On Tuesday night inside the Merion Room at the Atlanta Athletic Club, Robert Tyre Jones IV, namesake grandson to the great Bobby Jones, awaited the arrival of his guests for the evening.
Their trip from south of town was fraught with traffic. They straggled in as best they could. And each time a few more came through the door, introductions were in order.
“I’m Bobby Jones and you must be Bobby Jones.”
“Hello, Bobby, I’m Bobby.”
“Bobby, I’m Bobby Jones. Nice to meet you.”
“Let me guess. You must be Bobby Jones. My name’s Bobby Jones.”
They came for dinner, and a Monty Python skit broke out.
There is no excuse for forgetting the name of any contestant in the annual Bobby Jones Open. The winner’s name is eternal; as is the name of the fellow on the bottom of the leaderboard, even if his score reads like the national debt.
For 37 years they have contested this little two-day tourney with the most unusual qualifying standard: You must share the name of the 1930 Grand Slam winner and father of the Masters.
For 37 years they have gathered in good cheer, raised a little money to serve the fight against the rare spinal disease that claimed Bobby Jones in 1971 — syringomyelia — and to play the game that is so intimately connected to their name.
It’s like a softball tournament for guys who go by the first name Babe — if anyone did that anymore.
“It’s like a family reunion,” said one Bobby Jones, this one a retiree living in Florida now.
The entry standard is unwavering. Years ago, an applicant named James Robert Jones tried to talk his way into the field. “No, no, I go by Bobby, honest,” he said over the phone to the daughter of the man running the tournament at the time (his name was Bobby Jones).
“Let me check with my father and I’ll call you back,” he was told.
He was so close. The tournament director had cleared him and asked his daughter to call the man with the good news.
“Hello, Jim Jones,” he answered, obviously not possessing caller ID.
“You just disqualified yourself,” the girl told him.
As you might guess, any event loosely based on the memory of the most sainted of all golfers is rather bound by integrity.
The various Bobby Joneses have taken their event to stops all around the country — and once a few of them even ventured to Scotland and St. Andrews, where they were treated royally.
This year was the second time they came to the birthplace of the original Bobby Jones, playing two rounds in Peachtree City and touring the Atlanta Athletic Club, where Jones called home at the end.
“It’s great for me — I’m bad with names,” laughed Jones’ grandson, who led the tour and spoke to the group at dinner. A psychologist who makes his office in Conyers, this Jones has played in three of the Jones Opens, winning none of them. No matter, the event still enjoys the family’s full support.
This was a tidy little group entered this year, only 23 strong. The defending champion — Bobby Jones — couldn’t make it this year as he was off on a religious mission.
The original would have approved. He once said: “First come my wife and children. Next comes my profession — the law. Finally, and never as a life in itself, comes golf.”
Another bit of wisdom from the best golfer ever named Bobby Jones, that seemed particularly apt considering some of the scores these guys posted: “No one will ever have golf under his thumb. No round ever will be so good it could not have been better. Perhaps this is why golf is the greatest of games. You are not playing a human adversary; you are playing a game. You are playing old man par.”
Old-man par was particularly elusive this week. Apparently just because you are named Bobby Jones doesn’t mean you automatically are granted his swing. Were that part of the package we’d be up to our ears in Jones boys named Bobby.
To lessen the confusion, the players all go by nicknames, given to them with the lasting solemnity of a fraternity name. There’s Music and Body Shop, Computer II and Coach to name a few.
One of two first-timers, nicknamed Rhyl after the town in Wales where he was born, realized a dream making the long trip this year. He had heard about the event years ago on a British game show, when a contestant was asked, “Who was the winner of this year’s Bobby Jones Open?” (It was a trick question, of course, because the answer is always Bobby Jones). And Rhyl vowed one day he’d compete.
It was “Bugs” — a doctor specializing in infectious diseases from Pennsylvania — who won the gross low title this year with rounds of 77-78. The hole out on the par 4 the first day was the difference, when he truly channeled his inner Bobby.
This was Bugs’ first championship. Three more and he has his own Grand Slam.
And you can believe that he counted every stroke scrupulously. He’s named Bobby Jones after all. It was the Original, as he is called in this group, who once wrote: “Golf is the closest game to the game we call life. You get bad breaks from good shots; you get good breaks from bad shots — but you have to play the ball where it lies.”
Oddly almost none of them were actually named for the great golfer. It was just a happy coincidence.
“My dad was a coal miner; I don’t think he even knew who Bobby Jones was,” said “Atlanta,” the local host.
“My father just wanted to name me something that couldn’t be made fun of,” said “Holly,” the Florida retiree.
No matter how they came by the name, they are dogged in celebrating it. They already are making plans for next year in Des Moines, and for the Palm Springs, Calif., area in 2017.
That despite the fact the group is aging and the general trend away from giving children common names, even if that name was attached to a most uncommon man.
It seems they’re not making Bobby Joneses like they used to.
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