Bobby Jones Learns the Virtue of Playing Against Something not Someone

I know I persist in writing about Bobby Jones, and sharing his writing.  Of course, I never saw the man play.  I've seen some old video reels; but that's it.  And yet Bobby Jones is my golfing hero.  I have always loved Jack Nicklaus, who is the best player I've ever seen.  But, since reading his books, Bobby Jones is, for me, the greatest of them all.  Through his wonderful writing, I have come to feel like I almost know him; and I love him, just like the people of St. Andrews loved him.

Tonight, I was reading Down the Fairway, by Bobby Jones and O.B. Keeler, his friend and confidante who followed, and chronicled, Bobby's phenomenal career.  Bobby wrote of learning the importance of playing "something," rather than "someone"; that something being Old Man Par.  As usual, it gives us a glimpse of the greatness of the man, and the incredible understanding he had of the game.  

 

He wrote:

"It was in 1913, the year before the old course was changed, when I was 11 years old, that two things happened to me that seem worthy of note, as influencing my association with golf.  Up to that time, as suggested, golf was rather an incidental matter along with tennis and fishing and baseball; it was just another game , and if I could beat somebody at it I felt I had achieved something, just as when I managed to defeat someone at tennis, or when our side won at baseball.  I suppose I never had the least notion that golf offered more than merely personal competition, as a game.  Even when we had a medal round, I was trying to beat Perry or whoever seemed the most dangerous competitor.  I kept my scores in every round of golf as a matter of course; and naturally I liked to get under 90.  But the scoring, of itself, was relatively a detached part of the affair, which, to my way of thinking, was a contest with somebody--not with something.

  It may not be out of place here to say that I never won a major championship until I learned to play golf against something, and not somebody.  And that something was par... It took me many years to learn that, and a deal of heartache."

Bobby first started to understand about playing against something, instead of someone, when he watched the exhibition match between Harry Vardon and long-hitting Ted Ray against Stewart Maiden and Willie Mann.  Vardon and Ray had come over to play the US Open at Brookline, where Francis Ouimet secured his improbable victory that essentially put American golf on the map.  The match was 36 holes at East Lake, followed by 36 more at Brookhaven the next day.

The match at East Lake, in which young Bobby followed every hole, was won by Ray and Vardon 1up, after Ray managed to sink an eight-foot birdie on the last hole to get a half and the win.  Describing the match, Bobby wrote:

  "This was the first big match I had ever watched and I followed every step of the 36 holes.  Ray's tremendous driving impressed me more than Vardon's beautiful, smooth style, though I couldn't get away from the fact that Harry was scoring more consistently.  Par--par--par, and then another par, Harry's card was progressing.  They played 36 holes at East Lake and 36 more at Brookhaven next day, and I remember Vardon's scores: 72-72-73-71; a total of 288, or an exact average of 4's all the way.  I remember thinking at this time, and it would be difficult to find a better illustration, that 4's seemed to be good enough to win almost anything.  Today I would not qualify the estimate.  I'll take 4's anywhere, at any time."

Bobby went on to describe seeing Ray hit the greatest shot he has ever seen during that match, a seemingly impossible shot over a huge tree that found the green.  Bobby wrote:

"The gallery was in paroxysms.  I remember how men pounded each other on the back, and crowed and cackled and shouted and clapped their hands.  As for me, I didn't really believe it.  A sort of wonder persists in my memory to this day.  It was the greatest shot I ever saw.

  Yet, when it was all over, there was old Harry, shooting par all that day and the next.  And I couldn't forget that, either.  Harry seemed to be playing something beside Stewart and Willie; something I couldn't see, which kept him serious and sort of far way from the gallery and his opponents and even from his big partner; he seemed to be playing against something or someone not in the match at all... I couldn't understand it; but it seemed that way."

