Kevin Cook - Tommys Honor: The Story of Old Tom Morris and Young Tom Morris, Golfs Founding Father and Son

T HE S TORY OF O LD T OM M ORRIS
AND Y OUNG T OM M ORRIS,
G OLFS F OUNDING F ATHER AND S ON

GOTHAM BOOKS
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Photo on photo 1 courtesy of the University of Aberdeen
Photos on photo 2, 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, 12, 14, and 15 courtesy of the University of St. Andrews Library
Photos on photo 3 and 4 courtesy of the Hobbs Golf Collection
Photo on photo 7 courtesy of the Howard Schickler Collection
Photo on photo 9 courtesy of Stepdance.com
Photo on photo 13 courtesy of Brian D. Morgan

Copyright 2007 by Kevin Cook
All rights reserved

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ISBN: 1-4295-0959-7

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PROLOGUE

ONE: Born in Scotland

TWO: Prestwicks Pioneer

THREE: The Belt, the Ball, and the Juvenile Celebrity

FOUR: Return to St. Andrews

FIVE: Collision Course

SIX: Tommy to the Fore

SEVEN: Interregnum

EIGHT: The Better Ball

NINE: Surprises

TEN: Tommy and Meg

ELEVEN: A Telegram

TWELVE: Winter

THIRTEEN: Grand Old Man

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

Beneath the sod poor Tommys laid,
Now bunkered fast for good and all;
A better golfer never played
A further or a surer ball.

A triple laurel round his brow,
The light of triumph in his eye;
He stands before us even now
As in the hour of victory.

Thrice belted knight of peerless skill,
Again we see him head the fray;
And memory loves to reckon still
The feats of Tommy in his day.

from Elegy on Tom Morris, Jr.
Chambers Edinburgh Journal, 1876

Wake, Tommy

T he wind came off the North Sea, pushing sand and bits of straw over grass-covered dunes to the links. The wind smelled of seaweed. It hurried past the sandstone clubhouse and ran uphill to the Morris house, where it slipped under the door and stirred the embers of last nights fire.

Tom Morris gave his son a mild kick on the backside. Wake, Tommy.

The boy twitched. He was thirteen and slept like a paving stone. After another kick he stretched and yawned. What time is it?

Tea time. His father, the early riser, had already rekindled the fire, boiled water, and filled two cups. Tommy was stretching and rubbing his eyes as the old man put a cup and saucer in his hands. Outside, a cock crowed. Tommy sat up and sipped his black tea. It was bitter and scalding, hot enough to numb the tip of his tongue. Next came a chunk of oatcake, dropped onto the saucer as his father bustled past.

Tom Morris threw open the door to the street. His reddish-brown side-whiskers caught the days first light. He was forty-three years old, with teeth the color of pale ale and a dusting of white in his beard. He rubbed his callused, veiny hands together as the breeze tossed motes of ash around the room, dropping ash on the Championship Belt on the mantel and on Mums untouchable china dishes in their rack on the wall. Chilly, he said. Well have stingin hands today. Stingin hands.

Tommy smiled. His father loved to say things twice, as if repeating something could double its import. Aye, aye, he said, amusing himself. Stingin hands. His father didnt hear a word. Hed pulled his cap on and stepped into the wind, leaving the door flapping open behind him.

Wait, Tommy said. But the old man would not wait. Tommy gulped his tea, pulled his boots and jacket on, stuck the oatcake in a pocket, and clattered out the door with his fathers clubs under his arm.

His footfalls echoed down Golf Place, a double row of dark stone houses. No one else was awake. Any caddie or gentleman golfer who was up at this hour would be hung over, cradling his headache in his hands and wishing he had died at birth. The links were empty except for gulls, crows, rabbits, a mule tethered to a post by the stationmasters garden, and Tom Morris, now joined by his panting son.

Tom examined his six clubsdriver, spoon, two niblicks, a rut iron, and a wooden putterand selected the driver. He took a pinch of damp sand from a wooden box by the teeing-ground and built a small sand hilla teefor his ball to sit on. He took his stance and waggled his club at the ball as if to threaten it. Far and sure, he said.

Tommy had heard the old motto a thousand times. He was supposed to repeat it, to say Far and sure before the first swing just as golfers had done on this spot for centuries. He was tempted to try something new, to blurt Long and strong, or High and mighty! But he held back. His father might take offense, might turn into one of those stern Old Testament fathers he was starting to resemble. So Tommy mumbled farnsher and watched the old man draw back the driver to start the slow, clockwork swing that all St. Andrews golfers knew, laying the hickory shaft almost flat across his shoulders at the top, starting down slow as honey and then whipping the head of the club through the ball, which took off toward the white flag in the distance.

Tom squinted as he followed its flight. Nodding, he reached into his jacket for his pipe and pouch. He tapped a few tobacco leaves into the pipes bowl, lit a match, and breathed blue smoke. Mum detested that smoke but Tommy loved it, the sweet reek of his father. Tom stood five foot seven, a bit above average for a Scotsman of his time, but in Tommys eyes he loomed larger. Tom Morris was the Champion Golfer of Scotland. He was the hero of St. Andrews, the only man who could beat the golfing brutes of Musselburgh. He was official keeper of these famous four miles of turf, the links of St. Andrews. Beloved by all menexcepting jealous golf professionals, several red-coated gentlemen of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, and the Musselburgh bruteshe was a pious churchman who was not above joking and drinking with foul-smelling caddies. Tom Morris was these great things and one more: He was the one golfer Tommy was dying to beat.