Signature Magazine for the Golfing Lifestyle
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The Golfers: A Grand Match, 1850 1st Edition Print by Charles Lees This is an original, 1st edition, 1850 hand-colored “Proof” steel engraving by Charles E. Wagstaffe after the original 1847 oil by Charles Lees entitled, “The Golfers: A Grand Match Played Over St Andrews Links”. Printed by W. Wolding of Edinburgh, this is an extremely rare version of golf’s most famous depiction of the game. The Grand Match was played upon the Links of St Andrews in 1841, during the annual meeting of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. Charles Lees’ 1847 painting is the world’s most celebrated piece of art pertaining to the game of golf. In the painting Lee’s renders the landscape of golf’s most famous links subservient to the actual game – depicting over 40 figures gathered together to watch a two-ball foursome match pitting Sir David Baird and Sir Ralph Anstruther against Major Hugh Lyon Mayfair and John Campbell. According to accounts of the time Lees’ was paid 400 pounds sterling to paint The Golfers – recently the original sold to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery for 11 million pounds sterling. From the original, an engraving was done in 1850 – presumably because many of the individuals depicted in the painting wanted a copy of the painting for their homes. The engraver Charles Wagstaff teamed with the Edinburgh publisher Alexander Hill and created an engraved print that numbered 50 titled Artist Proofs, 20 Presentation pieces and 100 First Edition prints – for a total of 170 total pieces. The original AP’s sold for 10 pounds, the presentation pieces for 6 pounds while the rest of the first edition sold for 3 pounds. Before these prints were made – a number of “Proof” prints were made to ensure the plate and print were ready for production – this being one of those prints. Since this print has been hand-colored there is a strong possibility that this was one of the very first prints of this nature. Printed by W. Wolding of Edinburgh, this is an extremely rare version of golf’s most famous depiction of the game. It is the expert opinion of The Great Republic, LLC and our authentication specialist that this print is an original antique of or about the date specified and is unconditionally guaranteed as genuine for life.
FRAMED SIZE: 38”x 50” LOCATION: St Andrews, Scotland CONDITION: This print is in very good condition, with some age appropriate toning to the paper. The print has been cleaned and treated by one of the Nation’s leading conservationist. The print is presented using the very best archival procedures and materials. PROVENANCE: This print was acquired from a private collection in the United Kingdom via auction. No further information about the previous ownership is available. GUARANTEE: The Great Republic proudly stands behind our antique, one-of-a-kind offerings in perpetuity. We want your purchase to be made with confidence, primarily because our reputation is much too important to us to offer an item that has the slightest question regarding authenticity. Contact Edmund R. Papczun, Jr. at epapczun@gmail.com or Visit reat-republic.com
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Volume 2 • Issue 4
A Woman’s Way 20
Feminine intuition prevails in this 1915 classic by A.W. Tillinghast.
A Round with
Bogie 26
No matter his role, Humphrey Bogart walked from the stage to the big screen, living his life fully aware that you only get one shot, better make it count. By Laurie Bogart Morrow
the Gentleman’s Drink
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As American as baseball and apple pie, bourbon remains a staple of stylish consumption. By Jameson Parker
No Mulligans on Dames & Murder
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Trouble and adventure can be found most anywhere, even amidst the secluded and serene setting of your local links. Fiction by W.A. Beech
A Sporting Haven 66
Just down a quaint little two-lane road, somewhere between here and yonder, lies a Mecca of outdoor sports called Brays Island. By Josh Wolfe
the Collector’s Collector
Among the notable collectors in the world, Dick McDonough and his substantial compilation of golf art stand proudly near the top.
Bridge to the Future
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In golf, there is room for real, modern-day architecture. Roger Ferris’ design of The Bridge is certainly an attribute and his testimony is valid. By Alan Clemons
On the Cover: Humphrey Bogart ponders his fate from a green side sandtrap. Image courtesy mptvimages.com.
2 Contents
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{ 108
A grand ReOpening
The spirit of Old Tom Morris is alive and well in this new line of fine apparel that just happens to be based out of his original shop.
The Course
{
14
Old Head Golf Links, Kinsale, Ireland
No.16 & Graveyard, Ballybunion Golf Club, Kerry, Ireland
32 Style From the Moon to 007 38 Scent Wear But BEWARE! 44
Games
Three ball, Side Pocket
Brunswick Billiards table from Restoration Hardware
Luxury timepieces from omega
The powerfully potent scent of Hai Karate .
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No. 18, Rowallan Castle Golf Club, Ayrshire, Scotland
4 Contents
46{ Sail Away
Small ship luxury cruises by Windstar sail away as something more than you could imagine.
{
98
Pop Art & circumstance
Sculptor & painter David O’Keefe captures the personalities, humanness & stardom of pop culture’s idols & icons.
Luxuriously Extravagant
116 Fashion
Holland & Holland’s high summer collection, inspired by the Maharajahs, represents India’s heritage and timeless style in the bespoke fashion as only H&H can replicate.
128 Parting Shot
1912 Lozier Automotive
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Contents
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Player’s Privilege
Opulent backgammon boards even 007 would approve of
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www.golfsportmag.com
Publisher/Creator-In-Chief – T. Ryan Stalvey • Josh Wolfe – Publisher/Editor-In-Chief Associate Publisher – Laurie Morrow To obtain a Media Kit or for Advertising Inquiries – (803) 767-8290 The Golf Sport is represented by National Publisher Services, LLC Ron Murray • Jim Smolen and Circulation Specialists, Inc. Jared Katzman, Director Business Development • Laurie Levasseur, Consumer Marketing Director Proudly Printed in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania by Fry Communications, Inc. Please Call (888) 315-2472 for Subscription Information The Golf Sport is published bi-monthly by Stalvey & Wolfe Partners LLC., Columbia, S C. All rights reserved, reproduction in whole or in part without the written consent of Stalvey & Wolfe Partners LLC. is prohibited. Subscription prices: One year $39.95; two years, $74.95. (Canada, Mexico and all Foreign – add $42 per year.) Single copy $8.95. Subscription and change of address should be mailed to: The Golf Sport Subscriber Service Center, P.O. Box 23902, Columbia, SC 29224. Allow six weeks for entry of new orders or renewals or change of address. POSTMASTER: Send address changes and inquiries to The Golf Sport, Subscriber Service Center, P.O. Box 23902, Columbia, SC 29224. Printed in the U.S.A.
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8 Masthead
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don’t know what it is or why, but to me there is something about the feel of this fifth issue of The Golf Sport. Perhaps it’s because we’ve been involved in so much during the last month: we visited a pretty cool little island just off the coast of South Carolina that is an absolute sportsman’s paradise, spent an ample amount of time in and around Pinehurst for both U.S. Opens, visited some more unique and incredible places, met a lot of great people and it happens that I just recently started my 30th year of life. Funny how that happens – time sneaking up as if it never really existed or we just didn’t expect it quite so soon. I often think about the incredible and detailed make-up of life and the extraordinary amount of little things that lead you to a certain point – whether that’s to speak of a career, meeting your significant other, or just wherever it is you happen to be reading The Golf Sport. We’ve certainly had some high points and some low ones over the course of the last year. There have been folks who have made a great impact and helped us tremendously in a positive light. And of course this life always has a tendency to drum up those that affect us negatively, but that too, can be turned into a positive experience. At The Golf Sport, we try to surround ourselves with good people because we’d like to think that we’re a couple of pretty good guys. It’s plainly obvious that the importance of being kind and treating people with respect goes farther and means more than any dollar amount, sometimes. In business or everyday life, it seems like that’s half the battle. Having worked for people who thought and acted different has shed a whole new light on what I believe it takes to run a company. For better and never for worse, we’re all in this together. As always, a huge thanks to everyone who reads and subscribes to The Golf Sport. Don’t forget to tell a friend, sign them up or just give a gift. If you’re out Las Vegas way in August, come stop by our booth at the PGA Fashion and Demo Experience to say hello. We’re keen on putting faces with names and always have time for you ladies and gentlemen that keep the wheels spinning. Our door is always open. See you soon,
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Josh Wolfe
Editor-In-Chief
From the Publishers
From Our Readers Keep up the good work guys. This is really something special. Daniel, British Columbia, Canada
Of all the golf publications I see today, this is the only one I can see myself subscribing to ten years down the road. Thomas, Fresno, California
I bought a subscription for my husband, but have found that I enjoy the magazine just as much as he does. Elizabeth, Columbia, South Carolina
You’ve probably heard this before, but this is what the golf world has been lacking Jack, Pinehurst, North Carolina
DAVE
SANSOM
PHOTOGRAPHY
Providing the best in professional golf course photography for golf clubs, golf course architects and management groups nationwide. “I photograph golf courses for a very simple reason. If a course is well-designed and well-maintained, there’s no place I’d rather be. I have great respect for the men and women who design, build, maintain and manage golf courses. And I consider it a privilege to help show each property in its best light.”
678 . 362. 5592 DAVE@DAVESANSOM.COM WWW.DAVESANSOM.COM
Dave Sansom is Senior Consulting Photographer with Heritage Charity Auctions and Awards, a licensed photography vendor for The PGA Tour. For information on the full line of products and services Heritage offers golf’s premier clubs, contact: Mark Gibson, Heritage Charity Auctions & Awards, info@heritagecaa.net, (770) 888-7787.
It
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was my fourth grade year when I realized females in fact didn’t have cooties and weren’t yucky at all, they were actually quite beautiful. And a certain, shall we say, Little Miss X, I found to be lovelier than most. For nearly half the school term I strategically arranged one coincidental encounter after the other. From the water fountain to changing classes, there would be no recess for me until I crossed her pretty little path. Eventually, my escalating infatuation hit its zenith during a function in the gymnasium. Little Miss X and her entourage were nested on the opposite end of the bleachers with the other fifth graders. I had been gawking at her for most of the rally from the fourth grade side, when, in a moment of spontaneity, I decided enough was enough – I would find out once and for all if she liked me back. However, I chickened out. I stood up, my cold feet like cement. Slinking back down I attempted to coax my best friend Scott into doing my dirty work. He refused, but a fellow classmate, lets call him T.P., who just happened to be the class clown and up for anything involving a bit of mischief, eagerly agreed. Scott and I sat on the edge of our seats as T.P. made his way down to the sideline of the basketball court and over towards the other end of the bleachers. Without any hesitation he forged his way up the rows, pass the teachers, through the bullies and into the very lair where Little Miss X sat. There was my brave messenger, my comrade-in-arms. I could see I had chosen the right soldier for the task. “Is he doing it?” Scott inquired anxiously. Then he did. Although he didn’t tell her I wanted to know if she liked me, he told her I wanted to know if she was a virgin. Everyone surrounding her ten students deep looked my way and gasped. Fingers pointed
From the Publishers
and oohs could be read on nearly every gaped mouth in the whole fifth grade. Bullies threw their heads back in hysteria, punching each other in the shoulders and raising a clinched celebratory fist my way. And Little Miss X, well, she looked completely disgusted and utterly embarrassed. Try and try, my every gallant effort to rectify the situation fell on the deaf ears of the little girl whose impression of me would forever be stigmatized. I think Napoleon said it best “si vous voulez une chose bien fait faire vous-même,” or “if you want a thing done well, do it yourself.” Growing up the lessons come hard, however I would not make the same mistake twice and years later somehow coaxed my beautiful wife, Nicole, into not only going out with, but eventually marrying me. Generally, we don’t boast by habit within these letters, but more oft than not the remark we receive regarding the launch of The Golf Sport is “you guys have quite the cojones to attempt this when magazines are considered dead and the golf industry struggling.” Indeed it certainly has its highs and lows, but in the spirit of Monsieur Bonaparte, we are quite simply producing the type of publication we feel has been lacking in the golf realm and who better to do it than us. And, we identify our readers and advertisers as not only individuals and companies distinguished by good taste and sophistication, but also with the keen ability to just get things done. In truth this issue is chocked full of do-it-yourselfers, from Sumner Pingree, Jr. of Brays Island, W.A. Beech’s Frank Logan, Humphrey Bogart and even Betty from A.W. Tillinghast’s “A Woman’s Way,” there is no lapse in assertion within the pages or mantra of The Golf Sport. As for Little Miss X, should this issue happen your way and you are so inclined, send in your address and we will happily comp you a subscription, and consider this my full confession after all of these years, in ink – I didn’t do it.
T. Ryan Stalvey Creator-In-Chief
© Drew Myers/Corbis
You have exquisite taste. Your style is refined. Your game is not limited to the course. That’s why you read The Golf Sport.
Subscribe Today. Call 888-315-2472 or visit GolfSportMag.com.