Later that year, however, Bobby came to understand what he was witnessing in the play of Harry Vardon when he, for the first time, shot 80.  He described the experience as follows:

"And that year, a bit later, I shot an 80 for the first time on the old course at East Lake.  I remember it with a peculiar distinctness.  I was playing with Perry, and for once I wasn't bothering about what Perry was doing or if I was beating him or he was beating me.  I was scoring better than I ever had scored before and I couldn't think about anything else.  And when I got down a four-foot putt on the last green for an even 80, which I had never done before, I made Perry sign my card and then I set off at a trot to find Dad.  I knew he was on the course, and I ran clear across it, to the fourteenth green, and found him there.  I had sense enough to wait until he was through putting; Dad was impatient of interruptions when he was putting.  Then I walked up to him and held out the card... I remember my hand was trembling a good deal... Dad took it and looked at it and then he looked at me.  I don't remember what he said.  But suddenly he put his arms around me and hugged me--hard.  And I do remember that his eyes looked sort of queer.  I think now they must have been wet.  (As I type this, I find tears rolling down my cheeks; appreciating how special a moment this must have been for father and son, and remembering my father with whom I played so many rounds; fathers and sons, and golf.)

  I suppose that is the first round I ever played against the invisible opponent whose tangible form is the card and pencil; the toughest opponent of them all--Old Man Par."

"Golf is Played by Striking the Ball with the Head of the Club"

My buddy Spiros was a good soccer player.  He took up golf late in life after his soccer playing days were over.  His swing is definitely not textbook.  In fact, from a purist standpoint, it probably leaves something to be desired.  But Spiros can hit some shots when he's in the mood.  He loves to hit cut shots, and hooks, and he even plays the old Philly-Mick-flopper whenever he can.  He loves to try to bend it like Beckham, or maybe Bubba.

While soccer and golf are perhaps only similar in the fact that both involve a ball, Spiros has put some of his soccer knowledge to good effect when playing golf.  He understands that the golf ball, when struck with the club, reacts much the same way the soccer ball does when kicked.  From his soccer experience he intuitively understands how the ball needs to be struck to make it bend.

Someone who has played tennis, or table tennis, will likely have a similar understanding of how to strike the golf ball to make it curve.  Striking the ball in the correct manner to produce the shot you desire is really what this game is all about, and experience playing any game involving a round ball will certainly help.

Bobby Jones, the great player who I constantly find myself referring to, in part because he was the best, and in part because, for me at least, he said it best, recognized how important understanding the strike was to playing good golf.  I am amazed, when I play with high handicappers how little they seem to understand about the strike.  Their mind is generally full of swing thoughts, but ask them how the ball needs to be struck, and you generally receive a blank stare.

In Golf is my Game, Bobby Jones wrote: "Golf is played by striking the ball with the head of the club.  The objective of the player is not to swing the club in a specified manner, nor to execute a series of complicated movements in a prescribed sequence, nor to look pretty while he is doing it, but primarily and essentially to strike the ball with the head of the club so that the ball will perform according to his wishes.  No one can play golf until he knows the many ways in which a golf ball can be expected to respond when it is struck in different ways.  If you think this should be obvious, please believe me when I assure you that I have seen many really good players attempt shots they should have known were impossible."

I have covered the information from Bobby Jones on how the ball must be struck in an article entitled "The Wisdom of Bobby Jones: Striking the Ball."  Bobby asserted that it was the "most useful learning you will ever acquire as a golfer...This knowledge can make you a better golfer overnight."  For those who have played soccer at a high level, like Spiros, this information might be relatively easy to grasp--even simple.  But for many of us, it takes a long time to learn and is all-too-often forgotten.  Bobby Jones felt that a careful review of the information he provided on striking the ball could literally make you a better player overnight.  

If you haven't checked it out, I would invite you to have a read of chapter two of Golf is my Game, by Bobby Jones.  If you haven't got the book, check out my article: The Wisdom of Bobby Jones: Striking the Ball.  For those of us who are presently snowbound, Bobby gives us something we can do to improve our game while inside, in the warm, without having to even swing a club.

