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Original Issue


Two global team competitions, the World Amateur and the Canada Cup matches, will give golf a special international flavor this year and test this country's leadership

A hundred years ago the only people who played golf were the Scots. They had started to play the game in a rudimentary way as far back as 1100, some scholars say, though they are not prepared to bet their bottom shilling on the exact shape the game took in those remote days. The first golf club we know of, Royal Blackheath, was established in 1608 outside of London to accommodate the interest of James VI of Scotland who had become James I of England. However, it was not until the middle of the 18th century that the first permanent golf clubs were formed, the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers in 1744 and the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews shortly afterward in 1754. By 1858, a century ago, there were some 38 golf clubs in existence. These included most of the other "classical" Scottish clubs (such as Prestwick, Carnoustie and North Berwick) in addition to a mild sprouting of foreign clubs founded by groups of Scots transplanted to foreign climes; Old Manchester in England; Royal Calcutta (and later Royal Bombay) in India, to which the jute trade had drawn as settlers the representatives of many Scottish companies; and Pau in southern France, just north of the Pyrenees, where golf was started by two Scottish officers who had been stationed in that area during the Peninsular War and who, some 20 years later, returned on holiday with their golf clubs and began to play on the plains of Billere.

A hundred years ago, the guttapercha ball had been "perfected"—it had been introduced some 10 years before—and the game was definitely on the verge of its first considerable expansion, but from the point of view of tournament play, golf was very young. There was no British Open and there wouldn't be for another two years. The inauguration of the British Amateur was a full 27 years away. The runner-up in that first Amateur Championship in 1885 and winner of it the next two years was Horace G. Hutchinson, then a young man in his mid-20s, an age at which most good athletes were not attracted to golf in those days. Hutchinson, from North Devon, represented the first English golf club in which the guiding catalysts had been Englishmen, as opposed to Scottish colonists. Charles Kingsley, the novelist, was an intimate friend of Captain Molesworth, one of the club's founders, and as Robert Browning, the gifted golf historian and not the poet, has written, the members of that club—with a breadth of view golfers have not always been celebrated for—took the name of their course from the novel Kingsley had been working on during a stay in the good captain's house: Westward Ho!

The purpose of this brief journey into the past, as is probably self-evident, is to point out how small and contained the game was, how far and how fast it has come in the last 100 years. What provokes this retrospection at this immediate moment is the fact that 1958 will go down in the file cards of future historians as a significant year in the game's relentless conquest of the green and brown corners of the earth: this autumn two great international competitions will be taking place together for the first time—on November 20-23, two-man professional teams representing over 30 countries will be meeting at the Club de Golf in Mexico City in the sixth annual Canada Cup match, already more than an embryonic classic; a month or so previous to this, on October 8-11, four-man teams of amateur golfers coming from some 30 countries will be convening at the Old Course in St. Andrews for the first World Amateur Team Championship and its Eisenhower Trophy. Bob Jones, whose illness has prevented him from traveling abroad since the war, has agreed to go over as captain of the United States team and has shipped his electric cart across so that he will be a mobile leader on the Old Course. Jones's keen involvement epitomizes the hold which this new event has already gained on the minds of golfers throughout the world. As the chairman of the Championship Committee of the Royal & Ancient recently put it, "The match should be exciting, but above and beyond that it will be an occasion. Everyone will be there, from everywhere. Just picture the Big Room of the R&A clubhouse swarming with people of all colors, talking away in many different languages, all having something in common without even trying."