Old Head Golf Links Kinsale, Ireland
Image courtesy lambrecht Photography
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The Course
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The Course
No. 18,
Rowallan Castle Golf Club,
Ayrshire, Scotland
Image courtesy Jeremy Slessor, European Golf Design
No.16 and Graveyard,
Ballybunion Golf Club,
Kerry, Ireland
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Image courtesy Steve Carr – stevecarrgolf.com
The Course
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The lady of st andrews from Great Golf Collections of the World. Courtesy Dick McDonough. see “the collector’s collector” on page 80.
AWoman’sWay Feminine intuition prevails in this 1915 classic by A.W. Tillinghast.
a man acts like that there’s only one thing to it;” said Jim Donaldson, commonly called the “Sage” at Cobble Valley, wagging his head wisely. “And if I could line out a brassy like that I wouldn’t be playing alone, either,” he muttered. Then he smiled contemptuously and sniffed in disdain as he continued to address himself; “But what are you talking about, you big mutt? Why if you could play at all you wouldn’t be sitting here alone, waiting for the other to finish!” Out on the course there stood a man. At his feet a number of balls proclaimed that he was practicing, while far away the figure of the retrieving caddie was proof that the efforts were not without merit. The golfer would carelessly reach for one of the balls with the head of his club, and tapping it away from its fellows he would allow it to find its own lie. Then quickly taking his stance he would drive it straight and sure, almost to the feel of the distant boy. One by one the balls had been driven, but it was not the unusual length of the drives or the beautiful timing and power of the stroke which had caused the solitary figure on the veranda to wonder. He knew, as did everyone else, what Andrew Graves could do with his wood, and iron, too, for that matter. But Donaldson had been attracted by the alternating listlessness and vigor of this man, who on a Saturday afternoon had obstinately declined to join any of the matches; gone out along for practice, and then after launching forth a series of screaming drives, manifested not the slightest interest in the results. It was while Graves was waiting for the caddie, sitting dejectedly with his elbows on his knees, chin between his hands and staring vacantly out over the course, that he first attracted the attention of the other man. With the balls once more in his possession he attacked them as viciously as before, then throwing down the club, which had been serving him so well, he turned and walked thoughtfully to the clubhouse. “Um-m-!” mused the Sage. “If our Mr. Graves hasn’t come a twister over a petticoat, he sure shows all the symptoms. I wonder who’s responsible? He dances with them all and he seems to be popular enough; about as popular as the scratch man ever can hope to be around his own club” (which observation shows how the Sage came to be called such). “How is it you’re not playing, Andy?” Donaldson inquired as the other mounted the steps and slid into the chair by his side. “Oh! I don’t quite know, Jim,” Graves answered, carefully selecting a cigarette from his case and lighting it with the last half-inch of match. “Not feeling very fit today.” “I suppose that’s why you had that boy running his legs off trying to catch up to some of those brasses of yours. Honest, Andy, you ought to be arrested for hitting balls that hard – and in front of me, too. Why I remember that once, years ago before I gave up the game to become a sort of shepherd to you boys, I hit one ball – just one, remember, – once, almost as far as the only one you sliced out there, and I scarcely spoke to anybody around here for two days.
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“The trouble with you champions is that you get so used to championing that you gauge your physical condition by the scores you make – a 74 and you’re nearly normal; a 76 and you commence to worry about your appendix; but 80? Horrible! That proves that you’re sick enough for bed and a trained nurse. Don’t you ever talk to me about being ‘fit’ and then maltreat golf balls like you’ve been doing this afternoon!” Graves laughed good-naturedly, but his eyes wandered over to the drive, where a smart little runabout was gliding through the gateway. It might have been only a shade of annoyance that fleeted across his face, but the Sage saw it. He did not turn immediately, but he made this mental note: “The cause of today’s unfitness is at the other end of that flash.” Graves arose immediately as the car stopped and the Sage turned in his chair to see the arrivals – a girl and a young man. She was pretty, bewitchingly pretty, but there was not of the waxdoll about her as she sprang from the car, up the steps, and stopped before the two men. “Hello, Andy!” she exclaimed, holding out here hand, then turning she greeted the other, “Good afternoon, Uncle Jimmy! I hope we haven’t broken into one of your profound discussions. Do you know Mr. Hodge?” She indicated her companion, who had shaken hands with Graves. “My uncle, Mr. Donaldson.” As the Sage greeted his new arrival he noted that he was good-looking, and he said to himself, “Here’s the fly in the ointment!” Betty Pringle was not only pretty, but it would take only a moment for one to agree with her uncle that she was “a regular fellow.” Not that she breezed around in hoydenish fashion, but she possessed that vigorous something which veils the feminine with out cloaking it with the sapbang of mannishness. She golfed moderately well; played tennis better than most girls; rode a horse irreproachably, and drove a car with supreme confidence; but this same Betty seated at a piano would cause the listeners to sit silently until the last lingering note of Chopin or Mendelssohn had died away, or as her fine contralto gripped and swayed them – hear the echo of the song in themselves. “Why don’t you two boys have a round while I sit here and chat with uncle,” exclaimed the girl. The two glanced at each other keenly, and in the glances the Sage detected challenge. “I’m quite agreeable,” assented Graves, and Hodge, starting off for the locker-room, shot back: “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A Woman’s Way
After they had gone Donaldson looked at his niece and chuckled. She raised her eyes quizzically, and meeting his, smiled in spite of herself. The Sage had read her like a book. “Well?” he queried. “Well, what, Uncle Jimmy,” she parried. “Who is he?” “Mr. Hodge? Oh! He’s a Westerner. I met him in the Spring at the Brice’s house-party. He’s visiting the Newtons in Homesburg just now. Why? Don’t you like him?” “Sure! He looks all right. Seems to be a fine, manly fellow and I imaging he would improve on acquaintance. Why did you sic him on Graves? Can he play golf?” “Scratch man in the Western,” tersely explained the girl, then in a nurse of confidence, “See here, Uncle Jimmy, you’ve been the best pal I ever had, and I don’t intend to beat around the bush. Did you ever know that Andrew Graves asked me to marry him?” “No, Betty, I never did.” The Sage regarded the girl gravely. “I never suspicioned that he cared more for you than any of the other boys. He’s a fine fellow, my dear! Do you like him?” “Yes.” Her blue eyes were looking straight into his and she went on determinedly. “Yes, Uncle Jimmy, I like him tremendously, but –” “But Hodge, eh!” interrupted Donaldson. “Let me finish for you. You met him and you liked him, too. He’s here in Homesburg because you’re here – probably raked up some old friends like the Newtons as an excuse. Where there’s a will there’s a way, you know. “Now, Betty, here’s where your old uncle gets off. He’s been a sort of court of appeals for you ever since you were a wee toddler. When you broke your doll you tearfully brought it to Uncle Jimmy. Do you remember when you had the mumps, then the measles, and afterwards the fever, how I used to sit for hours and read to you? First, from “Mother Goose’ then Grimm’s Fairly Tales and later from the other books that girls love. You could always depend on your Uncle Jim, but now you’ve got me stumped. This game you’ve got to play out for yourself. Andy Graves is as good as they make them, and Hodge looks right. It’s up to you.” Betty’s hand had sought her uncle’s, and as he finished she patted his arm affectionately. “I know it, dear, but you can help me. I’ve thought it all out.” She looked up suddenly. “They play for Marsh’s Cup next week, don’t they?” Donaldson regarded her in surprise.
“Certainly,” he replied, “but what’s that got to do with it?” “Just this. It looks easy for Andy, doesn’t it? Mr. Rattray is away, and he’s about the only one at Cobble Valley who could hope to stand a chance with him. That’s true, isn’t it?” “Yes, Andy’s got it nailed down tight, barring accidents.” “It’s an invitation tournament?” “Yes.” “Include Mr. Hodge, then, won’t you please, Uncle Jimmy?” “But, Betty!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say that you would want to have a serious matter like this decided by a round of golf?” He laughed uneasily. “Why, the days of tilts for milady’s favor are over, and knights –” “Don’t laugh at me, please,” she pleaded. “It’s just a little foolish of me, perhaps, but I do want it that way. I want to see them both under fire.” “Well, I’ll be – forgive me, Betty. I’m out of it. Certainly I’ll get Hodge an invitation. It’s your game.”
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hat was it that Bobby Burns said about “the best laid schemes o’ mice and men?” But the plot of Betty Pringle did not miscarry. Hodge came thorough one bracket with ridiculous ease and opposed to him in the final was Graves. His play proved that Hodge was a magnificent golfer, and his every stroke was crisp and vigorous. Clubhouse opinion was equally divided and the betting was at evens. Never had Cobble Valley turned out such a gallery as on that Saturday afternoon. Motorcars were parked everywhere and the clubhouse veranda was alive with the colors of dainty frocks, and buzzing with conversation. Here, there and everywhere darted Betty Pringle, and the Sage, seated in a quiet corner, followed her energy with curious eyes. He had not been able to fathom this queer whim. Could it be possible that this girl, whom he had loved from the time she was able to toddle up to his knee, was about to hazard her very life as would a gambler staking his last dollar on the turn of the wheel. The Sage could not understand. When the players came out on the veranda and the club-rooms slowly emptied as the crowd prepared to follow, Hodge chatted gaily with Betty for a few moments, and the Sage observed that Graves’ jaw was set hard as he saw them together.
Then the girl sought him. “Good luck, Andy!” He looked at her earnestly, almost pleadingly, “Do you want me to win, Betty?” “I want you to show all you’ve got in you this afternoon,” she answered slowly. “Go to it!” Two long, raking drives brought murmurs of approval from the crowd. There was little to choose and two equally fine irons found the green – a pair of fours. There was no suggestion of nerves in the strokes of either man, and the gallery, scenting a struggle, prepared for it. The first four holes were halved, and there had not been a single loose stroke displayed. At the fifth, Graves laid a long brassie within ten feet of the cup and holed the next one. He kept his lead at the turn, but Hodge squared the match by laying a finely hit chipped approach, stone dead on the tenth. He secured the lead with a remarkable putt on the thirteenth, but Graves came back hard on the very next one. The drive that he hit there is pointed out to incredulous visitors, and he was home with his iron. Hodge couldn’t quite get there with two from his wood and the match was squared. Coming to the seventeenth Graves was one up, and he took his stance in that dead silence which always falls over a gallery when the situation is tense. A man lit a match and it sounded almost like a pistol shot, but Graves gave no heed to it. Looking over the course, he prepared to swing, and with beautiful deliberation the club went back. “Ker-choo-o!” from the back of the gallery came a sneeze, but all eyes followed the ball. All eyes but two. The Sage knew. There had been no stopping of that swing, but the flinch was there, and the ball, sliced badly, found the pits and the hole was lost – all square. “Why?” the Sage asked himself. “Why had she, of all others, been the one to deliver that blow?” He had been watching her throughout, trying to fathom her thoughts, and he had seen her time that sneeze to Graves’ back swing. It seemed cruel to him, and the thought of his little girl stooping so low cut him like a whip-lash.
“Graves took his stance in that dead silence which always falls over a gallery when the situation is tense. A man lit a match and it sounded almost like a pistol shot, but Graves gave no heed to it.”
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A Woman’s Way
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At the home hole some of the gallery scattered along the fairway, but most of them lined up by the teeing ground. Betty Pringle was walking deliberately to the clubhouse, far in advance; but she stopped and stood aside as a “Fore!” came booming over the course. Hodge drove, and it was a beauty. Then Graves hit out a terrific ball, but it left the fairway and ended in the rough. On came the players; on trooped the gallery. The caddies searched; the players searched; the gallery searched, but without success. Finally Graves spoke: “See here, Hodge, we can’t hunt forever. The rules give me five minutes, and I’m sure we have gone by that limit. It’s a lost ball.” And walking over he grasped the hand of his opponent. “It’s your match, – I congratulate you!” His voice was even and his action free of any semblance of displeasure. He was taking his medicine without making any faces over it. As they walked to the clubhouse Betty warmly congratulated Hodge, and then turned aside to greet the loser. “Tough luck, Andy! I’m truly sorry.” Her eyes searched his face as he smiled back bravely. “Thanks, Betty. It was a tough match to lose, but it’s all in the game!”
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hat evening a little runabout slowly found its ways through the Cobble Valley gate and disappeared in the shadows. “Andy?” “Yes, Betty.” “Do you remember asking me something two weeks ago?” “Yes; yes, or course. Why, Betty, I’ll never forget that,” and his voice was eager. “Oh! Andy dear, do you still want me?” was the plaintively eager question. His arms were about her and his voice choked, “God bless you, my darling.” The little car moved along quietly in the shadows. “Andy!” “Yes, dear!” “Do you know I’m an awful sinner? Listen, dear! Do you remember somebody that let out an awful sneeze this afternoon? That was I! And, Andy, if you’ll put your hand in my coat pocket you’ll find the ball you lost on the home hole – I was standing on it all the time!” His arm tightened around her. “But why dear?” “Well, you see, Andy, you always have been a winner – and it’s so easy to act the winner’s part. A man doesn’t have to try hard to smile when they hand him prizes – it just comes natural. “But he does have to have the right sort of stuff in him to take his beating without crying about it. I hoped you had, I thought you had – and now I know it, dear.” And the little car went chugging on through the shadows.