Bobby Jones and Old Man Par

Bobby Jones is often remembered for having said he never learned anything from matches and tournaments he won.  To me, that seems a bit of an exaggeration, because I'm sure Bobby Jones was always learning whether he won or lost.  As is often the case, some of these quotes are best considered in context, just like Ben Hogan having said he wished he had three right hands.  

In Golf is my Game, Bobby explains this famous quote, and while doing so offers up some sage advice about the optimimum golfer's mindset when playing competitively.  He wrote:

"I have often said that I never learned anything from matches or tournaments I won, because of the inclination--natural I suppose--to accept successes as altogether fitting and proper.  Whenever I lost, I would analyze the play and try to figure out if I had made any mistakes that might have been avoided.  Mechanical misplays were not considered, because a certain number were to be expected.  Keeler and I agreed that in most of these lost matches there were identifiable instances when different tactics, usually more conservative, might have produced better results.  But I think we agreed, too, that the main trouble was to be found in the fact that I simply did not play match golf so uniformly close to my capability as I played medal.  Keeler, at least, figured that if I played as well as I could, I should not lose many matches.

  To Keeler, this meant that at match play I should play the card, or against 'Old Man Par' as he put it, so that I should occupy myself only with getting the figures, and let my opponent do what he would.  I cannot deny that on occasions I had been guilty of playing a slack shot when my opponent had played one, and then watched him make a recovery I could not match, or had unwisely attempted a daring shot when the risk was too great.  I accepted Keeler's prescription, but the following of it seemed to require a bit more.

  I was very acutely aware that my mental attitude and nervous attunement towards the two forms of competition were quite different.  I was nervous before a match, but it was more an eager sort of nervousness or impatience to go out and see who could hit harder and make the most birdies.  Before a medal round my nerves would be even more tightly wound, but the eagerness gave way to apprehension and caution.  I always had that hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, and my concern was to get the agony over, rather than to have the conflict started.  I never had any sensation of fear before a match, but more of it than anything else before a medal round.

  I suppose I never became as good at match play as at medal, but I did make progress in the former department by the ultimate achievement of the realization that, after all, a round of golf in either form was still a complete structure to be built up hole by hole, that restraint and patience paid off in either form, and that consistent pressure would subdue an opponent just as affectively as an opening salvo of birdies.

  It was not precisely playing the card or against 'Old Man Par' hole by hole.  It amounted more nearly to setting out in complete detachment from surrounding circumstances to produce a fine round of golf.  An opponent might do some damage at one stage or another, but he was not likely to surpass the entire production."

Once again, arguably the greatest player of all time, and certainly the greatest of his day--which is all that really counts--provides us with an honest picture of how he felt and thought when competing.  We learn that he wasn't so different from the rest of us.  He admitted to always being anxious, apprehensive, cautious, and even fearful, before a medal play event.  He had that same hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that I have always felt before an important round.  He was just like me--only more talented, more intelligent, and perhaps better looking.  

Bobby Jones and Perry Adair

Bobby Jones grew up playing with another very talented amateur player, Perry Adair.  Bobby, who was several years younger than Perry, looked up to his young fellow-competitor, considering him, for a time at least, the better player.  All great players can only become great by benefitting from strong competition from other fine players.  There is really no other way to refine your game than under the fire of stiff competition.  I think most great players understand this, and that is why they hold their fellow competitors in such high regard.  They need them to really excel.  Ben Hogan had Byron Nelson.  Ben Crenshaw had Tom Kite.  Bobby Jones had Perry Adair.

In Golf is my Game, Bobby wrote about his coming of age as a player, playing with Perry Adair.  He wrote:

"When I was playing around the East Lake course as a child, there were only two or three golf courses in Atlanta, where now the number is nearer twenty, and there were only half-a-dozen or so kids our age interested in the game at all.

