nothing. The Glasgow and South Western Railway that ran past the course left old railway ties in a heap beside the rail station; they were rubbish to everyone but Tom. He carted them away and used them to bulwark his bunkers, creating a shot that was new to the game, the near-miss that caromed crazily to parts unknown.
He shored up bunkers and dug new ones. He scythed heather, trimmed greens and cut neat-edged holes in the greens. By the end of his first year in Prestwick the course was a fair challenge for Tom’s own game but equally fair to Mister Sampson McInnes, a Prestwick member who was odds-on to leave any shot in his own shadow, and to the Earl, who seldom finished twelve holes in fewer than eighty strokes. Tom gave the links’ landmarks colorful names: the dunes were called Alps and Himalayas; a valley was Purgatory; a sand pit was called Pandemonium. Some of the names were traditional, some he coined himself. He promoted them all with a wink, a smile, and endless repetition. And at the tenth hole he made a discovery that changed greenkeeping forever. The putting-green there had been in worse shape than the Hole o’ Shell green at St. Andrews. Tom moved that green to a new spot a few yards away—backbreaking work that took weeks. One day he spilled a wheelbarrow full of sand on the putting-green. When spring came he found hundreds of yellow-green shoots of grass sprouting on the sandy part of the green, while other spots lay bare. He filled his handkerchief with sand from a bunker, sprinkled the bare spots and kept returning to the bunker until the whole green was dusted with sand. Club members complained: Did the tenth hole have a putting-green or a bunker with a hole in it? But the greenkeeper carried the day: By summer that putting-green was as smooth as a billiard table. Tom Morris had introduced top-dressing, a way to cultivate greens that golf-course workers still employ. From then on his refrain was “More sand, more sand!” When golfers grumbled, he said, “Tut-tut, sand’s the life of a green, like meat to a man.”
As the course shaped up he settled into his other duties as golf professional. Tom caddied for Fairlie, Eglinton, and other gentlemen. He taught lessons. He played rounds with club members, a chore that earned him three shillings per round. Tom also had the delicate task of handicapping the club members. Over several months he took each of them out on the links and observed each man’s swing, making notes in a cloth-bound book. Then he posted the members’ handicaps. Even Fairlie was handicapped fairly, which was all the Colonel expected, knowing that Tom wouldn’t fudge a stroke to save his soul. But other club men were miffed. “Who is this caddie,” they asked, “to rank a gentleman?” Tom’s cause was aided by Eglinton, whose stabby putter was as deadly as Lancelot’s lance—deadly to his score. After the Earl accepted an unflattering double-digit handicap with his usual what-a-fine-day-to-be-me smile, the others accepted theirs as well.
Soon the keenness of Tom’s eye was apparent to all. Matches stayed tight to the end; he knew the golfers’ skills better than they did. By the end of his first year, club men were congratulating Fairlie for recruiting this greenkeeper. Some went so far as to shake Tom’s hand.
The first autumn meeting of the Prestwick Golf Club was a feast for the palate and the eye. There were platters of meat, fish, and duck; gallons of claret, gin, and champagne; garlands of flowers; hours of singing and dancing. Fairlie wore a tartan cravat that cascaded down his chin, posing a hazard to his soup. He and the other club members sported brass-buttoned jackets. Their jeweled ladies wore gowns festooned with silk ribbons and bows. Tom, dressed in his best Sunday tweed, stood at the festivities’ edge where a hired man belonged. After midnight the last of the food gave way to drink and more merry drink, with toasts and speeches lulling the moon to its
He shored up bunkers and dug new ones. He scythed heather, trimmed greens and cut neat-edged holes in the greens. By the end of his first year in Prestwick the course was a fair challenge for Tom’s own game but equally fair to Mister Sampson McInnes, a Prestwick member who was odds-on to leave any shot in his own shadow, and to the Earl, who seldom finished twelve holes in fewer than eighty strokes. Tom gave the links’ landmarks colorful names: the dunes were called Alps and Himalayas; a valley was Purgatory; a sand pit was called Pandemonium. Some of the names were traditional, some he coined himself. He promoted them all with a wink, a smile, and endless repetition. And at the tenth hole he made a discovery that changed greenkeeping forever. The putting-green there had been in worse shape than the Hole o’ Shell green at St. Andrews. Tom moved that green to a new spot a few yards away—backbreaking work that took weeks. One day he spilled a wheelbarrow full of sand on the putting-green. When spring came he found hundreds of yellow-green shoots of grass sprouting on the sandy part of the green, while other spots lay bare. He filled his handkerchief with sand from a bunker, sprinkled the bare spots and kept returning to the bunker until the whole green was dusted with sand. Club members complained: Did the tenth hole have a putting-green or a bunker with a hole in it? But the greenkeeper carried the day: By summer that putting-green was as smooth as a billiard table. Tom Morris had introduced top-dressing, a way to cultivate greens that golf-course workers still employ. From then on his refrain was “More sand, more sand!” When golfers grumbled, he said, “Tut-tut, sand’s the life of a green, like meat to a man.”
As the course shaped up he settled into his other duties as golf professional. Tom caddied for Fairlie, Eglinton, and other gentlemen. He taught lessons. He played rounds with club members, a chore that earned him three shillings per round. Tom also had the delicate task of handicapping the club members. Over several months he took each of them out on the links and observed each man’s swing, making notes in a cloth-bound book. Then he posted the members’ handicaps. Even Fairlie was handicapped fairly, which was all the Colonel expected, knowing that Tom wouldn’t fudge a stroke to save his soul. But other club men were miffed. “Who is this caddie,” they asked, “to rank a gentleman?” Tom’s cause was aided by Eglinton, whose stabby putter was as deadly as Lancelot’s lance—deadly to his score. After the Earl accepted an unflattering double-digit handicap with his usual what-a-fine-day-to-be-me smile, the others accepted theirs as well.
Soon the keenness of Tom’s eye was apparent to all. Matches stayed tight to the end; he knew the golfers’ skills better than they did. By the end of his first year, club men were congratulating Fairlie for recruiting this greenkeeper. Some went so far as to shake Tom’s hand.
The first autumn meeting of the Prestwick Golf Club was a feast for the palate and the eye. There were platters of meat, fish, and duck; gallons of claret, gin, and champagne; garlands of flowers; hours of singing and dancing. Fairlie wore a tartan cravat that cascaded down his chin, posing a hazard to his soup. He and the other club members sported brass-buttoned jackets. Their jeweled ladies wore gowns festooned with silk ribbons and bows. Tom, dressed in his best Sunday tweed, stood at the festivities’ edge where a hired man belonged. After midnight the last of the food gave way to drink and more merry drink, with toasts and speeches lulling the moon to its
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