1910 baker electrics advertisement – courtesy dick mcdonough
A Round withBogie
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No matter his role, Humphrey Bogart walked from the stage to the big screen, living his life fully aware that you only get one shot, better make it count. By Laurie Bogart Morrow
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ACK IN THE TWENTIES there was no television, no radio, and movies had no sound. But there was burlesque. Every neighborhood in New York and Brooklyn had a theater and that’s where people would go in droves for a Saturday matinée or evening performance. There were singers and dancers and comedians and strippers like Gypsy Rose Lee who, by the end of her act, had left very little to the imagination. Some of Hollywood’s biggest names cut their teeth in burlesque. Al Jolson was belting out “Mammy” in blackface. Abbott and Costello struck a homerun with “Who’s On First,” their classic comedy routine that’s second to none. W.C. Fields would pair in movies with another Vaudevillian, Mae West, who got away with her lascivious sexual innuendos for seven decades on stage and screen. There was Brooklyn-born Mickey Rooney, who began his ninety-two year career on a Vaudeville stage when he was only eighteen months old. And at the State Theater over on DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn, theater producer William Brady decided to give a break to a nineteen-year-old sailor who’d just been honorably discharged from the U.S. Navy. The kid was enthralled by
the theater and wanted badly to be part of it, but he had sustained a mouth injury aboard the S.S. Iron Slate and Brady knew he had no future on the stage – but maybe he had one behind the curtain. His name was Humphrey Bogart. My Grandfather Bogart knew him in those early days. They grew up together – Grandpa, in Brooklyn, and Humphrey, on the West Side of Manhattan. They were the same age, born four months apart – Humphrey, on Christmas Day 1899, and their families ran in the same social circles. Humphrey’s father, Dr. Belmont Bogart, was a well-known cardiologist; his mother, Maud Humphrey, was one of the most successful women illustrators in America; in fact, she posed her infant son as her model for the Beechnut baby food label. Grandpa told me that Humphrey’s parents were vehemently against their only son’s determination to make the theater his profession. They had sent him to the best schools, including Phillips Academy in Massachusetts, where he showed little interest in book learning. So, when Humphrey finally got a speaking part, Grandpa stepped in and rallied all their cronies together. “We were like the Bowery Boys,” he chuckled, referring to the “Dead End Kids” of movie fame. (Serendipitously, Humphrey would play Hugh “Baby Face” Martin in William Wyler’s 1937 film, Dead End, which recaptured those days in gangland Brooklyn.) “Humphrey was the stage manager at the State Theater on DeKalb and the guys and I would go and take up the whole front row. Somehow, Humphrey bargained for, and received, a one-line walk-on part – he wanted to act more than anything in the world – and when he came on stage, all of us jumped up, and stamped our feet, and applauded.” There’s a story that Humphrey’s parents finally gave in and went to one of their son’s performances and were enthusiastic. “Humphrey didn’t have a good relationship with his folks,” Grandpa said. “They never really understood their son and they never supported his choice of career.” They may not have, but Hollywood did. Bogie had just the right looks to play off of Edward G. Robinson and James Cagney in gangster movies. But it was the 1934 film adaptation of The Petrified Forest as Duke Mantee, the fierce and desperate criminal, a role he originated on Broadway, which established Bogart as a force to be reckoned in film. People were terrified and the strength of his performance carved a niche for Bogart that countless actors to this day would attempt to emulate at the risk of falling short. “I didn’t see Humphrey
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after he left for Hollywood,” Grandpa said. “I’d seen him in The Petrified Forest on Broadway and went backstage. He introduced me to Leslie Howard.” If it weren’t for Howard, Bogie himself would tell you he wouldn’t have had a film career. Howard fought for Humphrey to reprise his role as Duke Mantee. Edward G. Robinson was supposed to play Mantee, but Howard insisted, “Bogart or nothing.” Bogie would name his only daughter, Leslie, after Howard, who tragically died in World War II, shortly after playing Ashley Wilkes in Gone With the Wind. Following The Petrified Forest, Bogart starred in a rash of “B” movies tailored to capitalize on the Mantee personae. Then, in 1941, an adaptation of Dashiell Hammett’s 1930 thriller changed everything. It was called The Maltese Falcon and was directed by a firsttime, 35 year-old director named John Huston. He played Sam Spade, and the most popular film noir was born. The rest is history. A year later, in 1942, amidst the deepest depth of despair of World War II, Bogart breathed life into the character of Rick Blaine opposite Ingrid Bergman, and with his Maltese Falcon co-stars, Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre, starred in Casablanca. So much ink has been spilled over what many claim is the greatest film ever made – how no one dreamed it would surpass all expectations but did, how the professionalism between Bogart and Bergman – who towered over Bogie by several inches – masked the lack of chemistry between them in real-life. But somehow, this movie captured the spirit and soul of a world at war and a nation determined, against all odds, to triumph over oppression. Humphrey’s longevity in friendship with the likes of Howard, Tracy and Huston were far longer and more durable than his marriages – until his fourth marriage, to Lauren “Betty” Bacall, who he met in 1944 while filming Howard Hawk’s masterwork, To Have and To Have Not, an adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s book. It was a seismic love affair at first sight between the still-married Bogie and teenager Bacall and they would go on to make three more movies together, The Big Sleep (1945), an adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s 1939 thriller; Dark Passage (1947); and perhaps the best for last, Key Largo (1948), also with Lionel Barrymore and reunited again with Edward G. Robinson. In 1952, Bogie played Charlie Alnutt in The African Queen opposite Katherine Hepburn. The romance between two middle-aged expatriates caught up in German-held Africa during World War II was as treacherous in real life as it was in film. The entire crew, including Hepburn and Lauren Bacall, who had accompanied her
A Round with Bogie
husband, came down with dysentery. Not Bogart and Huston though because they didn’t drink the water, they just drank Scotch. Over the next five years, almost a dozen more movies followed The African Queen, including Sabrina with Audrey Hepburn, The Caine Mutiny, The Barefoot Contessa with Ava Gardiner, The Desperate Hours, and his final film, The Harder They Fall, with Rod Steiger. Then, on January 14, 1957, Humphrey Bogart lost his battle against esophageal cancer. No, I never met Cousin Humphrey but we have the same eyes and eyebrows. There are other family traits we share; among them, and perhaps the thing that defines us most as a family, is our love of the United States of America. The family motto is, “A Bogart never missed a war” – and it’s true. And the Bogart family is among the founding Dutch families of New York. A consummate chess player, Bogie played between takes and during the War he carried on chess games by mail with soldiers on the front and of course, there was golf. But perhaps the most gratifying of all was his love of sailing and the sea. My nephew, a professional wooden boat restoration craftsman, just told me that Bogie’s beloved boat, the fifty-five-foot schooner, Santana, is now in Newport, Rhode Island, about to undergo a complete refit and restoration. It’s slated to take eighteen months by a dozen or more workers. Bogie loved that boat and spent forty-five weekends a year at her helm, sometimes alone; even his wife, Betty Bacall, said he loved the Santana almost as much as her. So it was fitting that at his funeral, a model of the Santana in a glass case rested in place of the coffin. That took class. But then, Bogie was all class.
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here’s an old sycamore tree that stands on a little knoll by the 12th tee at the Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades, California. It’s called “Bogie’s Tree.” The tree belongs – at least in golf lore – to Humphrey Bogart, “the greatest male star of all time,” according to the American Film Institute. He’d set a lawn chair under that tree, pour a whiskey from his thermos, and watch golfers come through, chatting with anyone who cared to listen. And maybe that says something about the game and the man who dazzled us on screen. Humphrey Bogart died too young, just three weeks after his 58th birthday. But it’s apparent he knew one thing about life: you only get one shot, might as well make the most of it.
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ames Bond is playing backgammon with the villain, Kamal Khan. Khan is winning by using loaded dice that roll 6-6 when he switches them into the game. On the last roll Bond needs a 6-6 to win, so he calls out “player’s privilege,” a rule allowing one player to exchange his dice for his opponent’s. The loaded dice are still in Khan’s cup, but he can’t complain without revealing himself, so Bond takes the cup, rolls 6-6, and wins. This one-of-a-kind ironwood backgammon board designed by Alexandra Llewelyn entitled “Carnival,” features a folly of exquisite risqué photography hand-lacquered onto the playing surface and closes with brass sliding fastenings and hinges. The playing pieces are antique gold and black weighted aluminum, doubling die is laurel burr, dice cups are rosewood and lined. Additional collector backgammon boards and custom commissions available at Alexandralldesign.com. £3,400 /$5,800
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Player’s Privilege Opulent backgammon boards Even 007 would approve of
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ue up and break away into a gentleman’s match of skill on this customized pool table from Brunswick, the only name in pocket billiards since 1845. This professional-quality table offered by Restoration Hardware is engineered to the highest standards and includes a limited lifetime warranty. The table is crafted from solid oak with a classic brown finish, features a slate grey felt top made of stain-resistant Centennial Cloth and is adorned with hammered metal sights. Includes set of 16 standard balls, four 58� cues, bridge stick, wood ball rack, table brush, chalk and official BCA rule book. $8,000 RestorationHardware.com
Three ball, Side Pocket Brunswick Billiards table from restoration hardware
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Gentleman’s Drink
As American as baseball and apple pie, bourbon remains a staple of stylish consumption. By Jameson Parker
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hisky” means Scotch. “Whiskey” means the stuff made in Ireland or America. All Bourbon is whiskey, but not all whiskey is Bourbon. Bourbon is not rye whiskey or Tennessee whiskey or even corn whiskey, though it is made primarily out of corn. It is always sour mash if it’s a straight whiskey. It is named for a place, but it owes its name to the French royal family who never had anything to do with place that bears their name. Confused? Pour yourself a drink. Rum was the staple drink in America during colonial days, but 1776 put an end to that. Fortunately, Scotch-Irish settlers had brought with them the art of distillation, and they promptly replaced the missing rum with whiskey made from rye. George Washington himself distilled it at Mount Vernon. Of course, he also created the Whiskey Rebellion when he levied an excise tax on whiskey. Tax collectors were tarred and feathered (Ah, for the good old days!), riots ensued and most, if not all, of the distillers moved to Kentucky, out of range of the fledgling government. For many years, until Prohibition, rye whiskey was the most popular drink in America. It is still made today, but only small amounts are produced and it can be hard to find. At some point early on the rye crop failed and distillers mixed corn with their rye mash to make up the difference. They immediately
sang hymns of praise for the rye failure. Corn makes the drink much sweeter and, generally speaking, the higher the percentage of corn, the sweeter the drink. Tennessee whiskey is not bourbon and is called Tennessee whiskey precisely to distinguish it from bourbon, because it is made with a filtration process in which the raw whiskey flows through a thick layer of maple charcoal. So now that we know what bourbon is not, what exactly is it, and why is it called that?
