"A Trip
to the Senior British Open."
By Bob Boldt, PGA Professional
My trip started from Reno, Nevada after trying
to qualify for the U.S. Senior Open at Hidden Valley Golf Course.
There had been two spots available for 42 players. I came in fourth,
which was the same as last. Disappointed but not despondent, I
was looking forward to my exemption into the British Open (I had
earned an exemption from the Senior Tour money list). The last
time I had an opportunity to play in Britain was in the late sixties
when I played the regular tour.
I should have expected a bizarre trip when my
flight was delayed going to Seattle. The only way I could play
in the Senior British Open was to make my connection with British
Airways there at 10:30 p.m. If I missed it I would miss my deadline
for registration. U.S. Air to Seattle had engine problems; no
other flights were available. I found one that went to Portland,
then flew from Portland to Seattle, and arrived 30 minutes prior
to flight time.
Naturally the British Airways flight was in another
terminal. After some frantic hustle I jumped on the plane as the
doors were closing. One problem, my baggage and clubs didn't make
it.
Great! What do I play with? British Air says,
"No problem, they'll be on the flight tomorrow and will be
shuttled up, hopefully to arrive before the tournament starts."
This is not starting out well!
A 747 business-class window seat will be welcome.
But my ticket is incorrectly made out; the travel agency has the
seating correct on the agenda record but not on the ticket. So
I get back row, middle seat, in the smoking section, and that's
that. "Sorry you have paid for business class but there are
no seats available; you will be upgraded on the return."
I don't know if any of you have had the pleasure
of sitting for ten hours in an economy section, middle row seat
between a 260-pound Trans-Euro racing mechanic (chain-smoking
Camel unfiltered) and a 16 year-old, son of a rock drummer for
"Licorice and the Earshots," (also chain-smoking--Benson
and Hedges filtered). I can tell you it was very similar to being
gassed.
If I could have gotten off the plane, I would
have. Drinking was a thought, but I restrained myself and only
downed a sleeping pill, in hopes of waking up thinking this was
a bad dream. I guess the pill didn't work for a couple reasons:
the lack of oxygen in the air and Alorinsk, the mechanic, who
downed as many Jack Daniels as needed to pass out about 3 hours
into the trip, and snored in bursts so hard it shook the seats.
His body was so big I couldn't rest my elbows on the seat rests.
Lippy, the rock drummer's son, would not shut up. He told me his
whole life history; everything from his new nose ring to how he
birdied the eighteen hole at St. Andrews by hitting a three wood
into the hole from 160 yards. He asked for my autograph and asked
if I wanted to attend his concert and check out some babes. I
felt so lucky; a great pair to draw a seat between.
London -- my time 8 a.m. I've had no sleep but
am anxious to register and practice (I don't have my clubs but
I could at least get to see the course) and get some sleep.
Now about the rental car… The travel agency
again made a mistake with my reservation and I was booked for
a Land Rover stick shift. No problem, I just wanted to get on
with it. This car, jeep, whatever is like the ones you see on
safari and it rode the same way.
On a three-hour drive on the wrong side of the
road, shifting with my left hand and trying to negotiate a roundabout
I was within a few miles of the hotel and course when it happened.
I was in the inside lane of the roundabout, completely stopped,
when I heard a crunch on my left side but didn't see anything.
It was about 10 p.m. I peered out of the other side to see what
had happened and saw the remains of a mini-minor MG (a car the
size of a large bumper car) flattened on the side of the road.
The car was chartreuse with polka dots and the driver was a mini-skirted,
high-heeled, well-endowed, teenybopper with spiked hair. She was
as high as one can get, grabbing her neck and lying on the side
of the road. I asked if she was hurt and she starts yelling at
me with every swearword I know, and the crowd starts in and sides
with her. I have a feeling this is not going to be very good.
One hour later, Constable Stanley Preston arrives,
a 25 year-old weight lifter, clothing starch-pressed into military
iron folds. He has a semi-penciled mustache; I can feel I'm up
against it. Stanley immediately attends to Pricilla ("Call
her Prissy," she tells Stanley)-- I may as well throw in
the towel. 30 minutes later Stanley comes over and states that
he is giving me a citation…and I haven't even talked to
him yet. I start to explain and Stanley says, "License, passport,
insurance, rental documents, international license." I have
everything except the international license.