  Almost as soon as I was trusted to play a round of golf on the course under my own responsibility, I began playing regularly with Perry Adair, the son of one of my father's good friends, who was about three or four years my senior.  Perry, quite naturally, came along faster than I did; and by the time he was fifteen he was one of the best amateur golfers in the South.  But I grew up a little faster physically than did Perry; and by the time I was thirteen I could hold my own with him quite well.  At that time, in the invitational tournaments around the South he and I were among the most favoured competitors.

  The first tournament I played in away from home was the Montgomery, Alabama, Invitation in the year of 1915, when I was thirteen years of age.  Perry won this tournament, and I lost in the finals of the second flight to a left-handed player, which I considered at the time the ultimate disgrace.  Later that year, however, Perry and I met in the second round of the invitation tournament in Birmingham, and I beat him and went on to win the tournament.

  In the following year--1916--Perry beat me in Montgomery, but I won from him in the final of the Invitation at East Lake, and won a couple more tournaments in which Perry had been beaten by other players.  At the end of this season we found ourselves again opposed to one another in the final of the Georgia State at the Capital City Club in Atlanta.

  Up to this moment, despite the fact that I had won two out of three matches in which Perry and I had met, I still considered that he was the better golfer.  I looked up to him and thought that I had managed to win from him a couple of times mainly by accident.  It was in this match at Brookhaven over thirty-six holes that I finally gained confidence in myself and my game.

  In the morning round I think I must have been tense, over-anxious, and perhaps a little bit resigned.  At any rate I played some sloppy golf and came in for lunch three down.  While I was having a few practice putts prior to the afternoon round, the tournament chairman came up to me and asked that I play out the bye holes, with the obvious inference that Perry would beat me several holes before the finish, and he wanted the gallery to have the privilege of seeing a full eighteen holes of play.  I replied that I would, without calling to his attention to what I considered to be a rather obvious and unpleasant implication.  Nevertheless, it appeared that he was right when I began the afternoon round by hooking my tee shot out of bounds and losing the first hole with a scrambling six, thus becoming four down.

  But at this pointI remember to this day that my whole attitude changed completely.  Instead of being on the defensive and uncertain, I began to play hard, aggressive golf, hitting the ball with all the force at my command and striving to win hole after hole, rather than to avoid mistakes.  

  After halving the short second hole in three, I drove to the edge of the green on the third hole--something I had never done before--and from then on hit the ball as hard as I had ever hit it in my life.  Perry played reasonably well, but he missed a couple of putts, notably on the eighth and tenth greens and I finally won the match on the last green two up.  I had played the eighteen holes in seventy, with a six at the first.

  This was the match which gained for me my first opportunity to play in a National Championship, and also gave me what assurance I needed to enjoy taking advantage of it.  I think what did most for me was Perry's remark as he put my ball into my hand on the last green.  With understandable disregard for grammar, he had muttered, 'Bob, you are just the best'"

And the rest, as they say, is history.  Bobby Jones went on to become one of the greatest players of all time.  Perry Adair had a very good amateur career and found himself in the Georgia State Golfing Hall of Fame.  Were it not for the competition offered by Perry Adair, that fateful match, along with the unforgettable compliment, one wonders whether Bobby Jones would have gone on to win the Grand Slam.  Perhaps he might have.  But Perry Adair should be remembered as the fellow competitor who pushed him to great heights at a very early age.  

That tournament chairman perhaps deserves some credit as well for firing up young Bobby.  It reminds me of a story about Arnold Palmer in one of his greatest US Open victories; but that is another story in this great game of ours.

Bobby Jones on the Grand Slam

Bobby Jones will always be regarded as one of the greatest, if not the greatest, players ever to play the game.  In winning the Grand Slam, Jones did, as an amateur, something we will surely never see again, winning the British and US amateur championships and the British and US Opens in the same season.  