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cowboy, bourbon was originally the name given to any whiskey distilled in Bourbon County, Kentucky, which was so named as a gesture of gratitude to the French royal family for helping America during the War of Independence. (We may have named a county and several towns in honor of the royal family and various French notables, but we repaid their help by letting them be dragged to the guillotine only a few years later during their own revolution.) Bourbon County was much larger in those days and any whiskey barrel shipped out of there was stamped ‘Bourbon.’ The stuff was good and popular, and people began asking for it by that name, so whiskey-makers in other areas west of the Alleghenies began to call their product ‘bourbon,’ no matter where they made it. Today, by law, bourbon can be made anywhere as long as it is distilled from a mash of no less than 51 percent and no more than 80 percent corn, with the rest of the mash made of rye or wheat, and barley for fermentation, but almost all bourbon is still made in Kentucky. If it contains more than 80 percent, it is then called corn whiskey and the difference between that and moonshine is negligible. The whiskey is distilled twice, then stored in charred oak barrels to age for anywhere from four to ten years. Aging in barrels, which is taken for granted today, was discovered by serendipitous accident. Whiskey was shipped exclusively in barrels in the old days, usually by boat down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers to New Orleans. Distillers had to hold their shipments until the spring rise, and then the journey itself took a while. Eventually, somebody realized that the stuff tasted better in New Orleans, and aging became the norm. “Sour mash” is a uniquely American term. It is not a designation of special quality, no matter
purdey.com
Cari b bean Golf Crui s e
Set Sail for a week of Golf, Pampering and Fun in the Sun! March 27, 2015 Arrive in glorious St Maarten March 27, 2015 for a pre-cruise night at the Sonesta Maho Beach Resort & Casino. Enjoy a cocktail party on the terrace, over looking the Caribbean Sea, with your fellow golfers and cruisers. Limited to 30 couples, so book now before it’s too late! March 28th, after lunch, be whisked away by private transfer to your 5 star luxury yacht “Le Ponant” and prepare to sail away to paradise. From St. Maarten you’ll visit: St. Martin, Anguilla, St. Barts, Basseterre, Nevis, Roseau and Pigeon Point then reluctantly return home, tanned, relaxed and with great stories to tell your friends! Enjoy Seven Nights Luxury Cruise Aboard “Le Ponant” & One Night Sonesta Maho Beach Resort (All Inclusive). Compliments of Ahoy Cruises – Private Sedan Transfers to/from your home & your local airport. No worries about getting to the airport or leaving the car! Enjoy a Bon Voyage cocktail party at the hotel! For more information visit www.facebook.com/ahoucruiseevents Price is $4999 pp *If deposited by Aug 24, regularly $5499 The Golf Package is $775 per person (Nevis, St Kitts, Anguilla, St Lucia)
Call Ahoy Cruises at 214-761-1968 OR Email: tom@ahoycruises.info
Ahoy Cruises Travel by Liner
what those carefully phrased labels would like you to believe. It is simply a part of the fermentation process comparable to the starter in San Francisco sourdough bread. Part of the leftovers from a previous distillation is added into the grain mixture with the yeast and, just as with sourdough, those leftovers help maintain the essential taste and character of that whiskey. All straight whiskeys, bourbon or Tennessee, are made by this method. “Straight whiskey” is another American term. It can refer to bourbon or Tennessee whiskey or rye, but it must be an undiluted grain distillate. “Blended straight whiskey” is made up of two or more straight whiskeys blended together. “Blended whiskey” is a mixture of whiskey and neutral spirits, an almost flavorless form of pure alcohol. Blended whiskey is the cheapest and most frequently sold form of whiskey. All Canadian whisky (also spelled without the ‘e’) is made this way. (Irish whiskey, which may or may not be the oldest known form of a grain distillate, is closer to Scotch than to bourbon, but is distinguished from Scotch, among other things, by being distilled three times instead of twice.) Some frightfully snooty people consider bourbon to be inferior to Scotch, just as in Europe some snooty people consider Scotch inferior to Cognac. I have read a noted authority on whisky (note the spelling!) who claimed that bourbon and Tennessee whiskey were suitable only for mixing, and I had to stifle my impulse to treat him like a tax collector. They are indeed good for mixing, but many are just as marvelous sipped straight or on the rocks or with a splash of water. And anyone who has ever tasted one of the small-batch or singlebarrel bourbons will know that bourbon, jazz, the blues and William Faulkner are, singly or collectively, ample reason for considering the South the cradle of American culture. Jameson Parker was a working actor for more than a quarter century, best known for his starring role as A.J. in the long-running ‘80’s series Simon & Simon. He now makes his living as a writer for a variety of hard-copy and online magazines, and is the author of the critically acclaimed memoir, An Accidental Cowboy. He is also the editor of the anthology, To Absent Friends. You can read more of his writing on his website, ReadJamesonParker.com. He is married to the actress and singer Darleen Carr.
OMEGA Speedmaster Mark II In 1969, OMEGA introduced the Speedmaster Mark II. Recently, OMEGA reworked the 1969 classic chronograph. The new model is powered by the Co-Axial calibre 3330, a self-winding movement and a dash of color has been added with a fluorescent orange central chronograph seconds hand and matching minute track. The polished and brushed stainless steel case is barrel-shaped and has a polished crown and pushers. The dial is complete with the three recognizable sub-dials popularized by the original Speedmaster chronograph. The transparent tachymeter scale on the sapphire crystal is illuminated from beneath by an aluminium ring filled with Super-LumiNova. Lastly, the case is fitted with a brushed stainless steel bracelet, complete with OMEGA’s patented extendable foldover rack-and-pusher clasp and the caseback of the Speedmaster Mark II is engraved with the Seahorse medallion.
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From the Moon to 007
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Luxury timepieces from omega
eliability is why Britain’s Royal Flying Corps chose Omega watches in 1917 as its official timekeepers for its combat units, as did the American army in 1918. Omega watches were also the choice of NASA and the first watch on the Moon in 1969. Dependability is why they have been the official timekeeping device of the Olympic Games since 1932. And James Bond has worn it on screen since 1995 because only the most stylish timepieces will do for the world’s most sophisticated spy. OmegaWatches.com
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OMEGA Speedmaster Apollo 11 45th Anniversary Limited Edition In July of 1969, two NASA astronauts became the first human beings ever to set foot on the surface of a celestial body. The feat has been described as one of mankind’s crowning technological achievements and OMEGA was literally on hand on this historic occasion. Strapped around his spacesuit, Buzz Aldrin had an OMEGA Speedmaster Professional chronograph. The OMEGA Speedmaster Professional Apollo 11 45th wristwatch commemorates its link to the iconic chronograph that was part of the adventure. Recalling the colors of the moon and the Apollo 11 lunar and command modules, this Limited Edition timepiece features a 42 mm completely brushed case with a touch of gold. The case is crafted from lightweight grade 2 titanium - a choice that was inspired by the troves of titanium ore that cover the Moon. Another striking feature is its brown coated nylon fabric “NATO” strap which is inspired by the robust straps that have equipped the timepieces issued to military personnel since the Second World War. This OMEGA Speedmaster Apollo 11 has been produced in an edition limited to 1,969 pieces; a number that reflects the significant year that the first humans walked on the Moon.
OMEGA Seamaster Bullhead With a case and dial configuration unlike any other OMEGA; the original 1969 Seamaster Bullhead that inspired this wristwatch is among the rarest, most collectible and most recognizable chronographs ever produced. The Bullhead’s shield-shaped brushed and polished case, the inner revolving bezel and the unusual placement of its chronograph pushers and crowns made it a favorite among watch aficionados. Its winding crown at 12 o’clock was flanked by two chronograph pushers and it was this unique configuration that gave the watch its nickname. To meet a longstanding request from Bullhead enthusiasts, OMEGA reissued three versions of the iconic chronograph; only 669 pieces of each have been produced. While the new models have all of the charm of the original, there are some modifications that give the new Bullheads their own personalities. The pushers are still mounted at the top, of course, but the round pushers on the original watch have been replaced with flat ones. Perhaps the most significant change has been in the movement, as the new Bullheads are powered by an automatic Co-Axial calibre 3113, which replaces the manually-wound calibre 930 found in the vintage model.
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was 1967 and the world was abuzz over a new fragrance, one so dangerous to wear that it came with a warning – “Be careful how you use it!”– and instructions depicting self-defense techniques for staving off overly aggressive women driven wild by the scent. Developed by Pfizer, the company that would later produce Viagra, Hai Karate is best remembered for its marketing plan. One dash of this potent potion and even the most average of Joes will be karate chopping at an onslaught of frisky females attacking from every angle. View an original Hai Karate commercial at Facebook.com/golfsportmag. Although the Hai Karate craze eventually faded out in the 80s, bottles are still available and sell between $25-$125 on Ebay.com.
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Wear But BEWARE! the powerfully Potent scent of hai karate
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Small ship luxury cruises by Windstar sail away as something more than you could imagine.
waking up in an exotic location on a yacht that feels like it’s your very own. Also imagine the sense of relief knowing it’s not actually yours and the expense and upkeep is left to somebody else. Walking out onto the deck, the sun beginning to emerge from the blue water, it’s the tranquility and freedom you first notice. Then you start to recall the night before when you played the tables in Monaco, drank wine in Spain or simply let the boat
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rock you to sleep – of course, it’s up to you to decide. That is Windstar – a yachting voyage that can take you almost anywhere in the world. With less than 300 guests per trip on two of the three boats, Windstar’s yachts are small enough to reach places the average cruise ship can’t go. Whether it’s the Greek Isles, Europe, the Caribbean or Tahiti, Windstar will make those dreams a reality. These masted sailing yachts offer such amenities as scuba diving and
snorkeling or getting a massage and 24-hour room service. A club sandwich at any time of the day or night? Now, that’s first class. Leisure cruising dates back to 1844 with the formation of the Peninsular & Oriental Steam Navigation Company, formerly a shipping company that carried mail to Alexandria, Egypt, via Gibraltar and Malta. The company advertised trips to these countries and later a few more as it grew rapidly in the latter half
of the 19th century, commissioning larger and more luxurious ships to serve the steadily growing popularity and expanding market. The first vessel built exclusively for luxury cruising was the Prinzessin Victoria Luise of Germany and was designed by Albert Ballin, general manager of the Hamburg-America Line. The ship was completed in 1900. With the advent of jet planes in the 1960s, intercontinental travelers switched from ships
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Whether it’s Tahiti or Monaco that sparks your curiosity, hop aboard one of Windstar’s masted yachts for an adventure you won’t soon forget.
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to planes, sending the ocean liner business into a terminal decline. Certain characteristics of older ocean liners made them unsuitable for cruising duties, such as high fuel consumption, deep draught preventing them from entering shallow ports, and cabins (often windowless) designed to maximize passenger numbers rather than comfort. And so came the luxury lines that offered acts from international stars and endless amenities. This grew and grew and the people went in droves to the city-sized ships that could take them anywhere, or almost. Until 1975-1980, cruises offered shuffleboard, deck chairs, drinks with umbrellas and little else for a few hundred passengers. After 1980, they offered increasing amenities and as of 2010, cruise ships will extend just about anything you wish, except maybe an escape from the throng of people bombarding you in the galleys and on the deck. That is, of course, unless you’re on a Windstar Cruise. Whichever of the three masted yachts you end up on – Wind Star, Wind Spirit or Wind Surf – you’ll find that the cabins and suites on the vessels have ocean views and a few even have balconies. Staterooms are decked out
“She loved the sea. She liked the sharp salty smell of the air, and the vastness of the horizons bounded only by a vault of azure sky above. It made her feel small, but free as well.� George R.R. Martin, A Storm of Swords
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Dancing, gambling, relaxing and just being free. Now that’s a life well lived.
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with Bose SoundDocks, flat-screen TVs, highthread-count bedding, Egyptian cotton towels, waffle-weave robes and slippers, L’Occitane amenities and fresh fruit and flowers. The largest of the three yachts, the Wind Surf, is the company’s flagship and can carry up to 310 guests and just under 200 international crew members. Its five masts at 164 feet each allow for the yacht to cruise up to 15 knots with prevailing winds. The recently renovated interior now sports all new finishes and furnishings in the suites and staterooms, which includes tufted headboards, soft seascape colors, new upholstery and fine count Egyptian cotton linens. The other two yachts – Wind Star and Wind Spirit – are sleek four-masted sailing vessels that can accommodate 148 guests apiece and 90 international staff members. With four guest decks and a gross tonnage of 5,307, these two yachts give the feel of privacy and intimacy. The wide-open teak decks provide more than 10,000 square feet for guests to mingle or just hangout. And with a good wind, these smaller yachts can sail up to 15.8 knots. Next time you need to get away, and want a mix of transportation and entertainment, check out Windstar Cruises. Avoid the suffocation and cabin fever of most cruise lines and enjoy the privacy and comfort of a luxury sailing yacht. We’ve even heard that their Yacht Deck Barbeque is the best party on the ocean. Visit WindStarCruises.com.
No Mulligans on Dames and Murder
W.A. Beech pays homage to the detective stories of old in this stinker of a golf case.
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many guys in my line of work play golf. As a general rule our fraternal order usually prefers distractions of the more dangerous sort. However, the fresh air is occasionally good for flushing saloon smoke out of the lungs and as you are about to read trouble and adventure can be found most anywhere, even amidst the secluded and serene setting of your local links.
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Ring . . . Ring . . . “Frank Logan. Oh good morning lieutenant.” “Frank, do you happen to know a local golf pro by the name of Corey Reed?” “Yeah?” “I thought you might, when did you see him last?” “A few weeks ago, why?” “Frank, where were you last night?” “Say, what is this, twenty questions . . . Fred, what gives?” “Frank, Corey Reed was found dead this morning at Hidden Valley Country Club.” “You can’t think I had anything to do with it!” “Just tying off loose ends . . . rumor is he owed you some dough.” “Now wait just a second, where are you getting your dope from, Fred? Corey and I were square. “How’s that?” he challenged. “Corey bet the farm against my full house,” I boasted, “and being the nice guy that I am, I only took the loft.” “What does that mean? Frank, I’m serious.” “Look, Corey was a nice enough Joe and I didn’t mind losing the take, but Corey insisted I let him make good on it,” I explained. “So?” he badgered.