In a different direction, one of the riddles of our contemporary civilization is that the enormously increased means of communication haven't always made for better communication. There are, for example, a surprisingly large number of Americans who have the lingering idea that we are the only nation that knows anything at all about golf and that any one of a hundred of our amateurs could go over to, say, Spain and carry off the Open championship while wearing street shoes. If this is a little wrong, it is also somewhat understandable. Since the mid-'20s when Hagen went all the way to the top in the British Open four times and Bobby Jones completed the shatteringly successful American invasion of the game's historic home, it is true that the United States has dominated golf and sparked its progress in many laudable directions. The American development of the scientifically interbalanced set of steel-shafted clubs has made the game far more playable for the countless average golfers of the world, and this ranks only behind the invention of the rubber-cored ball by Coburn Haskell of Cleveland at the turn of the century as our most important technical contribution. For another thing, our professionals have long led the way in exploring and refining the modern technique of hitting the golf ball, and for this they deserve tremendous credit. Our winter professional tour, in a wondrous way, has become something of an Oxford and Cambridge of golf, a university of higher learning attracting players from all the other continents eager to improve their skills by studying at the feet of our acknowledged masters. But where some of us seem to go wrong is in thinking that simply because we have been in the forefront of the game for three decades now we alone love it, understand it and produce players of marked ability. This isn't quite so. In the last decade especially, the golfers (both amateur and professional) of other countries have been closing what had been a large gap between our degree of proficiency and theirs, and today it is not a predetermined thing at all that if an American team enters an international competition it will be a sure winner. The recent renaissance of golf in Great Britain, for example, has seen their teams take the Ryder and Curtis cups, and their amateurs could very well complete the sweep by winning the Walker Cup next spring, for they are a good crop. This last August in their annual match against a side of the top British pros, the amateurs beat them for the first time—and more than that, routed them by a score of 9½-5½.

Two events which took place last year brought into bold relief the advances foreign golfers have made. First, there was the Ryder Cup match last October which we lost for the first time since 1933 and lost in a rather shocking fashion, dropping six and tying one of the eight singles matches after having ostensibly wrapped up the cup for another two years by taking a 3-1 lead in the first day's foursomes. I shall always remember two related conversations whenever I think of that 1957 Ryder Cup match. About a week before the event took place, during a visit to the Midwest I happened to sit in on a conversation at a golf club between the resident pro, a fine young player from the Southwest, and two members of the club. They were voicing the careful opinion that the British might have a chance since our team didn't include all of our best players—Hogan, Snead, Demaret and Middlecoff, for example. "No need to worry just because some of those oldtimers aren't going across," the young pro said with a facile wave of the hand. "I know all of the boys who made the team, I played against them on the circuit, I've watched them a lot, and I can assure you they're terrific players. They are loaded with talent and they're tournament-tough, magnificent competitors. In fact, I think they'll give us a much stronger team than if we lugged some of those old stars across again. They've had it." The young pro's prediction was that we would drop two points, three at the most.


A week or so later, on the Sunday morning on which the papers carried the news of the British victory, I happened to drop into the club again. Everyone in the grillroom was talking about the Ryder Cup match—even granting the difficulty of adapting to foreign conditions, it seemed absolutely incredible that our team could have been handled the way they most certainly had been by a group of uncelebrated British golfers. I joined a table where the pro was explaining how it had happened. "I've been predicting all along that we would lose," he was saying with a facile wave of the hand. "That wasn't any representative American team, not without Ben and Sam on it, or Cary or Jimmy. These young kids we sent across aren't bad boys but, let's face it, they're pretty green. I used to play with them out there on the circuit, and I usually would give them a stroke a side to make a match of it. It all boils down to this: we sent a bunch of boys on a man's errand." Perhaps the real lesson to be learned from the loss of the Ryder Cup was the obvious one: on a given day a group of British pros, playing determined golf, are now again capable of defeating a team of excellent American pros who are slightly off the stick.

About three weeks after this the sports world suddenly became aware of Torakichi (Pete) Nakamura and Koichi Ono. These two Japanese pros were expected to do fairly well in the 1957 Canada Cup match, since it was being held on their native heath, at the Kasumigaseki Country Club outside of Tokyo. However, no one looked for them to carry off, as they did, a competition against the likes of Snead and Demaret, Dai Rees and Dave Thomas of Wales, Peter Thomson and Bruce Crampton of Australia, Stan Leonard and Al Balding of Canada, Peter Allis and Ken Bousfield of England, and Harold Henning and Gary Player of South Africa, to name the most formidable rival teams. Nakamura and Ono won going away, 9 shots ahead of the runners-up, Snead and Demaret. There was nothing fluky about their victory either. They indeed putted better than anybody else, but they also played at least as well as anybody else from tee to green. Although this Japanese triumph was far and away the most stunning episode in Canada Cup history, it was not the first time a team other than the United States had won the match. Argentina (Tony Cerda and Roberto de Vicenzo) captured the first Canada Cup congregation at Beaconsfield (outside of Montreal) in 1953. Australia (Thomson and Kel Nagle) won in 1954 at Lavalsur-le-Lac (also outside of Montreal). Then there followed two American victories, Chick Harbert and Ed Furgol finishing first at the Columbia Club in Washington in 1955, and the dream team of Hogan and Snead repeating the following year over the "Burma Road" course at Wentworth in England.