We will surely never see this again because, Bobby's brilliance as a golfer notwithstanding, surely no amateur of that sort of stature and ability could resist turning professional with the money now on offer.  We have since witnessed the Tiger Slam, which probably deserves more credit than it receives.  We also saw Ben Hogan win three of the four Majors, perhaps only missing the professional Slam because he couldn't make it home in time to play the PGA championship.  So we have witnessed great seasons from other great players.  Jordan Spieth's performance in the Majors in 2015 as a relative youngster has to rank up there as one of the greatest seasons we've ever witnessed.

But Bobby Jones will be the first, and surely the last, to have the Grand Slam.  Bobby also quit while he was ahead.  He went out on top.  I was reading what he had to say about the Grand Slam in his book, Golf is my Game.  Amazingly enough, Bobby managed to find a lesson for all of us who compete in this game when describing his experience.  He wrote:

"In my mind today the accomplishment of the Grand Slam assumes more importance as an example of the value of perseverance in the abstract than as a monument to skill in the playing of a game.  I am certain that in those moments when the success of the project was most in doubt, the decisive factor in each case had been my ability, summoned from somewhere, to keep trying as hard as I could, even when there was no clear indication of the direction in which hope of victory might lie.

  In at least two matches, those with Tolley and Voight at St. Andrews, I had been outplayed throughout; and in the final round of each of the two Open Championships I had made mistakes of grievous proportions.  On several occasions I had lost control of my game.  But having once found myself in these dire predicaments, I had managed, from the point of realization, to drive myself to the end, when it would have been easy, even pleasant, to play the 'give-up' shot.

  Everyone recognizes that form in golf runs in cycles.  It can be seen even today if one watches the results of the weekly tournaments.  No one player can hold to top form for a run of more than two or three weeks.  During such a period he is operating under a formula which he has played himself into that enables him to play well, thinking of two or three moves in the stroke that he can consciously control.  Ultimately he will begin to overdo one of these or something will go wrong in another place and he will have to work out another pattern.

  The only tournament of 1930 I was able to hit in top form was the one in Augusta that didn't count.  The campaign extended from May to September, and it was not to be expected that the whole route could be smooth.

  In winning both the British and American Open Championships as one-half of the Grand Slam, I returned the lowest score of the field in only one of the eight rounds played.  Obviously then, I was not winning because of the overpowering excellence of my play.  I could have won only because, despite some very disastrous and unaccountable lapses, I did manage to keep up some sort of organized effort to the end, and so prevented major setbacks from developing into utter rout.

  The margin of victory in each tournament was a bare two strokes.  These might well have been those saved by a sort of desperate hanging on in the closing holes.

  The one most important thing for a tournament golfer to learn is that golf championships are not won merely by having greater mechanical skill than the other players.  It is not rewarding, of course, to harbour a real weakness on the mechanical side.  But in most tournaments including players of the first rank there is little difference in shot-making ability among the top echelon.  Some may be able to keep it up longer than others, but in the main, the decisive factor will be found in the relative abilities of the various players to perform under the strain which all must feel.

  The toughest and most conclusive test in golf is the Open Championship.  Match play can be a pretty  game and exciting, but it can never exert the relentless pressure of the card and pencil.  In match play you can lose only one hole at a time, and that only to an opponent you can see.  In stroke play you can blow a comfortable lead with one careless or misplayed shot; and the most phlegmatic player is always plagued by rumours or imaginings of what others are doing.

  You learn very soon, I think, in tournament golf, that your most formidable adversary is yourself.  You win or lose according to your own ability to withstand pressure.  You must learn to keep on playing your game despite all the disturbing thoughts that may keep crowding in upon your consciousness, and above all, you must keep fighting the awful pressure, no matter how much you would like to give in to it.  In a well-played tournament round you will play at the rate of a little more than three minutes for every stroke, including the shortest putts.  That gives you a lot of time to think.  Too much, I am sure you will find."