“So, he gave me the deed to the apartment he had over the Hidden Valley clubhouse.” “It must have been quite a pot?” he said, audaciously stating the obvious. “Yeah, it was, and I hated it. Corey didn’t know when to stop. And he wouldn’t let it be. Said he had been given the deed to the apartment as part of an advance on his pro position after having won the TriCity Classic. He said it had been years since he had stayed in it, that it was now just being used to store equipment, but that he wanted me to have it to square the wager. He said he was getting out of the golf racket altogether, that he was going to try and give it a fresh go with Evelyn. She had never liked the golf scene and the apartment only reminded him of the old days.” “So you took the flat?” he asked sarcastically. “Had to, the next day he stopped by my office with the papers drawn-up. He said it might do me some good to get out of the city from time-to-time.” “And Evelyn . . . his wife?” the Lieutenant asked. “Estranged wife.” “Do you know her?” “Only of her, never seen the broad. Does that clear me up?” “Sure, Frank.” “How did it happen, lieutenant?” “Single gun shot wound to the head, looks like a suicide. Autopsy might reveal more, any ideas why he might do himself in?” “Maybe, he and his old lady separated about a year ago; he wasn’t the same since. He started a side business – Chemical Company, or something like that– he had been burning the candle at both ends between that, the club, and Evelyn.” “Frank, any idea why a guy would walk out thirteen holes to kill himself?” “Thirteen was it?” “That’s what I said,” he averred. “Figures.’” “Why?” “Corey’s claim to fame came on the Par 5, 13th Hole, where from the fairway sand trap he holed out a miracle three wood for a championship winning albatross. Every year he would go back to that spot for a celebratory drink. There is even a bunker-side plaque with his name on it.” “Might well have been a tombstone,” the lieutenant jeered. “Alright, Fred. Is that it?” “That’s it, Frank, just doing my duty. No hard feelings.” “Say, Fred, mind if I drop by for the police report?” “I suppose that would be okay, tell Gladys to give you one.”
The Detective – courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
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omewhere between a companionable sip of scotch and the evening sun turning into night a stirring roused my attention. It was coming from the stairwell outside my office, I quickly cuddled up to my Luger. “Go peddle your papers somewhere else, I’m busy!” I called out, but there was no answer, only the sound of a set of heels ascending the steps. A sound I must say that is music to my ears. For starters, its a potential client, some possible cash, and when they clip-clap like this it generally means they are carrying a female who is easy on the eyes. Gradually, a slender shadow transformed into a slim figure silhouetted by my office light in the frame of my doorway. She stood elegantly and poised, through a pleat darkly I could see the faint outline of her sleek legs. She had a great set of gams and the rest wasn’t bad either – like a fine Italian shotgun with all the screws aligning up just right. She slipped in, walking slowly, deliberately, beautifully, the way a woman should walk. Yeah, this dame was quite the looker, and her lookers weren’t bad either, big and blue, ocean blue and I was treading in them up to my neck. Her red hair brushing her shoulder, crimson red and aflame like a Christmas fox. “Are you Frank Logan?” she asked demurely. “I am, have a seat.” She eased into the highback, nervously fluttering her pretty fingers. “I need your help, my husband has been murdered.” “Sounds like you’re in the wrong place, you should be down at the precinct.” “I can’t, I need your help.” She was persistent, obviously the kind of broad used to getting what she wants, and given her attributes, I could see why. “Listen lady, I’m not one to go wading into quicksand, now if you are interested in a nightcap or a game of canasta then I’m your boy, otherwise . . .” “I’m willing to pay!” she pleaded. “I’m not for sale,” I gestured nonchalantly, dismissing myself to the skyline of the city lights outside of my window. “I suppose you survive on your charm and wits alone,” she stated, flustered. “Oh sure, naturally in my line of work and given my misanthropic tendencies toward societal evasions I make lots of friends, you should stop by, I host a dinner party every Thursday night.” “I’ll pay $2,000, plus expenses!” she appealed. Two grand should’ve bought my undivided attention, but a perky knee pressed through her pleated skirt and I was as distracted as a bull staring at a red cape. She tilted her curly head interrupting my stare, “Did you hear me, I said I’ll pay –”
“Sure, sure, I heard you,” I bumblingly responded. “Well?” A cool, confident note now present in her voice. “Are you interested?” “Anybody would be interested in that much dough, I’m listening.” For the next half-hour, I was all ears as my angelfaced client, now known to me as Evelyn Reed – yes, as in Corey Reed’s widow – told me of a major breakthrough her husband and his business partner Dexter Forbes had developed at their small twoman outfit, Forbes & Reed Chemical Corporation. Apparently, Corey was the brains, Dex the money man and business manager. Anyway, somehow Corey created a state-of-the-art synthetic solvent, the formula of which was very valuable and of high interest around aeronautical circles, particularly the foreign fields. Corey had been on the edge of the breakthrough when he and Evelyn split. Of late, word of the discovery had begun to circulate throughout the inner circles of the lowlifes and barflies, due in large part to Dexter Forbes, who was never one to hold his drink, or his tongue. “Just how much is the formula worth?” I asked. “Millions.” “Millions, with an s?” “That’s right, that’s why I know Corey would not have killed himself, he had too much to gain,” she disclosed. “Too much, meaning millions plus you?” I provoked. “Like you said, anybody would be interested in that much dough,” she sneered. “And you wouldn’t mind what that would make you,” I snickered. “It’s as much my doing as either of theirs and as I am still Corey’s wife –” “Settle down Mrs. Reed. As you are still considered his legal wife, you are entitled to it.” “Without me Corey Reed would still be a struggling golf pro living in a pea pod for an apartment over a clubhouse . . .” she said, obviously perturbed. “But he would be happy,” I instigated. “He was never that happy. Believe me. He went his rounds with me after the bad ones on the course, especially once he started his betting,” she confessed. “But he’d be alive,” I continued to provoke. “You know his debts, just how much longer do you think he would’ve lasted before someone cashed in on what he owed.” “What makes you so certain that isn’t what happened here?” I quizzed. “Because of the formula, thanks to Dexter Forbes, everyone knows about it and no one
No Mulligans on Dames and Murder
would kill Corey without first getting that.” “How do you know he didn’t give the murderer the formula?” “If he didn’t, then Dex will be next, otherwise you find the murderer and you’ll find the formula.” she concluded. “And if I do . . . that’s a lot of dough.” “Two thousand plus expenses – get the formula and I’ll make it worth your while,” she said, her voice now calming to a saucy tone. “Worth my while?” I said with a wry smile. “Are we playing cat-and-mouse here, Mister Logan?” she asked teasingly. “Well, I’ve never been the kind to make merry with a fellow’s widow, but I would imagine you could persuade someone to do just about anything.” She rose vulgarly from the chair, slowing leaning over my desk, her back arched, her blouse lumping and bulging. “Do we have a deal, Mister Logan?” she suggestively implored. Against my better judgment I muttered out, “Yes M’am.” “So, what do I do now?” she asked. “You do what good little girls do – go home and knit a scarf.” “Oh, I’m no good little girl, where’s the fun in that,” she said coolly as she exited the office as lovely and beautifully as she had entered.
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hat night my heavenly dreams of Evelyn Reed were disturbed by the annoying sound of the telephone ringing. I glanced at the clock. Four a.m., no one ever gets a good call at four a.m. “Frank?” “Yeah?” “It’s Fred Hathaway, there’s been a fire and explosion at the Forbes & Reed Chemical Corp.” “That’s Forbes & Reed, as in Dexter Forbes & the late Corey Reed?” I queried. “You’ve got it, only now they are both deceased.” He had my attention, “You mean . . .” “Yeah, Dexter Forbes’ body was found in the debris.” “Do they know what caused it?” I detected. “Looks like arson, the fire seems to have been ignited by the frayed wire of a coffee maker. Frank, I think the two murders are connected.” “You don’t say? Fred, have Gladys throw the Dexter Forbes Chem Corp. report in with the other on Reed, I’ll pick them up in the morning.” “Sure, Frank, but what’s the newfound interest?” “Just having a bit of sport, seems like an interesting case.”
“Okay Frank, but don’t go all cowboy on this one, if you are on to something you had better clue me in.” I didn’t dare let the lieutenant know I was already working the case. And I especially didn’t mention Evelyn Reed. I still wasn’t so sure where she stood in all of this.
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She stood elegantly and poised, through a pleat darkly I could see the faint outline of her sleek legs. She had a great set of gams and the rest wasn’t bad either – like a fine Italian shotgun with all the screws aligning up just right.
he reports I picked up from the precinct left little evidence to go on, in Corey’s case basically clubs and clothes, an autopsy might disclose more information later. There was even less on Dex Forbes, with the exception of a tax return which happen to have been filed by a one Evelyn Reed. Apparently she had worked for Dex and Corey early on as a bookkeeper. Very interesting, I thought. Driving back I dropped by the Chemical Corp. or rather the heap of hissing ashes and sooted steel beams of what was left of it, for a moment I pondered the circumstances and just where Evelyn fit into all of this. By now it was getting late, so I parked down from my office and went for a bite. As I started my walk back it began to rain. Very soon the city streets were sloppy and the sidewalks slippery and unpleasant. I was about a block from bureau de Logan when the faint aroma of Indiscreet clinging to the damp air perked my senses. Shortly thereafter came a whisper from the dark corner of a side alley. “Frank,” a female voiced said softly. It was the client with the angel face and the aqua eyes. And although she clung closely to the shadows, her eyes were bright and vivid blue. “Thank God you’re here” she whimpered. I could feel her soft breath. “Been waiting long?” I asked, playing it tough. “Frank, don’t kid. Frank, I’m in trouble . . . I’m being followed,” she said desperately. “I know – two men, one big, the other small, they’re across the street. Now stop crying and listen – stay here until I come back for you.” It didn’t take me long to size up the tails. They were a couple of muscleheads. The big one had meaty hands, the kind with knuckles that drag the ground, a real goon. He wrestled the crocodiles while his toady
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pal mouthed off to them. When they spotted me they took a bee-line in my direction, from the looks on their faces they weren’t up for any explanations. “Hey Dick,” the half-pint punk blurted out, “how about you help us find a lady.” “Hey Dick, we’re talking to you.” The two rushed in on me. The smaller guy tapped me on the shoulder. In my left fist I clutched a roll of nickels and took a swing, depositing them squarely on the thick jaw of the big man. It felt good and he crumbled, moaning down onto the asphalt, his petite partner pleading, “Easy buster, easy!” With his large friend incapacitated I felt confident, “Let’s skip the unpleasantries, what do you want with the girl? Who do you work for?” I demanded. “Listen Dick, we don’t know no girls.” I grabbed him by his collar, “You tell me or you’ll get it worse than him! Spill it!” “Rand, okay, we work for Rand!” he squealed. “Leo Rand?” “Yeah!” Leo Rand owns a local nightclub. He’s a shyster, shrewd, egotistical and has his hands in more underthe-table action than a house dog on a steak bone. “What does Rand want with the girl?” I grilled. “Look, our noses are clean, we’re just seeing where she goes.” “Why?” I asked while tightening my grip on his pinstriped Arrow shirt. “You think we know that? We work for hire,” he contested. I knew he was lying. I had seen cleaner snouts on wild boar. They were Rand’s personal muscle, but mumbles the giant was coming to and I didn’t fancy my odds of going another round with him. “Listen rat,” I boasted as I threw open my grip, “Pick up your pachyderm and scram, I don’t want to see either of you around the lady again.” And they did, at once, as if on cue, like a secretary with manners. I would’ve felt mighty proud of myself if it hadn’t gone so well, too well. Rand wasn’t known for hiring wimpy wise guys. They were proficient at their craft and would have gladly broken me in two; I knew this had been far too easy.
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velyn was where I had left her. She hurried out to meet me as if she expected me to return unscathed. She was alluring and trembling. Her slick red hair shimmering like a copper penny under the glow of the city lamp posts and neon signs. The light danced off of the delicate contours of her wet face, and beads of water dripped down the smooth line of her lovely neck disappearing into a moistened green blouse,
now translucent from the rain and thin enough to separate egg whites from their yolks. My brain was scrambled, what I would give to be that blouse. “I’m afraid I’m soaked through,” she said shivering, the slightest trace of a smile on her purple lips. “It’s alright,” I comforted, “ here take my coat, your blitzens are showing.” She laughed a sexy unembarrassed laugh. Her sultry blue eyes sparkling, gazing sheepishly at mine. “Say, my office has soft light and hard liquor, I’d rather get wet up there,” I proposed. She nodded, smiling ripely. Upstairs I offered her a cigarette. I tried to strike a match, but fumbled my last damp one and broke it. So I borrowed one of hers. As I struck it I couldn’t help but notice the flap of the matchbook and the logo for the Starlite Lounge. That’s Leo Rand’s joint and the second time tonight his name had come up. The match burnt down to my fingers and I quickly threw it to the floor. “I’ve got to be careful or I’ll catch this place on fire.” I chuckled. “Funny thing about fires,” she said in a silken voice, “they can start from the tiniest of sparks.” Attraction had less than subtlety turned into desire and I pounced in. She melted in my arms and I kissed her long and hard. “You’re very good at this,” she conceded whilst twisting the corners of her pretty mouth. “My sixth grade teacher, Miss Hickey, said I was a quick study,” I said slyly. “Do you often lure helpless females up to your office?” she mused, her voice throaty and cool. “Baby, you are about as helpless as a Bengal tiger,” I said. Then as these things often do, one kiss led to another, and another. Occasionally we came up for air and talked about the case. Corey Reed hadn’t given the goods or they wouldn’t have torched Forbes and the Chem. Corp. And, if they had gotten what they wanted from Forbes then they wouldn’t be tailing Evelyn. One thing was for certain: a million dollar formula was still on the loose.
