presence here,” he said, “and perhaps your odd attire. I mean, no offense you understand, but real estate brokers tend to be, in my experience, new thinkers. What line? Residential? Commercial?”
“Golf courses,” Morgan blurted out, and then winced. His golf courses wouldn’t exist for more than 90 years, so he wouldn’t be able to answer too many questions. He could see that he now had Ouimet’s full attention.
“A developer then. Where are your golf courses?”
Morgan decided to tell the truth while remaining vague. “Arizona, Oregon, and Texas.”
“What are their names, maybe I’ve played one?”
Reluctantly, Morgan said, “I’m something of a silent partner.”
This threw a wet blanket on the conversation. “I see,” said Ouimet. “I understand completely, of course. It was nice meeting you. Good luck today. I’m intrigued by your shoes. I hope you’ll explain them to me some time.” He bent over another putt.
Morgan walked back over to Clarence feeling overwhelmed with both joy and the tinge of regret that he could not have a real conversation with Francis Ouimet.
“You met Francis Ouimet,” said Clarence.
“I met Francis Ouimet, can you believe it?”
“Yes, I saw it with me own eyes. I like him, but I like Bobby Jones better because he’s Welsh, I mean, his people. Some of the club members think Bobby Jones might be the next Vardon.”
“For starters,” said Morgan. “Now tell me about the grass here, how does it compare to the grass on the actual greens?”
“Tolerably close,” said Clarence, “but I’d expect many of the actual greens to be faster than usual if I know Mr. Mordred, the greenkeeper, as I think I do.”
A Connecticut Golfer on King Arthur's Course 
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