So, there you have it, from the man himself.  Bobby Jones won the Grand Slam because he refused to give up when surely almost anyone else would have.  He won the Grand Slam, to use a Tigerism, without his "A game."  He wasn't in the zone, cruising to victory with a feeling of peace and serenity, in some Zen-like state.  He suffered, struggled, persevered, and refused to quit.  I think perhaps that makes the accomplishment all the more impressive.

Bobby also spoke about his decision to quit, and the one regret he felt.  He wrote:

"There is a school of Oriental philosophy, I am told, which holds that the aim of life should be the perfection of personality or character, and that sufferings, joys, and achievements mean nothing except as they influence the development of this personality or character.  I hope the analogy will not appear too ridiculous, but it has been thinking along such a line that has uncovered the only regret I have ever had about quitting competitive golf when I was only twenty-eight years of age.

  I have never been sorry that I did not try for a fifth Open or a sixth Amateur, for after adding one of either, there would always be the question of another.  What I have regretted at times was that I did not keep on until I might have achieved, in my own estimation at least, the status of 'Compleat Golfer', to use Isaak Walton's spelling.

  Whatever lack others may have seen in me, the one I felt most was the absolute inability to continue smoothly and with authority to wrap up a championship after I had won command of it.  The failing cost me the eventual winning of more than one, and made several others look a lot more fortuitous than they should have."

Bobby Jones, with thirteen Major Championships won by the age of twenty eight, topped off by the Grand Slam, felt he could have, or should have, been a better closer.  That may be so.  But, regardless of how he might have felt about it, the thing that so impresses me, above and beyond the greatness of the man as a player, is the honesty and intelligence of the man as displayed in his writing.  These are his thoughts, and his words; not the words of some co-author.  His writing is a real gift to those who love the game.  In his words we catch a rare and honest glimpse into the mind of a champion.  

Bobby Jones on the "Modern Game"

OIn the chapter entitled "Then and Now," in Golf is my Game, Bobby Jones gave an appraisal of the modern player and whether or not there was what could be termed a modern golf swing.  It's interesting--at least I find it interesting--to listen to this great, and thoughtful, golfer give a very objective analysis of what had changed in the game in the twenty-some years since he had retired.

He wrote:

"With all these changes in equipment and golf course upkeep, it is not unnatural that the question should often occur, 'What changes have come about in method?  Is there a modern method, a modern golf swing which is essentially different from that of twenty-five or thirty years ago?'  Actually, I think not, and I believe that so long as a man is constructed as he is--which seems to be a fairly reasonable prospect for the predictable future--the order of the movements necessary to the complete, sound golf swing are not likely to change.  In two respects only am I able to find any difference, and these are not of the nature which can be called fundamental.

  The first difference I note is in the length of the backswing, and perhaps in the speed of it as well.  In my day and before, the virtues of a long, leisurely swing had come to be fairly well accepted.  Writer and players alike extolled the value of rhythm.

  I still think that the long, leisurely swing is best for the average player.  I think he should always try to make certain that he gets the club back far enough and that his change of direction at the top of the swing should take place in a leisurely manner, because nothing can so upset his timing and execution as hurry at either one of these points.

  If there is a new method in golf, it seems to involve a more careful, even meticulous, 'sighting' of the shot.  While we still have many graceful, comfortable-looking players, there are a number who have the appearance of being excrutiatingly stiff.  In some cases the traditional waggle of the club designed to promote smoothness of movement has been replaced by a waggle of the player's behind as he strives to place himself in precise alignment for the delivery of the blow.

  Some of these players are very effective.  Once they have settled into a satisfactory position, the quick, convulsive stroke seems to send the ball very straight indeed towards the objective.  But the method involves a complete disregard of the amount of time consumed, and so is most trying upon the nerves and patience of any who may be watching.  I must admit that I do not find the performance of these players pleasing to the eye, even though the figures they produce may leave little to be desired.