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y guess was that Leo Rand thought Evelyn had it, I wasn’t so certain either way. We decided it was safest for her to stay close to me. The closer, the better, and it was high time I gave a gander at the clubhouse suite I had won off of Corey Reed. We left for the Country Club at first light. The morning was cold and brisk. Evelyn nestled closely beside me. She kept running her fingers through my hair. She seemed to like
No Mulligans on Dames and Murder
Office sinner by raymond pease – courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
it and I did too, too much. Yeah, I had it bad and wanted it worse. Little did I know just how much worse I was going to get it. Orange, flashing lights were visible entering Clubhouse Lane and it didn’t take a genius to realize we had been beaten to the punch. Somehow, someone was staying one step ahead and I was beginning to put it all together, but not particularly liking the who part of it. Inside, the place was a mess. The door to Corey’s flat was kicked in and so were the teeth and ribs of Jimmy Reynolds, the assistant club professional. Somehow my less than credible credentials were enough to get me a hall pass. I tried to make some sense from the best that Reynolds could mumble before the cops would arrive and throw me out. “Course record scorecard,” he groaned out, “they took the scorecard,” then, he passed out, or died, it’s tough to say and was tough to see as emergency personnel rushed him into the ambulance, feverishly working on his vitals. How about that, a million-dollar formula scribbled on the back of a scorecard publicly displayed for who knows how long. But if Rand and his crew now had the formula then I had to act fast, so I called a cab for Evelyn with instructions to go back and lay low at my place. Then I telephoned Lieutenant Fred Hathaway and gave him the brief dope, peeling out so quickly that I left the phone dangling from its coil with the lieutenant’s voice desperately calling out, “Frank wait! . . . Frank! Frank?!” On my way to the Starlite a feeling of nakedness came over me as I felt for my gat. No gun, great, I thought. But how, there wasn’t a shakedown back at the country club. I wondered, my mind a daze with overlapping thoughts of just where my pistol might be. Either way, I hadn’t the time to go back for my spare and being unarmed, I would have to be careful not to go off half-cocked at Leo’s.
Pretty soon he got tired of my berating and went to reach for something he kept out of sight and under the bar. Up til this point we hadn’t really hit it off so I assumed he wasn’t going to surprise me with flowers and candy.
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he Starlite is a swanky little joint. Leo keeps the drinks weak, the muscle strong and the windows and tables wear more silks than the half-naked dancing girls gyrating their hips and swinging tassels as they warm up for their nightly striptease. From across the floor the bartender regarded me as if he’d been expecting me. Very convenient I thought as I moseyed on over to the stools, bartenders always talk. He played it tough, avoiding my questions, but I could tell he was as nervous as a Clydesdale in a glue factory. He knew something and I was going to find out just what. Pretty soon he got tired of my berating and went to reach for something he kept out of sight and under the bar. Up til this point we hadn’t really hit it off so I assumed he wasn’t going to surprise me with flowers and candy. “Apparently you are the type who doesn’t see or hear very well,” I said sarcastically. “How about I lean in a bit closer and speak a little louder?” So I did, and fast, slinging up the leaf of the countertop, slamming him in the puss while returning it back into its slot which now was impeded by the his hand. He let out a mighty howl as I pounced in with questions. “Tell me what’s going on with Leo Rand and Evelyn Reed. Sing it!” I commanded. “Sing it?” he moaned, “What do you want to hear, Stardust?” I leaned hard on the bar leaf as a band of sweat beads popped out along his forehead. “Okay, okay!” he pleaded, “Evelyn Reed is Rand’s girl. There was a big spat a few days ago between them and Dexter Forbes. Forbes caught them together and caused a scene threatening to tell her husband. Leo’s muscle threw him out.” “Shut it chatterbox,” a weaselly voice demanded from behind me, sending an icy chill up my spine. “Oh, hi fellas.” It was my chums from the alley. “The bartender and I were just having a drink, you know what they say, three’s a crowd, and well, four’s a freak show, so how about the two of you monkeys sprout wings and fly back to Oz.” “Say, you must think you’re a real hero to waltz into our place and talk to us like that,” said the toady. “Yeah,” affirmed the big one, “A real Wyatt Earp.”
No Mulligans on Dames and Murder
“Right now I’d settle for his six-shooter,” I snickered. “Oh, you’re a real gas, you know it’s too bad we met so late in your life, we might have been real pals,” said the toady, setting me up. My situation growing dire, “How about I buy you fellas a drink?” I asked, while frantically trying to mentally devise an escape plan. “We ain’t thirsty,” said the toady. “Well, if that’s the way you want it,” I quickly grasped the long neck of a beer bottle and swung around. That’s when the whole place went black and I faded into nothingness.
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hen I arrived at Evelyn’s apartment, I didn’t bother knocking and she hadn’t bothered to lock the door. The place was dainty and tidy, too tidy, with the looks of a place about to be vacated. There was an open suitcase setting on an ottoman and in the fireplace a fire petered in and out. From the kitchen she noticed me and hurried to embrace me. “Oh Frank,” she cried out weeping. She had never appeared more vulnerable, more piteous, more desirable and hating her did not wane my wanting her more now than
Tonight It’s Me by LOU MARCHETTI – courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
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hen I came to, Lieutenant Hathaway was calling my name and tapping me on the face. “Huh, what, huh?” I muttered, slowly coming back to life. “Frank, you sure are lucky. Those two had you drawn-up and about to be quartered.” “Yeah, well, what stopped them?” I asked. “There was a shooting.” “A shooting?” “In the back office, somebody snuffed Leo Rand.” While the lieutenant filled me in on what little details there were, I helped myself to a hard drink to stifle the raging appetite of my hungry mind. “Fred, I’ve got to hurry.” “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked suspiciously. “Fred, have your men surround the block at Parkside 451. I hope I am wrong, but have the sick feeling I’m not.”
ever before. Still I brushed her away. “Save the tears for Sing Sing, baby, you’ll be crying a new tune once you’ve traded these fancy dresses in for a pair of striped pajamas,” I said as I thumbed through her outfits that lay neatly folded atop the open suitcase. “You look like someone who is about to take a fast cab to a slow boat,” I sneered. “It’s not true Frank. Come with me. I have the formula, we’re rich, let’s disappear together, we can live anywhere – Paris, Mexico, Mars even, we . . .” She was stalling, the way a redhead with oceanblue eyes can, singing me a sad seductive melody. It was music to my aching ears, too bad my brain detected a sour note, for as I reached in to stoke the fire, all of the pieces finally fit. “Save me the fuss and bother, there’s no us honey, never was. Dicks make good saps, but I’m wising up fast. You’re a murderer! You murdered Leo Rand, Victor Forbes and Corey Reed, they’ll see you get the gas chamber.” “You’re crazy!” she said low and coarsely. “Best I can tell it goes like this,” I began. “Maybe you loved Corey to begin with, maybe not. That is if you are even capable of love. Either way it wasn’t a life on the course you particularly despised. You didn’t mind the green, you just wanted more of it. And Corey couldn’t make enough of it as a pro, so you made him miserable with your constant want and intimidation. You pushed him into Chem. Corp. But your greed was too impatient, you couldn’t wait, had to find a big spender, so you cozied up to Leo Rand. But then it happened, Corey hit pay dirt with his formula, only now you were with Rand. But that was something Corey didn’t know about. He thought you were just waiting on him to get his act together. Meantime Rand learned of Corey’s formula from the lush with the big mouth,
She was stalling, the way a redhead with ocean-blue eyes can, singing me a sad seductive melody. It was music to my aching ears, too bad my brain detected a sour note, for as I reached in to stoke the fire, all of the pieces finally fit.
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Vic Forbes. Rand knew the value of the formula and was using you to needle Corey. But Forbes also had big eyes and quiet feet, and he caught you and Rand together at the Starlite. He was going to tell Corey all about you and Leo, but you got to Corey first. You knew exactly where he’d be that night and you brought along the little pistol he’d loaned you for protection when you moved out. When you still couldn’t coax him to sell the formula to Rand, when he still refused, you made it look like a suicide and left him with a face full of sand and a bullet in his head. Then you went back to Rand. Did he slap you around when he learned you had killed Corey without first securing the formula? Sloppy baby, very sloppy. Then you and Rand’s goons went to Chem. Corp. Forbes was there and after beating him senseless and ram-shacking the joint you figured the formula wasn’t there either. But you had to cover your tracks, so you staged a fire. Yeah, staged, because you had known all to well about the frayed coffee maker wire from when you kept the books for your husband and Forbes. Remember what you said? Funny how fires can start from such tiny sparks,” I recalled, embers cracking and popping out flames as I again stoked the fire, more vigorously. “Get out!” she demanded. “I thought you loved me baby,” I said, “you’re hot, you’re cold, you have more false fronts than a Donald Ross green. What happened to playing easy to get?” I began again, “That’s where I come in. You only made it look like Rand’s goons were after you. I knew they had taken the business from me far too easily. But as it turns out, I gave up the goat, unknowingly when I mentioned the flat. Who would’ve ever guessed he’d had written it on the back of a golf scorecard. And all the while it had been hanging there in clear sight with a million dollar formula on the back. Sometime during that night you telephoned Rand and told him to have his guys check it out. That’s why they beat us there. And when I hailed you a cab, you didn’t take it back to my office, but rather straight to the Starlite. But at Leo’s, things didn’t go as you planned. Now that he had the goods, Leo wasn’t as gaga over you. Probably even said he’d confess it was you who murdered Corey
No Mulligans on Dames and Murder
and Victor. How did that feel, did it hurt? Or were you only using him as much as he was using you. But you still had the upper hand. Was your loverboy surprised when he saw you holding the gun? My gun, the one you lifted off of me while cuddling up during our country ride. “You think you are so smart,” she snickered with a hollow laugh. “Honey, I can assure you I have never felt more stupid in my entire life.” “Rand deserved it, no one can deny it, maybe it was even self defense. They were about to kill you,” she said slyly, coolly. “And Forbes?” I quizzed. “Forbes was a drunkard, he could’ve caused the fire himself. And Corey’s, maybe Corey’s was a suicide,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “That’s the odd thing.” I said, “The autopsy states Corey was dead before he was shot.” “That’s absurd!” she exclaimed bitterly, her face animated. “Not necessarily, the side of his head had been bashed-in by a blunt object prior to his being shot.” The room had grown silent and tense. “According to the police report no murder weapon could be found. But I did find something very strange.” I paused. “I find it strange that Corey’s golf bag contained all of his clubs with the exception of his three wood. The same one he had used to make his famous shot with.” She said nothing, staring mutely at the fire. “The very thing you have been using to stoke your fires with!” I proclaimed as I held up the grip and sooted shaft of a fairway golf club, wire raveled and charred at the base from where the wooden head had been burned away. In the ashes lay two metal screws, the metal screws from the face of a three wood. “Turn around,” she said as she drew a pistol on me. It had the initials F.L. on the receiver, my initials. “Nice roscoe, looks familiar,” I snickered. “I said turnaround,” she once again demanded. “What’s the matter, you can’t do it face-toface,” I boasted. BANG! I was lying on the floor with a hole in my side and a bigger one in my heart as she
hurried out of the door. I thought about Leo Rand. Did she like him more than me, she shot him three times, I only got it once. Or, was it just the opposite. Either way, I’m glad of it. I don’t think I could’ve handled much more affection.
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ell, that just about does it. Lieutenant Hathaway and his men picked her up a few blocks away. Evelyn Reed is to never be seen among civilians again. As for me, sometimes I wonder if I am cut out for this line of work. My soft spot for dames, especially the vulnerable, quivering kind is going to someday do me in. I want to believe them innocent, too pretty for the dirty work. And this one, her story, her terms, those oceanic eyes, I wanted to believe more than most. Above all I wanted to believe she might truly have feelings for me. Recently I moved out of my trap in the city and have been holding up at the country club flat that I won off of Corey Reed. The digs are nice, a bit quaint, but with a great watering hole, as the view overlooks the pool. The bar is fully stocked as well and very suitable for my purposes of drying out from the intoxicating thoughts of Evelyn Reed that still tease my imagination. Tomorrow, a couple of skinnies from the hardware store will be over to change out my solid oak door for one with a glass panel and FRANK LOGAN PRIVATE DETECTIVE in block letters. Suddenly a clip-clop echoes up the stairs outside my door. In a pane of my exterior window the vague outline of a feminine form appears. “I hear you are a detective?” a saucy voice asks. “That depends,” I said gruffly as I spun around in my leather-padded chair. There she was, standing in my doorway, a delicacy in high heels, obscenely posing like a greek goddess. She had golden brown hair, in her mint green eyes the kind of look that could turn an iceberg into a steam bath. An olive knee peeked out and flirted from the flap of the lacy cover-up hardly covering up a next-to-nothing skin-tight swimsuit. She was sublime. “Come on in, tell me about your case.” Some fools never learn.
