“A Hacker Plays The Big Ones” is a short story authored by Steven R. Roberts. The short story, written two months following the trip, tells the tale of Roberts and his friend, Bob Blackman’s, golf odyssey around Scotland in the 1970s where the two played four of most historic courses in the game: St. Andrews, Carnoustie, Muirfield and Gleneagles.

We have broken the short story into a four-parter and will publish Part 2. of the story in the coming days.

A Hacker Plays The Big Ones: Pt. 1

“RABBITS!” the starter said, reading from a rolled-up list of tee times taken from the pocket of his baggy raincoat.

“Rabbits,” he repeated, becoming more annoyed.

“Excuse me,” I said, not wanting to get too close to the man for fear of getting whacked with the old putter he used as a walking stick.  “Did you say Roberts?”

“That’s it, lad, Rabbits,” the starter said, with his weathered face and his eyes peering up through bushy gray eyebrows. “Now, I’ve said it three times. You’re on the tee. Come along smartly now.”

Bob and I picked up our clubs and walked briskly to the middle of the first tee at St. Andrews, Scotland. The first tee and the adjoining practice putting green were surrounded with would-be golfers, mostly men staring and waiting, and now they were waiting for us.

The usual spitting rain had brought out the sweaters – jumpers, they called them – and rain gear, as we waited for a chance to play where the legends of the game had walked since the first “Open Championship” in 1754.

The bulldog-faced starter stood close, wiping the water from his watch as I teed my ball up and took a quick practice swing. It was quite a moment, made all the more nerve-racking by my stay overnight as a guest in the Perth city jail. I wondered what else could happen when something else did. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed I had inadvertently placed my ball on a pink tee. Had that tee actually come from my pocket? This inadvertent act of disrespect would not fit with my vision of this reverent moment.

I backed away from the ball and took a white tee out of my pocket. I tried to steady my hand as I re-teed the ball and it fell off. Not wanting to look back at the impatient dark ring of observers, I re-teed and took a quick swing before it fell again. The ball sort of scooted down the left side of the fairway in some kind of a “C-“ way but at least I survived the first tee. Bob went through the process more smoothly. We grabbed our bags off the ground and trudged down the first fairway, away from the scrutiny of the lord of the tees.

And so began the story of two of the world’s golf nuts who secretly harbored the universal dream that through some stroke of magic they would be able to play the historic Scottish courses responsible for creating the legends of golf lore. We hoped to play like the pros, if only for a day, or maybe a hole.

The dream embraced the thin hope that our normally faulty-but-workable swings would smash drives to record distances, have our iron shots pierce through the wind to stop near the hole and, best of all, have 10-foot birdie putts disappear like chipmunks late for dinner.

Come join us if just for the smiles along the way.

Bob Blackman and I had been temporarily transferred to England in 1978. He was with a drug company in Australia. I was working on a world design car for Ford Motor Company and Bob’s wife, Jan, was my secretary during my tour of duty in England.

Bob and I had met at a Ford event. Discovering our mutual interest in golf, we became friends. We vowed to get to Scotland to play the legendary courses before the end of our assignments in England.

A year later we were on a four-day trip with tee times at St. Andrews, Carnoustie, Gleneagles and Muirfield, four of the most historic courses in the history of the game. We weren’t going to be playing for a championship, but we did establish a bet of five pounds each day on the medal, or total score, results. We also agreed to the bet of a new ball for the match play winner each day. The British have a quirky tradition of betting a new ball on the outcome of golf matches. Finally, birdies were worth .20 p (about a dime at the time), and a hole in one was worth a bottle of champagne. Conservative bettors, but each prize would be hard-fought in our version of the Walker Cup.

We were both living in Brentwood, England, less than an hour east of London. On our first day, we drove eight hours to Peebles, Scotland, just south of Edinburgh. Our hotel, the Tontine, was built in 1808, the kind of information that made me check the location of the fire escapes. Luckily, in those days they didn’t construct buildings much over three or four stories high, and we were on the second floor. I also noted that there was a healthy stand of bushes directly under our window.

Our tee time at Carnoustie the next morning was for 11:04, and the course was a couple of hour’s drive above Edinburgh. It had been a long day, and Bob went to bed early to prepare for the next day. I was a bit nervous about the next day and lay awake for two hours listening to Bob’s happy snore.

Breakfast didn’t start until 8:00 AM in the dining room overlooking the Tweed River. The room cost about $35, including breakfast. The room seemed comfortable until I ran my forehead into the door jamb and realized the building was sized for the time when George III was King and Thomas Jefferson was President of a new, struggling country across the Atlantic.

We got a late start, but the bangers, muffin and eggs were a fitting send-off for two aspiring but yet-undiscovered golfing stars.

The trip took two hours, and we turned up Links Avenue for a look at our first championship challenge. At the end of the street was the quaint old golf shop (small gazebo) where we paid a modest fee of 3.75 pounds (about $8).

With the usual overcast skies and all bets in effect, the twosome of Blackman and Roberts prepare to tee off at Carnoustie. We were alone on the first tee, with the starter observing our warm up swings from his booth. A disinterested older couple and two stray dogs served as a reluctant gallery. Crack, crack, and we are off.

It is possible to get lost on Scottish courses. The grasses on links courses grow to whatever height God allows, waving like hay in the breeze. We soon realize we couldn’t even see the greens, in many cases, for our second shots, let alone hit them. The old caddies had to guide us.

Another feature readily noticeable is the skillful and frightening use of traps. There are little annoying traps everywhere; some are small enough to hide a VW Beetle. Some traps are located in the middle of the fairways. I got in one on the first hole and decided to blast out backwards. Bob decided to take a picture just as I fall flat in the sand. I threatened to expose his film if he persists with the photo thing.

After our initial excitement at being on Carnoustie, Bob and I settled down to survive. We both turned the front nine in 41, not too promising if we are going to beat Tom Watson’s winning score in 1975, but there were no broken bones or clubs, so we went on.

Without saying a word, it was understood that all putts would be holed out. It seems the least we can do for a course that hosted five British Opens – Tommy Armour in 1931, Henry Cotton in 1937, Ben Hogan in 1953, Gary Player in 1968 and as previously noted, Tom Watson in 1975.

I birdied 11 and went one up. This joy lasted until 14 where Bob made a putt he had no license to make. I stumbled heading toward the gazebo clubhouse, and at the end of the first day, the score was Bob 80 and Steve 81. I’ve lost a new ball to Bob and one in the burn on the 17th hole.

I don’t want to talk about it. I need a beer and a bit of a rest for tomorrow.

Coming soon: A Hacker Plays The Big Ones Pt. 2