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 4. of the story in the coming days.

Read Part 2 here.

Bob and I hadn’t had much to say to each other on the trip down from Perth, but the normal golf babble broke out as we saw the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse and sensed the moment was near.

“What if we take a divot?” I asked.

“You replace it. What else?” Bob said.

“I was just imagining a juicy chunk of this place framed, under glass, hermetically sealed and hanging in my den back home,” I said.

“I think you may be having a histrionic, historic fit,” Bob said.

He was right. I needed to pull myself together and get mentally tough for the match of the day. There was a lot of ground to make up on Bob and the wooden-shafted devil.

I leaned over the first tee rail and held out the money to pay for the greens fees.

“Step baack, lod,” the cashier man said. “I’ll tull ya when ya kin pie.” The cashier and the starter were definitely in control of when and if those of us standing in the misty rain could play.

George III could have used these guys. The King outlawed the game twice during his reign. Even in those days, politicians would stoop to any level for the ladies’ approval.

After the setback involving a pink tee, and after I hit my second shot into the Swilcan Burn that runs in front of the first green, we were on our way. I took a double-bogie six and thought I understood better why they call the stream a burn.

The course was essentially a narrow strip of land along the sea, with the front nine going out and the second nine coming back. Some of the greens were so big they were used for a hole going out on one half of the green and a pin on the other side of the green for the hole coming back. Some fairways are also shared and, in fact, two of the fairways crossed each other.

My round for the day seemed almost of secondary importance as I drank in the history and stark beauty of the course jammed against the rugged sea. I managed to concentrate long enough to birdie 14 and 15; Bob birdied 3 and 12.

In the end, I had some disasters and finished with an 81 while the devil and his friend had a steady 78. It just goes to show, you must be very careful in choosing your traveling friends. Next time I’m going to find somebody 75 years old with a bad back and enough social grace to give me a few three-footers.

In no time at all, it hit me that the long-awaited round was going to be over too soon. The mist had stopped by the time we looked down the fairway from the 17th tee. The tee shot on the notoriously difficult hole must start down the left side of the fairway and fade or go over the edge of the hotel positioned helplessly at the corner of the dogleg. We navigated the corner successfully but noticed many pock marks on the side of the building from less fortunate.

Bob and I walked up on the 18th tee just 2 hours and 45 minutes after teeing off. Off to our left, we could see the first tee was still crowded with players anxious to chase their dreams. I walked tall, visualizing the thousands of spectators standing along Golf Avenue to the right and the grandstands behind the square green holding 8,000 fans on tournament Sunday.

This was the final hole, and I had a chance to win the British Open by besting Palmer and Nicklaus by a stroke. I needed only a par on the final hole. I visualized a par because there was no way I could birdie the hole in front of thousands of people and all of the press and TV crews jammed against the ropes. Actually, Doug Sanders walked up to his drive the final day in 1972 needing only a par to win. I looked for Sanders’ divot, but it had healed over.

Bob and I were both over the road that bisects the hole and Bob was away. Let me clarify. I out-drove good old Bob. He hit a pitch and run shot that reached the front edge of the green.

For me, it was enough of a test just to pull the club back for the second shot. I selected a wedge and went down through the green sod, soaked by rain the night before while I had been incarcerated.

My shot took off high but was pulled to the left, just catching the edge of the large green. The crowd went nuts, or so it seemed. As I walked forward to pick up the turf and return it to its honored place, I took one last look back at St. Andrews.

“I’ll be back someday, old man by the sea,” I said out loud. “You will know me. Next time I’ll have a left-handed, wooden-shafted putter and you won’t have a chance.”

Bob struck his 120-foot putt well with that stupid-looking putter. The ball hit the hole and stopped two inches away. The two people clapping as they walked along the railing behind the green represented the 20,000 there each time this course hosts the Open Championship.

If I could somehow sneak in my 32-footer, I could pull within five shots of the young, albeit cheating, left-handed Australian. My putt was pure and in all the way but somehow hit the lip and spun out. The couple along the rail let out an “ohuuu” in unison.

Is there no justice? As I lined up the curling two-footer return putt, I remembered that Doug Sanders had this same putt to best Jack Nicklaus and win the championship in 1972. The official silversmith was already carving his first name in the trophy when the unbelievable happened. Sanders missed the putt. He would go on to lose the playoff with Nicklaus the next day.

Out of respect, I too missed the very same two-footer. I could have made it if I had wanted to. Honest, I could have

Coming soon: A Hacker Plays The Big Ones Pt. 4