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65
A Sporting
Haven Just down a quaint little two-lane road, somewhere between here and yonder, lies a Mecca of outdoor sports called Brays Island. By Josh Wolfe
It
was almost surreal. An awesome eeriness exaggerated by the combination of a lowlying fog below the dangling Spanish moss and steam from an afternoon shower that drew us closer and closer. It was the feel of the place I first noticed as we crept up the long sandy drive to the Inn. I had been to Brays Island, South Carolina, before, touched it in the coolness of an early Spring day when many people were gathered. But in the loneliness and stillness of an “off � day I could almost see through the layers of history as what lay before and around us was not only a highly sought-out sporting community, but a way of life and the only place of its kind, at least that I know of. We eased up to the front door of the Inn, shrouded with Spanish moss, laced in
a graceful antiquity. Old South, you know. We were unsure of whether we’d arrived at somebody’s house. I rang the doorbell, but couldn’t hear a response. Stepping cautiously through the front door, I felt as if I was treading farther back in time. I shuffled further into the foyer, cleared my throat and called out an inquiring Hullo! It was a piece of paper sitting on a desk in the front room that instructed us which suites we would occupy for the night. Simple. The Inn quickly became an integral part of the entire trip – where we’d sleep, share meals and engage new friends; a far cry from the usual rigmarole of providing everything but a blood sample to the hotel clerk to prove how much you want to stay in his flinty room. The Spanish and then French Huguenots gave Brays a try long before the invention of electricity. The Spanish wanted to protect treasure ships sailing north though Indian revolts and harassment from the French sent them packing to St. Augustine – established as the oldest city in the country. Similarly so, the French settled to seek religious freedom and founded the nearby Port Royal, but were unsupported by their country and what few survived sailed back home. Even the tough Scots, escaping the Church of England’s persecution, were unable to make it in the area. The few that stayed founded what is now Beaufort. Then William Brays showed up in the early 1700s as an indentured servant. He received a warrant for 600 acres and promptly set up shop as an Indian trader. But he too ultimately failed. When the Indians decided to do something about the unfair treatment of their race, they rose up and launched an all out war against the European settlers. William Brays and others joined to suppress the resistant. He was killed the first day. Other wars broke out. There was the one between the states, when a General Sherman and his troops got fire happy and blazed a path through the South, burning and looting every manmade structure along the way. He stopped by Brays Island sometime back around ’64 and took care of all the homes and churches. Then not too much seemed to happen for the next 30 or so years. Sherman had long gone home. There wasn’t much of a need for the United States to fight amongst itself any more. But Mother Nature rears an ugly head when she sees fit and the great hurricane of 1893 conceivably destroyed the last evidence of 19th century life on the island. The rice fields, phosphate factory, ships and some 3,000 people were lost in that storm and for the next 50 years, the remaining folks in the Brays area lived in virtual poverty. Skip ahead roughly 310 years and you’d find a couple of staffers from The Golf Sport arriving on the eve of a game around the links. And throughout our stay, we hardly saw another soul.. Up the long drive to the historic Inn at Brays Island and you will step back “That’s what life and golf at Brays through time. Beef cattle and other livestock were once a prevalent source Island is,” said Mike Ingram, the of income and sustenance for the inhabitants on the island. Director of Golf and an extremely
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The Inn is a stylish mix of antiquity and modern-day comfort. Gather in the living room to chat with other guests, relax in your large suite or dine on field-to-table fare prepared by the chef.
instrumental figure in making Brays what it is today. On the course especially, you’re out there alone with your thoughts, the birds, the wind. Nature engrosses you. “You’ll needn’t make a tee time either. Just show up when you feel like it; maybe have a bite to eat in the restaurant (which is excellent by the way) just across the breeze way from the pro shop.” Over veal chops and a couple bottles of Red Zinfandel we learned more about the history of Brays Island and the story of its origins and the man that spearheaded the project that’s made Brays what it is today – Sumner Pingree, Jr. Sumner’s grandfather had been a civil engineer who built the railroad system in Cuba not long after the Spanish American War. He eventually helped his son, Sumner Sr., get going in the cattle business and thus Sumner Jr. followed his father’s footsteps and was raising beef when Fidel Castro took the reigns of Cuba in 1959. Castro initially told Sumner, Jr. that he could keep his farm, which fed the majority of his country. But in the end Castro wouldn’t keep his word, even at the insistence of Che Guevara, who saw the importance of the farm to his people. Sumner had no choice but to get out, and quickly. With not much more than the clothes on his back, his family and a few trusted workers, he left Cuba for the states. It appeared he had lost everything – his livelihood, his farm, hell, his country. But a man who sits down with Fidel Castro and Che Guevara and has the gall to tell them how to do their job is never going to stay defeated for too long.
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Getting onto the golf course at Brays Island is easy – no tee times, no pressure, very little human presence. How you play is up to you.
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He must have known that day would come, felt that it must. And in doing so he sunk his life into Brays Island, which he’d recently purchased from the estate of Francis B. Davis, Jr., a former executive of the U.S. Rubber Company. Sumner also bought the adjoining land from a Mr. Frederic Ewing. Hilton Head Island was being developed as those to the north began tiring of the long winters and cold snows. Sumner raised hogs and some cows, and in 1989, transformed Brays Island into the majestic utopia it is today. Some 325 one-acre lots later and you still don’t notice a whole lot of development around Brays. Walking through the island, alone, I heard murmured voices carrying across the water, bouncing through the various trees. “It was planned from the get-go that each lot needs to be circular with an S shaped driveway,” said Paul Burton, an owner and partner in Brays Island Realty. “Then you don’t have to look at your neighbor out of your kitchen window and you have privacy from the road without giving up the stunning views.” More than 200 homes have been built to date. “There are no requirements to build – no maximum or minimum in how many square feet you want, no required ‘cookie-cutter’ design.” Slowly strolling along, looking, listening, thinking, I could have been back on the golf course. Except that was a few days earlier when we warmed up freely on a morning when the breeze refused to blow and the heat set in early. “Won’t have to worry about the wind today, eh?”
A Sporting Haven
Whether it’s wingshooting, inshore fishing or just spending a day in the saddle that suits your fancy, Brays Island has everything the sportsman could ever imagine.
said Paul at breakfast that morning. He still carries a strong accent from his native South Africa. Unimpeded, we hit practice shots into actual greens set out among the field of the driving range. Then there was an elderly lady putting around, gently loosening up as if there was no other place she needed to be and no hurry to get there. How could anyone emerge from the tranquil bubble that surrounds Brays Island– wrapping you in her loving arms and setting you down gently – and leave saying “that was stressful?” The answer simply, You can’t. I watched in a sort of envy as she eased off the green and began chipping. She was waiting on her friend to show and then they’d go off, but we needn’t worry about that, just tee off whenever. And then we did, once again bound my nobody asking questions, directing us hither and yonder or pressuring us from behind. Oh how I hate people impatiently watching me strike a golf ball. Flat swing, just make contact I’d usually say to myself. But with just Ryan {Stalvey}, I hammered my drive down the right side of the fairway and the round began. Throughout the day we played to the course’s openness. Me along the right side and he along the left and sometimes center. The draw versus the fade. Water is your main hazard because Brays is an island, remember, though it’s not so diluted as you may suspect. “You really get rewarded for your good shots,” said Mike. “Even the bad ones sometimes don’t result in having to dig through your bag for another ball.” Well, sometimes it did, for me at least. South Carolina only has 30,000 miles of rivers and streams that drain the
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Sumner Pingree, Jr.’s plan became a reality through hard work and determination. Never looking at his project as an investment, he developed Brays Island into a sporting Mecca that’s in a league of its own.
waters from the state’s 20-million acres of land, eventually flowing into the Atlantic Ocean, so you’re bound to lose a ball or two no matter where you’re aiming. The Ron Garl-designed course is an 18-hole, par 72 layout that is highlighted by its immense greens and natural hazards. Even though they’d recently overseeded the greens, they were still in fantastic shape. As were the fairway and tee boxes. The whole way through I imagined being across the pond, playing a Scottish links course as similar elements were incorporated from that legendary style. Imagination is one thing, but the reality of being at Brays is something to behold. “All you have to do when you go out there,” said Mike, “is relax. That’s it.” And that was it. Other than a few distant shots from the gun club, we were alone on the course, alone on the island. Little signage was seen over the span of 18 holes, little trace of mankind anywhere. We left it with a few divots and our footprints, but not much more. Alone again. Walking the lazy road among the oaks, somber reeds swaying to the rhythm of the wind and the Earth’s turn, the tide finding its way home at the end of another cycle. My thoughts aren’t on much but the sand beneath my feet, a certain tonic overtaking my marching legs, and that feel once again touching my soul in a way that only rich history and the stories that go along with it could. And unlike many of its kind, you can have your fill of golf and shooting on the same day, not just one or the other. It’s not first class because it owns the grade all by itself. For that is Brays Island. BraysIsland.com.
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the Collector’s
Collector
Among the notable collectors in the world, Dick McDonough and his substantial compilation of golf art stand proudly near the top.
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was in an antique store up in the Poconos back in the early 80s where Dick McDonough found the initial fragments of what would become a distinguished collection in the world of golf. He’d played golf for a number of years and was always interested in the lore and history of the game, but had not delved much deeper. “The guy in the shop had a bag of old clubs,” he said, “and there was this really nice putter in there. The rest were all hickory, very unique. He wanted $15 per club or $75 for the whole bag. There were 22 clubs in the bag! And while I’m no mathematician, well, I think you know where I’m going with this.” From there he traveled to the Library of Congress to find out more. “There was no Internet then,” he said. “But what I could find was in that library and it was fascinating. The craftsmanship, the various styles, the makers – I was hooked.”
Dick would go on to graduate from Villanova University (where he also happened to be an NCAA champ in swimming and held several world records) and Michigan Law School, and later worked for IBM, where his career afforded him opportunities to meet and coalesce with people such as himself – collectors. He has even served as the historian for Dorset Field Club and Greenwich Country Club, which are two of America’s oldest clubs. Through the years of traveling and relocating, his knowledge grew, as did his appetite for collecting. “Back then you could find old clubs more often. But after you compile hundreds of old golf clubs, then what? Stack them in the garage?” He refined his interests and eventually shifted his focus to art. He heard about the Golf Collector’s Society in a shop down in Florida and immediately joined. The society, formed by Robert Kuntz and Joseph Murdoch, opened his world to new people
and more information than he could ask for. “Joe Murdoch was one of the finest people I’ve ever met,” he said. “He wrote a bibliography listing every golf book ever written. But most importantly, he wrote every member a personal letter, thanking him or her for joining. I still have mine to this day.” In his book, Great Golf Collections of the World, the Introduction from the authors begins, “One often heard adage implies that if a person has two objects it constitutes a pair, but three like items has become a ‘collection.’” Before moving forward there are two things you need to know: First, most of the words in the ensuing pages are from Dick’s book, Great Golf Collections of the World. Second, and perhaps most important, the artwork you are about to enjoy results from a combination of a keen eye, a prodigious knowledge on collecting, and Dick McDonough’s love and appreciation for the greatest of games.
ADVERTISING ART
Golf emerged as a popular American pastime during a period of profound change. The industrial revolution in the late 1890s led to increased leisure time and recreational and travel opportunities for the first time for a larger portion of the population. Before the invention of the radio, newspapers and magazines were the primary means of widespread communication. They were also undergoing revolutionary change, particularly in the ability to achieve faster turnaround in the production of graphic images. New and enhanced capabilities in color imaging would, in turn, expand the magazine’s mass appeal. Seizing the entrepreneurial opportunity, advertisers around the turn of the 20th century would employ the new and powerful reach of ads, which brought an increasing sophistication to a fledgling industry.
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LA VIE PARISIENNE
These covers from La Vie Parisienne, a French weekly magazine founded in Paris in 1863, are a testament to the growing worldwide popularity of golf and capture the risquĂŠ and humorous images commonly used on the cover. The artwork of La Vie Parisienne emulated the stylization of Art Nouveau and Art Deco illustration, mirroring the aesthetic of the age as well as the values. The magazine reflected the changing interests of the start of the 20th century population, including fashion, frivolity and a little golf, and became extremely popular because it combined a mix of short stories, veiled gossip and fashion banter as well as articles on love, the arts and the stock exchange. Apparently, during World War I, General John Joseph Pershing personally warned American troops against purchasing the magazine due to its risquĂŠ nature. But as Great Golf Collections of the World so dutifully points out, a magazine cover is a first impression and, if successful, an enticement.