A lot of the credit for this enlivening state of affairs should go to the late John Jay Hopkins and the unknown man (or men) who worked out the format for the Canada Cup. First, by setting it up so that the competing nations would send teams of only two men, it was made possible for the golf-small countries to be adequately enough represented, for while there will not be a whole brigade of able professionals in a country like Belgium or Colombia or Korea, there usually are a couple of players of caliber. This format at the same time eliminated the embarrassing margins that would have resulted for the United States and the other major golfing countries had six- or eight-man teams been called for, and teams of this size had been conventional in international golf over the years. In addition, the unknown planner (or planners) had a stroke of genius in establishing a method of scoring for the event that was both simple and different. A team's score is the aggregate of both of its two players' total scores—for 72 holes of medal play. For example, Japan's winning score last year was 557, compounded from Nakamura's 274 (68, 68, 67, 71) and Ono's 283 (73, 70, 68, 72). This makes for continuing pressure on both players which is quite different from four-ball play where a hot golfer can carry an off-form partner without its showing too gravely on the board. To stay in the running in Canada Cup play, then, both members of a team must perform well, and the fine thing about this is that it puts the emphasis just where it should be: on the team rather than on the individual. There are a number of people, by the way, who think that the administrators of the Canada Cup would be wise to eliminate the tabulations and the prizes for the best individual scoring since this merely detracts from the team aspect of the meeting.

The Canada Cup match is sponsored and conducted by the International Golf Association, an organization founded by the late Mr. Hopkins, the American industrialist. Its present head is Frank Pace Jr., the former Secretary of the Army, who succeeded Mr. Hopkins as President of General Dynamics, and its man-in-the-field is Fred Corcoran, the veteran golf promoter who must surely be the most traveled Bostonian since Francis Parkman first hit the Oregon Trail. The IGA has always selected excellent and interesting courses and, all in all, has operated its tourney on a very high plane.

It deserves to be congratulated for having perceived that the day of multination golf had arrived and for nursing a commendable idea into an event that has fiber and color—and all this in half a dozen years.

The format for the World Amateur Team Championship is a bit different and, in its own way, quite striking. Each member nation will be represented by a team of four men, and the championship will be played at 72 holes medal play, 18 holes on four days. Each day each team will arrive at its score for that day by totaling the three lowest rounds of its four players. For illustration, let us say that on the first day player A has a 70, player B a 77, player C an 81 and player D a 76; the team's score for this day would be 223—70+76+77. On the second day, to continue, with player A around in 73, B in 72, C in 76 and D in 77, the team's score would be 221—72+73+76. And so on. The team's score for the tournament, then, is the sum of its three-man totals for each of the four days of play. One never knows until a plan is put into practice how well it will work, but on paper permitting a team to discard its highest round for a day should help the countries who are comparatively young in golf and whose less experienced players are more likely to run into wide fluctuation in their scoring. This, in any event, is what the body governing the event hopes the flexibility will accomplish.

This governing body is known as the World Amateur Golf Council. It was formed last spring at a meeting in Washington of the representatives of the official golf associations of some 35 countries, with the USGA and the R&A acting as the restrained leaders. I don't think it's an irrelevancy to relate the effect which this meeting in Washington had on one of the American delegates, Richard Tufts of Pinehurst, N.C., a man who has given as much of himself to the game as anyone I can think of. As many golfers know from visiting him in his lair, the village of Pinehurst is about as New England as you can get, and Mr. Tufts' office is a superb, unspoiled example of 19th-century Boston office décor. It's a high-ceilinged room, with walls of stained wood, old desks and old chairs set atop an old wooden floor and, if I remember correctly, the general sobriety is perked up by dark green window shades and some sepia photographs. It has a pungent atmosphere, and in its grip you half expect a messenger to burst through the door and proclaim, "Vicksburg has fallen!" or at the very least and latest, "William Jennings Bryan is running again!" On the day I am referring to, Mr. Tufts was seated at his desk wearing one pair of glasses and nervously twirling another pair. Although he is usually the courtliest of men in exchanging salutations, it was clear that there was something on his mind which he wanted to get out as fast as he could. "This last weekend," he suddenly said with a rush, "I had my top experience in golf." Continuing in this charged-up style, he described the convention of the representatives from all over the world, what had been arrived at, and how it had been. "It was the spirit of speaking up which I liked," he said at length in conclusion. "We were a little afraid that the men from the small countries would assume that the USGA and R&A would want to run the show and so would be a little passive. Not at all. We couldn't have been wronger in our guess. They were a remarkable group of men, and they all had ideas, very definite ones, good ones, and they were there to state them. I suppose that is what I have always enjoyed about my association with golfers everywhere. When you have that spirit of speaking up, you get to know people and everyone is enriched."