  It is not my intention to imply by what I have written that there has been no improvement among golfers themselves in the past thirty years.  Indeed, I should regard it as very sad if this were the case.  Men have learned to run faster and to jump higher and farther.  It would be strange if they had not learned to play better golf.  Every generation learns from those that have gone before, and so progress is made."

Bobby also goes on to speak about the modern professional player having more time and opportunity to practise and compete in lucrative tournaments, so the modern professional is more seasoned and experienced in tournament play than the players of old who held club jobs and competed in a short winter-circuit.  That is even more the case today.

As for whether the top players of old could hold their own against the modern players, Bobby concluded:

"So while I think it is true that the best of the old-timers could play all the shots as well as anyone around today, I think it cannot be denied that the top few in any tournament of today will make fewer mistakes than their counterparts of earlier days.  This may be attributed partly to the fact that the game of golf today, because of improved equipment and grounds, is a more precise game than it ever was before, but also because the modern player has attained a more complete control over his own physical shot-making machinery.  He has also, through increased experience, learned a lot more about the management of himself and his game in tournament play.

  In golf, you know you can't rely on the old adage that there is safety in numbers.  Indeed, it works the other way.  In a close finish, if there are only two or three players a couple of shots away, you may hope  that all three may be off a bit that day.  But when you have a dozen or so on your heels, you know that some of them will stick with you to the finish."

The game of golf seems to be in a great place.  I'm sure Bobby Jones would be most impressed with some of the new stars of today.  But, I daresay he'd likely be less impressed by the time it takes many of them to get the job done. But that, of course, is another story.

Bobby Jones on Then and Now

In his book Golf is my Game, Bobby Jones took the time to reflect on the question that tends to be regularly raised about golf, namely: Were the great players of old as good as the great players today?  Was Tiger Woods in his prime better than Jack Nicklaus in his?  Was Jack better than Ben Hogan?  Was Hogan better than Jones?  Who was the greatest player of all time?  And so it goes. 

As always, Bobby Jones, who continues to be part of any serious discussion about who was the greatest ever, provides a thoughtful and reasoned analysis worth considering.  He wrote:

"The one question put to me most often is: Were the golfers of my day as good as those of present time?

  There can be no question more impossible to answer.  Yet if golfers insist upon speculation on this topic, there is no reason why they should not have that privilege.  And since it seems to command so much interest, perhaps I may join in the discussion.

  In 1927, when I won the British Open at St. Andrews, one of the old-time professionals, described as 'the grand old man of Scottish golf,' was quoted in the newspapers as follows: 'I knew and played with Tom Morris, and he was every bit as good as Jones.  Young Tom had to play with a gutty ball, and you could not make a mistake and get away with it.  St. Andrews then had whins up to your head and the fairways were half the width they are now.  This rubber-cored ball we have now only requires a tap and it runs a mile.'

  So, you see, the controversy is not new.  Young Tom had died some thirty years before I was born.  Yet there is, of course, much substance in the above quotation; that is, if one must pursue the controversy.

  Perhaps it is fortunate, so long as we care to remain friends, that the players and personalities involved in the discussion do not take it too seriously...I think we must agree that all a man can do is beat the people who are around at the same time he is.  He cannot win from those who came before any more than he can from those who come afterwards.  It is grossly unfair to anyone who takes pride in the record he is able to compile that he must be compared to those of other players who have been competing against entirely different people under wholly different conditions."

Chances are, a hundred years from now, if we're still playing this grand old game, people will be arguing about whether the great champion, winning all the Majors today, is better than Tiger Woods was.  Chances are, especially if the modern champion is exciting, and charismatic, the young folk will assert he is better than Tiger or Jack were; perhaps even the greatest ever.  And old timers, who saw other great players in their prime, and remember with fondness what were, for them, the good old days, will heartily disagree.  The question that surely can never be satisfactorily answered will continue to be asked.  That's just the way we are.