GOLF ADVERTISING
Ads took on an increasing sophistication in their early days, often leading artists and illustrators to produce strong, colorful and visually eye-catching images that often involved a romantic scene. Much of it involving golf was directed toward representing and defining new parameters of an emerging American lifestyle – one that was perhaps more suggestive than in the early days of advertising. The same parameters for other ads consisting of a father and son, a group of men or just a well-dressed chap kicking back with a pipe. Initially, no writing was allowed on postcards. Not until the early 1900s anyway when a few countries – Britain, France, Germany and the United States – allowed for a divided back with room for a message. Starting in 1939, color film paved the way for a new postcard, frequently classified as the “chrome” era.
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The ELKS
The Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, also known as simply The Elks, is a fraternal order and social club founded in 1868. It is one of the leading fraternal orders in America with nearly one million members. The club began in New York City to elude laws governing the hours of public taverns, but after a fellow member died, leaving his wife and children without income, the club took up additional roles to help out. Now, that’s gentlemanly. The legendary J. F. Kernan (1878-1958) illustrated several covers for The Elks magazine. Much like Norman Rockwell, he portrayed the positive, optimistic and humorous aspects of everyday life. He loved the outdoors and sport, having played professional baseball in his youth.
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POSTCARDS
Against a backdrop of frenetic change, the postcard has shown remarkable endurance. First issued in Austria in 1869, government endorsement across Europe in the late 19th century led to their widespread private manufacture and mailing. Extraordinarily creative in subject and content, inexpensive to purchase and send, from the beginning postcards made attractive souvenirs and collectibles, as did posters and travel brochures. Although the Greeks, Romans and Egyptians used various forms of pictorial signage for public display, the origin of the modern poster is traceable to Jules Cherat, who, in 1958, created a color lithograph poster, establishing lithography as a creative medium. The vibrant colors, workmanship and strong visual appeal of posters as a communication media have made them a popular collectible. Travel brochures on the other hand were never intended as anything more than a transitory piece of throwaway advertising. Their ephemeral nature leads those who seek golf travel brochures to accordingly classify them as such – ephemera. Collectors recognize these pieces as an excellent and informative snapshot, an entertaining and often colorful glimpse of an often imaginative place.
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To order Dick McDonough’s marvelous book visit GreatGolfCollections.com
the Collector’s Collector
Bridge to the future
Roger Ferris’ design of The Bridge is certainly an attribute to modern-day architecture. So futuristic, in fact, it leaves but one question. Where are the flying golf carts? By Alan Clemons
oger Ferris wasn’t entirely certain what he would find other than an abandoned motorsports racetrack and weeds. Stunning views, of course, seeing as how the site he was visiting to design a golf course clubhouse was the highest point on the east end of Long Island. Other than that, Ferris was ready for anything. On what is now The Bridge, a private club and 18-hole course in Bridgehampton, New York, Ferris wandered around the old race course. Bridgehampton Race Circuit hosted four NASCAR races in the 1960s, Trans-Am events and others on its 13-turn course before closing in 1998. Old wheels and parts lay here and there. One caught Ferris’ eye and, in part, sparked his creativity for The Bridge’s
The Bridge, an 18-hole golf course located in Brigehampton, New York, is the future of clubhouse design. Its four-bladed design is equipped with a locker room, gathering room, café and pilates studio.
contemporary clubhouse design. “I found a busted turbine wheel from an engine and it was sort of shaped like a nautilus shell, a spiral,” said Ferris, founder of Roger Ferris + Partners architecture firm in Connecticut. “I took this image from that, so it has kind of a tectonic relationship to what was there before. It has a certain speed, a movement. “Also, we’ve all seen those photos of golf swings, the segmented swing showing each movement, and I wanted the clubhouse to relate to that. The view of the landscape, the history of the land … it wasn’t easy but we dug deep. I think we kind of came up with a good lyrical gesture, which all good buildings have.” The Bridge clubhouse is 40,000 square feet
with large windows, cypress louvered blinds and curved features. Rather than a traditional clubhouse, which The Bridge owner and founder Robert Rubin did not want, Ferris’ first golf project is definitively unique. Architectural Digest hailed it as among its “most significant structures around the world.” It was built in 2010. The Rees Jones-designed course was built in 2002, with renovations in 2011 and 2012. With sustainability in mind, Ferris crafted expansive openings with floor-to-ceiling windows to allow sunlight to illuminate the interior. From the center of the clubhouse, the four blades are the locker rooms, gathering room and café, and pilates studio. His gently sloping roof helps collect rainwater. An exterior patio
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provides an outdoor respite where club members and guests can enjoy views of Noyak Bay, Little Peconic Bay, Long Island Sound and Sag Harbor. Ferris described the initial design stages as a challenge in order to take advantage of not only Rubin’s desires, but “As far as also the scenery. Why follow tradition? Why sustainability, sure, in close off the members’ guests’ enjoyment historical buildings and of their visit with small you could retrofit or windows, perhaps a tiny back patio, a clubhouse do some things with a designed like others of historical idiom. There the last 50 or 100 years? “It was hard because are certain things you this was the highest on the island can do to embrace point with 280-degree views,” sustainability. But if Ferris said. “So in trying to capture those views, you really want to ours was not just of the course but all that is embrace it, you’re golf beyond the course. It’s on going to go with the hill, the course is below it and all the water in the (modernity) and that distance. With traditional many years depends on where clubhouses ago, they couldn’t get the you set the bar.” expanses of glass. And sustainability was just not part of the vocabulary, historically, for a lot of reasons, not the least being they didn’t know how to make glass that big back then. “As far as sustainability, sure, in historical buildings you could retrofit or do some things with a historical idiom. There are certain things you can do to embrace sustainability. But if you really want to embrace it, you’re going to go with (modernity) and that depends on where you set the bar.” Rubin retired in his 40s, after a successful career on Wall Street, to pursue his passions, including architecture and art. He met Ferris after seeing one of his other projects. They began talking about golf, designs and the partnership developed. While both appreciate traditional clubhouse designs of legendary courses in America’s golf history – Shinnecock Hills and National Golf Links, both of which are more than 100 years old and just a few miles from The Bridge – Rubin wanted something different. Ferris provided it. “At the time he was not a golfer, nor was I,
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really,” Ferris said, “and he started talking about the institution of golf in America and the part the Hamptons played in it, golf in America, and where we might place this course and clubhouse in the 21st century. We tried to take a different approach to it and opt out of emulating historical styles, which like Shinnecock, for example, are among the finest examples. “It’s never easy. It’s always a struggle. We didn’t have a building committee, which is fortunate. Clubhouses have a strong programmatic requirement; it’s a gathering place. But it’s sort of a misnomer because it’s a restaurant, a bar, a dressing area. A clubhouse is used in different ways and has to have programmatic requirements. “The real challenge was capturing all the views, which is why the blades are arranged… so you’re looking out into the distance. The other part that was challenging is this site, this golf course, which is on what was one of the premier road courses in America. When we started working with Rees Jones on the course, we argued in a gentlemanly way about things like where I would want something to be, he wanted the 18th to be
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instead, and we’d be back and forth on that sort of stuff. Ultimately, we both felt like we not only needed to respect the views, but also to respect the prior use of the land.” Ferris said he’d love to design another clubhouse and believes future courses will incorporate newer, more modern appearances. He gives an appreciative nod to The Blessings in Arkansas, which has similarities. Given the financial investment of a course and the open spaces to work with, Ferris believes clubhouses can be utilitarian and unique. “I think they’re great opportunities for real architecture,” he said. “This has been acknowledged in Asia and Europe. The Blessings is one of the few great contemporary clubhouses in the country. “Golf has come so far as a sport, as an institution, as whatever you want to look at, and has been embraced in ways it never has before. While it’s historical, it’s also a contemporary sport. Clubhouses should follow suit. I don’t think you need to fear that golfers won’t embrace it.” For more visit FerrisArch.com.
With floor-to-ceiling windows and sitting atop the highest point on east Long Island, members and guests can enjoy 280-degree views of the surrounding Noyak Bays, Long Island Sound and Sag Harbor.
Bridge to the Future
PopArt & circumstance Sculptor & painter David O’Keefe captures the personalities, humanness & stardom of pop culture’s idols & icons.
Bushwood - Tribute to Caddyshack
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Muhammad Ali – A Tribute to The Greatest Opposite Page: The Golden Bear A Tribute to Jack Nicklaus
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Knowledge is Good A Tribute to Animal House
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Ol’ Blue Eyes A Tribute to Frank Sinatra Opposite Page: Carl Spackler
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LaFamiglia Tribute to the Godfather
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Old Tom Morris and Young Tom in the original clubmakers shop, St Andrews, Scotland.
Jacket TMO015 Knitwear TMK022 Scarf TMA061
A grand
ReOpening The spirit of Old Tom Morris is alive and well in this new line of fine apparel that just happens to be based out of his original shop.
His original shop, which opened in 1866, is now the flagship Tom Morris store and a destination to golfers from around the world.
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nly the Tom Morris flagship store would be located in his original shop overlooking his beloved Old Course of St Andrews. Tom opened his shop there in 1866, making it the oldest of its kind in the world. The store itself has been carefully restored, unearthing original features, including the flagstone floor and brickwork, which add to the authenticity and lineage of the brand as well giving customers a truly unique retail experience. Old Tom Morris was born in St Andrews in 1821 and was playing golf by age ten, using a wine cork pierced with nails and a homemade club. In 1846, Tom found an apprenticeship under Allan Robertson where he worked for several years learning to make golf equipment. The two eventually split after coming to a disagreement over their choice of golf balls. Allan preferred the feather ball while Tom wanted to embrace the new rubber ball. Tom eventually opened his own store in 1848 making equipment. Just three years later, in 1851, Tom moved to Prestwick to design the golf course, which remains one of his finest designs. In addition, Tom was also responsible for the design and construction of the New Course, Muirfield and North Berwick amongst many others.
Fashion
Tom returned to St Andrews in 1865 after he was recruited by the Royal and Ancient to serve as the Keeper of the Greens. The course was in very poor condition and he was tasked to correct it. He was paid 50 pounds per year, which by the standards of the time, was a very hefty salary. He continued in that position for the next 39 years. Tom won his first Open Championship in 1861, and defended his title a year later, winning by 13 strokes, which remains the largest margin of victory in the Open. Tom won his fourth and final Open Championship in 1867 at the age of 46 years old. Inspired by the heritage of Tom Morris, their clothes are designed with his charismatic personality in mind. We guess his extraordinary achievements might factor into that inspiration as well. At the heart of the Tom Morris store is a desire to stay true to the creativity and innovation of Old Tom Morris by focusing not solely on golf, but producing a range of clothing that draws on the inspiration of golfing heritage and lifestyle rather than being directly influenced by it. The result is modern-day design and production to deliver fashionable, wearable clothes with an unrivaled history at their core. A sporting icon he was, but above all, a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. TomMorris.com
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Jacket TMO018 Knitwear TMK022 Vest TMO020 Bottoms TMT006 Bag TMA047 Opposite: Knitwear TMK018 Hat TMA065 Bottoms TMT006
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Jacket TMO023 Knitwear TMK017 Scarf TMA061 Bottoms TMT005
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Luxuriously
Extravagant Holland & Holland’s high summer collection, inspired by the Maharajahs, represents India’s heritage and timeless style in the bespoke fashion as only H&H can replicate.
Blazer £1,395/$2,377 Peacock Waistcoat - Burgundy £595/$1,014 Indian Elephant Woven Tie - Magenta £110/$187 Cotton Drill Trousers - Bright Red £225/$383
One-off Bandi Waistcoat - Orange ÂŁ1,995/$4,000
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Ladies Short Sleeve Shirt - White £170/$290 Ladies Safari Skirt - Sahara £295/$503 Exotic Lizard Belt - Brown £275/$469 Mens Safari Shirt – Green £195/$332 Opposite: Indian Charm Necklace – (Price on application)
Lightweight Safari Vest with Zip Pockets - Sahara £595/$1,014 Lightweight Multipocket Trousers - Sahara £295/$503 Webbing Belt - Orange/Brown £95/$162 Safari Boots £450/$767
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LW Hemingway Jacket - Sahara £595/$1,014 Cotton Jodhpurs - Putty £225/$383 Cotton Shirt - White £150/$256 Lancaster Boots £450/$767 Opposite: Gabardine Classic Safari Jacket - Green £595/$1,014 Cotton Drill Trousers - Soft Red £225/$383
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Elephant Print Bathrobe - Ecru ÂŁ1,950/$3,323
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Lozier Detroit Automotive Ad By Frank X. Leyendecker – Courtesy Dick McDonough
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