Mr. Tufts' informal thoughts, as hardly needs to be underlined, come close to synthesizing the whole idea behind international competition in sports. For all the honest glamour and the extra tingle of excitement which a match between men from different nations inevitably produces, these events would have a slightly hollow ring unless the players patently found pleasure in competing against rivals raised hundreds or thousands of miles away, finding that they were fundamentally the same kind of people as themselves, being wholeheartedly charmed by this recognition, and going on from this first bridge of mutual respect to rewarding friendships. Ironically, and sometimes tragically, there are at least as many instances where international sports competitions have bred misunderstanding, a heavy underbrush of insinuation springing up when jingoistic camp followers and overdedicated national officials have transmuted technical issues into rhubarbs and the other flora of discord. Golf certainly has had its rickety moments but, over the long haul it is hard to think of a sport which has flourished as well as an authentic common denominator for international good will. Some say that this takes place because of the rambling structure of the game and its setting, because the code and mystique of the game are so defined and because the game lends itself so naturally to conversation off the course and to the other strengthening social amenities. Whatever it is—and surely all of these contribute—there is an unmistakable homogeneity of viewpoint among golfers wherever they are located just as there is, for instance, among theater people everywhere. The local differences only seem to make the visitor from a foreign land more aware of how much he shares in common with the resident fellow golfer.


In the world today there are about 15 million golfers—an estimated 5 million in this country, another 2 million or so in Great Britain, and considerable numbers also in the Dominion nations, Argentina and Japan. To accommodate nine reasonably good holes something like 80 acres are needed, and this space requirement (along with the high cost of maintaining a course, let alone the cost of building one) has necessarily limited the game's expansion in many countries. But what is astonishing is the length golfers will go to, and have always gone to, in order to play the game even in the most topographically inhospitable locales. In the Waziristan sector of India, the mountainland bordering Afghanistan to which British civil servants and army officers annually fled to escape the intolerable summer heat in the plains, the courses were almost entirely composed of rocks and crags, but the golfers found a solution: each player carried his own portable fairway, a small square of door matting, which provided a playable lie and onto this the ball was transferred stroke by stroke around the jagged layout. At the old Royal Bombay golf club, in contradistinction, the terrain was flat and hazards practically nonexistent. There, to introduce a spot of challenge into the game, the members erected large canvas screens at strategic points. In many parts of India, for example around New Delhi, the appeal of the golf course is somewhat complicated by the presence of snakes. Sometimes they frequent the rough, but they do not like it overly because it is the haunt of mosquitoes, which snakes cannot abide. Consequently, they are more commonly found basking in the sunshine in the paths. In any event, it is hard for a golfer to keep his mind on his hip pivot if he also has to think about his self-protection; so on many Indian courses, where a caddy is only 20¢, a golfer hires not only a caddy to carry his bag but also a forecaddy who takes care of the reptile department. These forecaddies are called agaywallahs, which literally means people who go before. At the Chembur course outside of Bombay the forecaddies are armed with red flags which they drop near the ball when it comes to rest, for these flags scare away the ravens which love golf balls and hang around the course hoping to swoop down and pick up a high-compression meal.


In the Near East, where the land is almost sheer desert, the golfers have refused to become reconciled to the impossibility of playing a game which ordinarily requires grass. They have built desert courses in which they substitute "browns" for "greens." These "browns," perfectly flat, of course, are made of fine earth soaked with heavy engine oil. They will hold an approach shot somewhat better than the crusty, pebbly type of desert and they putt a lot better than loose sand. There is a course in the middle of Chile's barren Atacama Desert, where the borders of the fairway are demarcated by chalk lines; if you are inside the lines, presumably you can take a preferred lie. There is a nice little course in the mining town of Oruro in Bolivia 12,000 feet above sea level, and one at the same altitude in nearby La Paz. The lowest golf course in the world at the present accounting stretches along the sand and shingle of the northern shores of the Dead Sea in Kallia, and so it goes. Whatever the monstrosity of the physical problem, golf will out, apparently. In the old days most of these strange and improbable courses were pioneered by British military garrisons or civil affairs cadres, or just by the overseas business colony, it being their custom to start laying out the skeleton for nine holes the moment after the local water supply had been tested and found drinkable. Today the golf flag follows the mining engineer and the oil engineer to far-off places. In the Witwatersrand region of South Africa, for illustration, a tableland 6,000 feet above the sea, there are some 50 golf clubs since nearly every gold mine has its own course.