Stanley reads me my rights, explains that we
must all go into Constable's Headquarters, and that I am being
cited. Prissy is now well and her hero has been, and will be,
rewarded.
2:00 a.m. Papers are filed. I have the right
to a lawyer but nothing can be done until tomorrow morning at
10 a.m. Until then I must be in custody. I plead my case with
the British Open registration, invitee of the Royal and Ancient,
etc. Stanley does not hear me. Desperation sets in. I'm not going
to sit in custody and miss the tournament because I was hit by
a drug-crazed-teenybopper in a go-cart.
3:00 a.m. Prissy is leaving; Stanley is escorting
her home. I approach Stanley and inform him that I am going to
report him to the consulate for improper procedures: no witnesses,
no checking for alcohol, drugs, or open containers, and giving
me no food. This was a real bad idea. Stanley is pissed, but I
don't care. I demand to see another constable and get my first
break, as in comes Captain Bush, authoritative, 60ish, very proper,
very British. He listens to my story, starts a chat with "stud-ly"
Stanley and I can see it isn't polite--the captain is a golfer!!!
At 5 a.m. the captain arranges a cash bail. Prissy
says her car is worth 800 pounds and she has no insurance. Captain
Bush takes $1500 in Travelers checks from me, proceeds with paperwork
and says, "Believe me, this is the very best way out."
I believe him and I'm on my way at 6 a.m.
I arrive at the clubhouse at 8:00 a.m., unshaven
and having been up for thirty hours. I register, explain my dilemma
to the Royal and Ancient committee, borrow a set of clubs (mine
are to arrive tomorrow, the tournament day!) and hit the course.
At 2:00 that afternoon I finally check into the
hotel, crash, wake-up the next morning at 9 a.m. and am scheduled
to tee off at 12:30.
By 10:30 my clubs have not arrived. I feel like
a zombie (jet lag, bad) but I'm going to play no matter what.
At 12:00 my clubs arrive, half an hour before
my tee time. The weather is beautiful.
Within that half an hour a storm comes in. The
first hole is 208 yards, par 3. A one iron comes up short, and
I hit it perfectly. I shoot 73, bogeying the last two holes, and
had one of the lowest rounds in the afternoon. All of the leaders
played in the morning. I was ecstatic with the round. Things are
turning around.
On Friday I have a 9 a.m. tee-time and am looking
forward to good weather, as it was on Thursday morning. Wrong!
There's another storm front right behind the first one and it
is more violent.
This time I hit a driver on the 208-yard first
hole. My two fellow competitors, Hugh Boyle, a Ryder Cup-per from
Britain and Hans Hohnke from Sweden, cannot reach the green with
their drivers.
By the 4th hole the storm intensifies and destroys
my umbrella. Rain is covering the greens but there is no cancellation
("The show must go on"). I am drenched and cannot hang
on to the club and shoot 40 on the first nine.
On the 10th hole the club slips out of my hands-O.B.
The next shot I top. The following shot buries in a pot bunker.
I hit it but cannot get it out. I hit the next shot backwards,
but too far, into a dense thicket-unplayable. Now I'm really in
trouble because I can't drop anywhere--2 club-lengths gives me
no relief. Dropping further back, keeping that point on my line
to the hole, puts me in the trolley rails. I can only drop the
ball and play it from where I started, back in the bunker. This
particular pot bunker is so deep that one cannot do anything but
hit sideways or backwards. I drop the ball in the bunker and it
buries. I try to play sideways but it doesn't come out. I try
again and move the ball to the rough near the fairway. A perfect
5 iron flies over the green into a thicket. I chop out, chip up
and two-putt. (Trivia what did I score?)
I would have quit at this point but I was at
the furthest point from the clubhouse, so I decided to play on.
88 shots later I arrived at the Royal Lytham and St. Annes, circa
1896, clubhouse. The storm was gone.
A bottle of spirits, a quick flight home, and
this nightmare was behind me. I arrived at Boundary Oak two days
later, to the question, "What happened, why did you withdraw?"
Dumbfounded I said, "What?"
"You made the cut by three shots."
The storm had caused many scores in the 100's;
last place was 2000 pounds or 4,000 dollars.
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