“The young women see her and praise her; even queens and royal concubines sing her praises: ‘Who is this, arising like the dawn, as fair as the moon, as bright as the sun, as majestic as an army with billowing banners?’” (Song of Songs 6:9-10 NLT).
I have had a mistress for forty-one years. And she gets better with age. Let me explain.
Sue and I have been married now for fifty-three years with no slip-ups. I have been faithful to one woman. Tiger Woods and his kind would not be able to even imagine a life-time of fidelity.
But…. having said that— while Sue has been the perfect bride for me- I have had a mistress. And it’s no secret. Sue even seems to approve of her.
Links Golf has been my mistress for forty-one years. Just the thought of her brings joy. If I have trouble sleeping at night, I just go to the first tee in my disturbed brain of some links golf course in Scotland or Ireland, and voila, I am at peace and calm and doze off.
The affair started in 1983 at Turnberry in Scotland. I was not good enough to play in the British Amateur. It was pure fantasy to even think about being there. But somehow, the ancient qualification rules of that day said I was eligible to compete in the British Amateur. I would probably embarrass myself, but I needed to go.
I was 32 years old. I never had a ‘prime’ in golf but this was the closest thing to it. I was a young lawyer who played summer golf and won a few very small tournaments on occasion. I was never good enough to win the state amateur. Qualifying for the U.S. Amateur was always a frustrating failure. But the rules of the British Amateur said I was eligible, so off we went. Sue was happy to come along with her crazy husband.
2022 in Scotland with Carter Quina (Player’s Progress illustrator).
We got off the plane in Prestwick, home of many British Opens in the 1860s and beyond. There were no banners awaiting our arrival. We had no hotel reservations. It was ten days before the tournament. We arrived early just for the adventure of it all. This would be a thrill beyond measure – surely a ‘once in a lifetime’ adventure.
We rented a car and immediately drove, on the wrong side of the road, of course, the twenty miles to the pro shop at Turnberry. I walked in and announced that I was in the tournament. There were many odd looks since I was ten days early, but I soon discovered that the pro, Bob Erickson, had a son who was married to a girl from Kentucky! He told me I could play for a couple of days, no problem, and no greens fees, before we headed off to see St. Andrews and other hot spots of Scotland. I asked him where we could stay and instead of pointing us to a bed and breakfast somewhere, he pointed upstairs to the “Dormie House” over the pro shop, with a few small rooms. He said we could stay there. Ten pounds a night.
Are you serious? Here? Right here? Go get our luggage now? At Turnberry? The room was so small and pitiful it was perfect. Two twin beds. Maybe a golf picture on the wall. A tiny bathroom with old fixtures. A shower that dripped cold water which eventually got warm, but never American-style hot.
Turnberry Hotel
You could almost smell Bobby Locke or was it Harry Vardon? Jack Nicklaus’s 1977 loss to Tom Watson was only six years earlier, so the aroma of those two titans was lingering in the air. The “Duel in the Sun” was whispered about with awe. Nicklaus shot 65-66 on the weekend and still lost to a young Watson. Those stars would have stayed in the majestic white hotel on top of the hill. But this Dormie House was for real golfers, not legendary figures who, in some odd ways, don’t even really exist except in our imagination.
Sue and I pulled the twin beds together so we could snuggle all night. This was not because we were still in love, although we were, but because the Scots knew little in those days about proper heat. It was late May, but the calendar means nothing in Scotland. The Scots have no regard for seasons and calendars.
So, the next morning, at about 5:30, I was standing on the first tee at Turnberry in 45-degree weather, by myself, in a jetlagged stupor, hitting a drive down the opening fairway and commencing the purest round of golf imaginable. I seem to remember that I wore a woolen cap with one of those balls on top, purchased in the pro shop. I’d seen Johnny Miller wear such a thing, so it didn’t seem odd.
By myself. All alone. Early morning on a world-class links course. Carrying my own clubs. Pure golf. The first three holes lead to the seaside 4th tee where the waves were crashing and the seabirds were cackling.
My mind pictured Nicklaus and Watson standing on the tee, asking their caddies what clubs to hit. Even though Watson won, Nicklaus had been at his greatest. Third place cowered ten strokes behind them.
The Ailsa course at Turnberry wanders out along the ocean cliffs with spectacular holes beginning on four and ending on eleven. The ocean wants to swallow golf balls hooked left on these magnificent holes.
Walking by myself that morning was like my first day in heaven. The ocean smells and sounds were intoxicating. It was love at first sight. Two weeks later, after the tournament was completed, I was so “in love” with this new mistress that I had serious thoughts of leaving law practice and moving to Scotland to be a missionary. I was out of my mind with intoxicating love.
The most poignant moment was behind the twelfth tee at the far end of the course. There was a coastal farm with an unkempt fence and a singular cow nearby. Munching away at about 7:30 am. Cold. Misty. No sounds except the ocean below the cliffs. The heavy wind almost drowned out the sound of the seabirds.
As a human being, I was all alone. But the cow offered to be my new friend. She interrupted her morning breakfast of grass to stare at me. We talked. The cow seemed to be asking, “What are you doing here? Isn’t it a little early for golfers? What’s with the silly hat with a woolen ball on top? Well, nice to meet you. Good luck. Cheerio.” I remember thinking that this cow had it made. Lots of green lush farm grass near the ocean cliffs. If you have to be a cow, the field behind the twelfth tee at Turnberry is heaven. Way better than a butcher shop in Kansas City.
At that moment the cow was as magnificent as the cliffs and the Atlantic Ocean below. By the time I made it back to the pro shop, I was in love.
Links golf would be my mistress. And now, forty-one years later, ‘she’ is better than ever. She makes a way better mistress than a centerfold. The female version of a mistress has a short life-span. She gets wrinkly and creepy with old age and usually talks way too much.
But Links Golf course just gets better with age. The older the better! And she only speaks through the bounce of the ball… the smell of the ocean… the sound of the seabirds… the strong winds blowing … as God the Creator makes memories from His majestic creation. The beauty of Links Golf has even driven me to poetry on my better days. Click here for a poem inspired by Psalm 96 and Links Golf.
Okay……. enough for now. I am 73 so it’s time to jump on a plane and go see my mistress at least one more time before it’s too late.
(This is an updated and edited version of a Chapter from “Ford’s Wonderful World of Golf”, published in 2013 by Links Players International). For more golf stories, check out www.fordswonderfulworld.com or www.playersprogress.com.