I had cause recently to look over historical scores of the Australian Open and noticed some intriguing numbers.
As we approach the 100th staging of our national championship, Michael Scott’s 315 at The Australian Golf Club to win the inaugural Australian Open seemed approximately four light years from the 271 of Jordan Spieth at the same club, if not venue, last year.
Legendary Dan Soutar won a year later in 1905 after 337 strokes – his best round for the tournament at Royal Melbourne (Sandringham) an 82 – 22 shots worse than Ernie Els when he blazed around the club’s modern Composite Course in 2004.
So when some Golf Australia colleagues and I were invited to take part in the Golf Society of Australia’s “Hickory Heroes” day recently, I thought it within my grasp to show these numbers of yesteryear to be obsolete.
Really, how hard can it be?
I’m using a modern ball – and these hickory sticks are so well maintained that surely I’ll be fine to nudge my way around nine holes of the magnificent Metropolitan Golf Club without having to get out an abacus.
Fast-forward two fun-filled hours and I’m one part intrigued, one part contrite for my cockiness and two parts in awe of those early scores. Not to mention my burgeoning need for that abacus.
These mighty weapons of imperial golf have brought me to my knees.
Yet far from despondent, I had thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon – surrounded by these fascinating links to golf’s roots, and also by people who enthused not only in their ongoing usage, but that their stories aren’t forgotten in this era of perimeter weighting and ultra-flexible compound shafts.
GSA member and Hickory Heroes convenor Cliff George later informed me that the “true” hickory shafts were chiefly confined to the pre-1915 era at which time most of the construction efforts were understandably put into the war push. The depletion of resources and the technology that inevitably spawned helped speed the passing of these sturdy wonders into the annals of golf history.
So many historic photos and chronicles of the champions of the early 20th century show and talk about these golfing heroes being able to make the sticks talk; of being able to flight the ball with great precision and feel.
Having just been wiped off the map 4&2 by colleague and fellow hickory novice Martin Blake, I was more searching for the takeoff instructions than the flight manual.
“Swing easier, mate”, Blakey implored me. Most notably after he’d saluted!
“It looks like the whole shaft is bent when you start your downswing.”
Fellow playing companion and golf historian Peter Gompertz assured me that Blakey was absolutely correct. Gompertz, resplendent in clothes befitting the era, informed us that the sweetest swingers of the era were more rhythmic than the modern-day brutes.
His peers were equally informative. They were also more than happy to regale us of how they came to be involved in this small – but growing – band of hickory enthusiasts.
“It makes you appreciate your new clubs,” was one common refrain. But the one that hit home to me was: “These clubs really emphasise the purity of your ball striking, both good and bad.”
When I finally managed to look vaguely like a golfer on the closing hole, the majesty of the sticks was finally borne out when the ball sailed almost as far as my own sticks would normally permit. Sadly, earlier, what I thought I’d limited to just an ingrained fade was proven several times to be a fully-fledged slice.
This lesson was reinforced, inadvertently of course, by none other than Su Oh – the winner of this year’s Australian Ladies Masters back at her home club between pro duties in North America and Europe.
The uber-talented Oh, who loves the game and its history, asked if she could try the hickory sticks to round out her practice session. Suffice to say, the 19-year-old had balls spinning out of bunkers and even hit the pin with her first shot from 100m.
Naturally, her skills were great to watch – and only reinforced in my mind that, like all golf, it’s more about the club’s holder than the club itself.
But on this day, the score mattered not. It was the experience. At least that’s what I told Blakey.
The chance to not only see the game’s heritage, but to get your hands dirty with the equipment was something I recommend to all who have a passion for – and appreciation of – the sport.