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DEL.ICIO.USHere’s hoping Winged Foot still has plenty of kick
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Furman Bisher
Before trundling off to the U.S. Open at Winged Foot Golf Club in New York, I have some catching up to do. Mainly, it’s sort of tidying up a melange of topics that are close to the heart, or have slipped by without close personal attention. That said, we’ll lead off with a subject relating to the Open:
• No one in this country has ever written on golf with the aplomb and skill of Herbert Warren Wind, and no U.S. Open course has aroused more commotion than Winged Foot in 1974, about to be broached again, and that includes the blather at Shinnecock Hills two years ago. Hale Irwin only had to shoot 7 over par to win in 1974, and there had been nothing close to such a debacle since Sam Parks won at 11 over par at Oakmont in 1935. Irwin’s score harked back to the days of brassies, niblicks, mashies and such. The players were appalled, felt insulted.
So Herb Wind took his typewriter in hand and addressed the matter, “which created more controversy than any Open course in years.”
“Many observers and players felt that it was demanding to the point of being unfair. I was a member of a group that saw it somewhat differently. The U.S. Open course, I think, should provide a hard test — the hardest test our golfers meet each year. While there were a few aspects of the way the course was set up that seemed overdone, my basic feeling was that scores ran high as they did mainly because the field did not perform well.”
Ouch! Old Herb really knew how to hit ‘em where it hurt.
When the Open was next played at Winged Foot 10 years later, the winning score improved from 287 to 276. In 1974, for example, Jack Nicklaus three-putted three of the first four holes the last round. After all the bawling of the past, it is to be hoped the USGA hasn’t gone soft again. Play away, gentlemen!
• It may surely have escaped your attention, for horses don’t get much space around here, that there has been an outburst of Georgia Bulldog in the Dogwood Stable. A few years ago, Stablemaster Cot Campbell named a colt Trippi, for the great Georgia back. Trippi finished fourth in the Kentucky Derby, later retired to stud, sired a pair in his own image, one named Sinkwich, for Frank, who won the Heisman, then another who was named Poschner, for George, a great end severely wounded in WWII.
Well, last Saturday, Sinkwich won the first race on Belmont Day, paying a nice price. Poschner has still to get to the track, just a 2-year-old, but he and Sinkwich are full brothers, and the Dogwood hope is that the Trippi blood runs thick. It does sound bit odd when at the track the breeding is announced and it comes out, “Sinkwich, sired by Trippi.”
• Last week, a dear friend of mine and a treasured friend of the state of North Carolina passed away. I can only make a weak pass at reporting on the things Hugh Morton did for his home state. He owned a mountain, Grandfather Mountain, bequeathed by his grandfather, where he gave impetus to hang gliding; he was an avid but sensible environmentalist; his blood ran Tar Heel blue, and he turned an avocation into an art. For years he traveled about shooting pictures for my sports section at Charlotte, when the going rate was $3 a shot.
Later, he published two exquisite books of photography, the first titled “Hugh Morton’s North Carolina.” His hand could be found at nearly every turn in the Blue Ridge, and no man ever had more Tar Heel friends. His career took one left turn: when he ran for governor — briefly — until he found out how sordid politics can be. Any state needs a Hugh Morton, only North Carolina was that lucky.
• You can’t appreciate how harrowing it can be covering an international sports event until you’ve read Mike Knobler’s e-mail from Germany. Press journalists have been relegated to the state of herded chattel at such events as the World Cup. Where once they were courted and given stage status, they are now shuffled about and denied access to the story. International officials have turned prostitute. Television pays, television rules. A once glamorous assignment has now become garbage collecting.
• One parting thought; For his own sake please get Chris Reitsma out of town before it’s too late. The man is in misery. Anguish is etched in his face. He can pitch. But not here, and not as a closer. What about the new TV thing, “The Closer?” Might that be his call. Just kidding.
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Comments
By Tom Tindall
June 14, 2006 11:21 AM | Link to this
Furman -
I just wanted to say hello and that I certainly continue to enjoy your writing. Also, if you do not remeber me, I am Cot and Anne’s son-in-law, and I would still ike to take you up on getting the copy of your book, which I got Cot for Christmas, signed. I will try and contact you in the next few weeks to see if that still works for you. Thanks again and take care. Please tell Linda hello from Lila and me.