The result of this wide-scale sowing of the seeds over the last century is that today there are capable golf players in almost every land under the sun. Even in countries like Finland and Thailand and Egypt, where there are only a handful of courses and the game mainly serves the international colony, adept native players have developed. Of course it takes a little time to produce homegrown professionals good enough to hold their own against the game's best exponents who have had the advantages of growing up in the traditionally golf-minded environments. Take as an illustration the case of Argentina, which is typical enough. The first recorded golf match there was a struggle in 1892 between two Scotsmen, a Mr. Scroggie and a Mr. Masters, who fought it out over a makeshift course where, for hazards, as an eye-witness recorded, "there were belts of trees, ditches, roads, wire fences, cows, etc., and many a fix the players got into as the remains of Mr. Scroggie's golf clubs can testify." Some 40 years after this majestic duel, after the resident Britishers and the Argentines themselves had ringed Buenos Aires with handsome golf clubs (including, naturally, one called San Andres), an Argentine pro came within a stroke at Carnoustie of winning the 1931 British Open. He was José Jurado, a gifted and high-strung chap, and all he had to do to clinch a tie for first in that Open was to finish with two pars.

On the 71st he drove into the Barry Burn and went one over. Then, needing a birdie 4 on the short par-5 final hole to tie Tommy Armour for first, he completely bewildered the thousands watching when he played the hole safely for a 5. Jurado later explained that, speaking only Spanish, he didn't know what score he had to make first to win, then to tie. He would have been a colorful champion—that's for sure. His approach to golf was distinctly Mediterranean, and this made him a constant nettle to the etiquette-minded Englishmen who were fussily superintending the growth of the game in the Plata Basin. Just before his near miss in the British Open, Jurado shocked them thoroughly after finishing a round in Buenos Aires with the Duke of Windsor, then the Prince of Wales. On saying goodby, the Prince graciously invited Jurado to drop in for tea at Windsor Castle if he went through with his plans to play in the Open that summer. "Thanks," Jurado replied, whipping out pencil and paper. "Could you write down the address?"

As regards the amateur stars developed in foreign countries, the general pattern is very much like it is in our country: a sizable percentage are the sons of well-to-do families with the wherewithal to hurl themselves intensely into the waiting game, and a good proportion, of course, are men who work for a living and periodically take the time out to play in tournaments. One extremely colorful example of that first type of amateur and the man who will probably play at the head of the French team at the assembly at St. Andrews is Count Henri de Lamaze. De Lamaze has never been any great shakes on his golf visits to England and Scotland, but what a record he has compiled in the French Amateur against the best British and American competition! Henri has won it nine times in all, 1947, '48, '49, '50, '54, '55, '56, '57, '58, and in so doing has taken the measure of such worthy players as Harvie Ward, Joe Conrad and Don Bisplinghoff.

De Lamaze winters in Paris, summers in Monte Carlo and breaks up his routine with golf trips to Belgium, Spain, Italy and the other nearby countries. (Last April he came to America for the Masters but didn't play impressively.) Henri has never had to work for a living. He draws a comfortable income from the proceeds of the estates of the De Lamaze family in southwestern France and from the inherited wealth acquired by his maternal grandmother, an heiress of the Michelin industrial combine. He took up golf at St. Cloud outside Paris when he was 20, largely to please his father, who was a dedicated, if average, player. In 1938, when his handicap was 18, he won a minor event. Excited by this, he decided to see how good he could get. A year later, when he reached the quarterfinals of the national championship, he had got his handicap down to three. However, the championship which made De Lamaze a champion was the 1945 native event in which he was defeated in the final. "I was 5 up with seven holes to play," he was recalling recently, "when my nerves went completely to pieces. My opponent squared the match on the 35th hole, and I finally lost it on the 37th. After this I was the butt of the remarks of a number of people who said I would never recover from this calamitous defeat." De Lamaze spent the next two years in rigorous training, playing or practicing seven hours a day, all this activity directed at overcoming his nervousness, his major weakness. Since that time his nerves have been well enough subdued for him to have compiled his incredible domestic record, but not so well under control that he has not on several occasions lost his temper and been guilty of acts of poor sportsmanship, such as fidgeting on a green while his opponent is putting. He is aware of it and is working on it.

If, however, one were to try to select one fairly typical foreign amateur and one fairly typical foreign pro to illustrate how the top golfers throughout the world are fundamentally very much the same as our American golfers and yet always a bit different, you probably could not do better than Joe Carr and Harry Bradshaw, Ireland's leading amateur and leading professional, respectively. Carr, who is now 36 and who has twice won the British Amateur, has been referred to by more than one observer as Ireland's Billy Joe Patton: he is a long and exciting and somewhat unconventional hitter; in personality he is gay and bright and intelligent, admirable both in defeat and victory; and, a true amateur, he plugs away hard at his job and squeezes in his golf when he can. Joe, who started as a salesman for a Dublin clothing house, is now a partner in a firm which manufactures ladies' and children's coats and dresses. He works from 9:30 to 5:30 daily when not engaged in competitions, plays his golf after hours and practices it before. He lives alongside the Sutton Golf Club, and each morning from January through October, the weather permitting, he trots onto the course after breakfast and knocks out a batch of balls. The length of Joe's matutinal practice sessions depends on the light. "In January," he explained not long ago, "it doesn't get light until 8:10 or thereabouts. As it gets lighter progressively earlier in the day, I get up earlier and practice progressively longer, but I always make a point of getting to town by 9:30."

Carr will be playing for the composite Great Britain and Ireland team at St. Andrews. In the Canada Cup, Ireland will be represented by its own team, made up of Christy O'Connor and Harry Bradshaw, a rotund, rugged, jolly man of 45, who has won just about everything in British golf except the Open itself—he tied for first with Bobby Locke in 1949 but lost in the playoff. To the purely uninitiated American eye Harry's inelegant swing, baggy clothes and his stalwart lack of professional mannerisms would lead one to mistake him at first glance for an elevator operator or television repairman who has only recently decided to try his hand at the game. Appearances notwithstanding, Harry has been in golf all his life. His father, "Ned of Delgany," was the pro at the course in that town in County Wicklow from 1908 until his death in 1949. Harry has been hitting the golf ball since he was 4 and smashed his first window. When he was a caddy he used to have an Irish hurling grip, but a local priest converted him to the orthodox grip and also improved his putting. His father imparted to him a stern and sound philosophy for the game: "The hole is always big enough for the ball. There should be no reason for it not going in." Now the professional at the celebrated Portmarnock course, Harry is renowned for his remarkably consistent play and his equally consistent disposition. He actually manages to enjoy the most arduous competitions and genuinely likes talking to his galleries. "Ah, now,"—so goes a famous Bradshaw line which he delivers with a friendly wink when things are breaking well for him—"if I fell into the sea I wouldn't get wet."

Despite the fact that they will be facing some very skillful players and some strong composite teams, the American teams stand an excellent chance of winning both the Eisenhower Trophy and the Canada Cup this fall. (The two professionals who will comprise our Canada Cup team are Ben Hogan and Sam Snead, and our four-man amateur squad now in St. Andrews is made up of Charley Coe, Billy Joe Patton, Bud Taylor and Bill Hyndman.) A victory in either event is not important, let that be said. In stout competition, winning always takes some doing, and there is everything right in feeling buoyed up and patriotic over an American victory. But above and beyond the winning and losing, to be sure, the occasion is the thing and what is really important about St. Andrews and Mexico City and the whole colorful flurry of international competition is that it represents "the spirit of speaking up" (as Mr. Tufts put it) and it affects (as the R&A spokesman pointed out) the stirring reality of people from all over the globe talking together in tens of languages and "all having something in common without even trying."






















































WEALTHY COUNT HENRI DE LAMAZE of France, shown above with MacGregor VicePresident Henry Cowan, is one of the Continent's most successful amateur golfers.


IRELAND'S JOE CARR is clothing manufacturer, 1958 British Amateur champion.


SCOTLAND'S REID JACK is Glasgow stockbroker and 1957 British Amateur winner.