HARRY VARDON’S LONG LOST GOLF BAG

June 19^th, 1914, British Open, Prestwick Golf Club, South Ayrshire Scotland

Tommy noticed Harry was winded. It was not because of  the uncharacteristic near 90 degree weather, nor because John Henry Taylor had a 2-shot lead going into the 4^th hole of the 1914 British Open either. It was that damnable tuberculosis Harry had been fighting for over ten years. It had picked a fine time to flare up again he thought.

The hole, called the Bridge, was a 384 yard par 4 with the Pow Burn river running through it. Violent storms had gone through the area a few days earlier swelling the river as it flowed rapidly towards the Firth of Clyde.  

As Harry walked up to the tee box, me in tow, I reminded him to  straighten his tie, while the announcer let the sparse crowd know that Harry Vardon would tee off first. I handed him his brassie but he waved it away, grabbing the cleek, with its new hickory shaft, from the bag. I had just put that shaft in that club the night before and now prayed it would help Harry with his shot. I started to say something but one sharp look by Harry made me decide to keep my opinion to myself. I made a mental note not to make that mistake again.

While the crowd applauded, I thought about Prestwick, where the old club had birthed the British Open some 54 years earlier. I hoped to one day play it myself in the Open.  

Harry had won the Open Championship here twice before, the first in 1898 and the last one in 1903, beating out his brother Tom by 6 shots. Taylor had won it last year.

My reverie was broken with the thwack of the club hitting the golf ball. Harry teed off while I wasn’t looking, but fortunately I caught up to the ball flight. He had hit a beautiful shot to the right side of the fairway so as to cut off some of the distance to the hole. It was a risky shot as the fairway slopes to the Burn, but it landed softly in the fairway in perfect position.

John Henry was up next. I noticed he had selected a brassie and the bugger was smiling at me. He must have seen the interaction between Harry and me over club selection. That grin was erased a few moments later when he hit his shot just to the right of where Harry’s ball was sitting and then trickled into the Burn.

From that moment on the tournament was over. Harry would win by three shots, his third win at Prestwick and his last British Open victory, although I had no way of knowing that at the time.

As instructed, we met for breakfast the following morning to settle up. I had spent quite a bit of time cleaning his clubs that morning and they shined in the morning sun. This is where caddies normally got pad by their golfers and since Harry made 50 lbs. for winning, I had expected to get 5 of those pounds, a standard 10% from the winner.

We had our breakfast, followed by more tea. I was starting to wonder if I was going to get paid. Finally, he slid an envelope across to me. Imagine my disbelief when I opened the envelope to find a one pound note and a terse memo telling me my job was to always give the golfer what he needed, not what the caddie thought he should hit. He reminded me it was my job to know the proper clubs for certain situations, pointing out how John Henry had used the wrong club back on the 4^th hole.

I tersely thanked him for the money and the memo and excused myself, saying I had a golf lesson to attend to. He asked me to bring his clubs up to his automobile before I left. I was incensed at Vardon’s cheapness and his repudiation but there was nothing I could say. Had I chose to say something I would have been blackballed from ever being a working caddie again.

I walked briskly back to the shack they gave us to sleep in at night to get his clubs, my rage continuing to boil.  By the time I had gotten there, I had actually decided to give him a piece of my mind when I returned the clubs. I picked up the bag when a thought occurred to me – I could sell these clubs to make some extra money, possibly as much as nine of the ten pounds to make up for what the old skinflint had cheated me out of. Why not, other caddies had done it for similar reasons and there was actually a network to move them. But where to hide them?

The workers horse barn was nearby so I stashed the entire bag under some hay and then made my way back to see Vardon about the missing bag. I would report it stolen and then come back that night to retrieve the clubs.  

Old man Vardon was highly upset with the report, but at the property manager, not me. A search was conducted, with my help, and when they weren’t found by that afternoon, the constabularies were called in. They made a report, interviewed the other caddies, but I knew the bag and clubs would never be seen again.

That night I retrieved the bag and sold it the following day for ten pounds. I had expected ten pounds from Vardon but wound up with eleven pounds for my efforts. I continued my caddying career but never again for Vardon. He never won a major championship again either.

Present Day, Bonham’s Auction House, Los Angeles California

Justin, last name withheld, was delighted. He had just purchased a set of golf clubs, said to have belonged to Harry Vardon during the 1914 British Open for three million dollars. He had expected to pay up to five million so he had reason to be doubly satisfied. The clubs had turned up at auction in London but had not met the reserve price so they shipped them to America where sports items achieved higher prices.

The clubs and bag were in remarkable condition for being over one-hundred-ten years old. The hickory shafts had aged well, although the bag was weathered. They were thought to be Vardon’s as there was a note found inside admonishing a caddie that had been signed by Vardon. It was unknown where the clubs had been for the last century.

Justin put the bag and clubs in a polyethylene hard cover he had bought earlier in the day at a sports store so as to look like another tourist on his way to play one of the fine courses in southern California. When he got home he placed the travel bag in his home office, locked the door, and went back to the sports collectible company he owned. That night he had dinner with customers at the swankiest place in town, still inwardly beaming about his purchase from the afternoon. He drank a little too much at dinner and went straight home to bed.

About 2:00 AM he was shaken awake by his wife. She heard noises at the other end of the house. Groggily, Justin grabbed the .38 from the gun safe next to his bed and headed toward the noises. He knew nobody would be there, but his wife wouldn’t go back to sleep if he didn’t go check. When she didn’t sleep, neither did he.

As he was going through the kitchen he heard a noise too, coming from his office. When he got to the door he could plainly hear someone inside, but the door was still locked. This didn’t make any sense.

He went back to the kitchen to get his keys and cautiously approached the office door. He listened from outside the office as there was someone in there and it sounded like they were mumbling to themselves. Slowly he unlocked and opened the door, careful not to make any noise. He reached in and turned on the light and was surprised to find someone bent over his travel bag, fumbling with the locks, oblivious to the light that had just been turned on or the door opening. Justin leveled the gun on the individual.

Justin: “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

The figure stood up and turned around. Justin did a double-take at the figure standing in front of him. He wore a white-ish suit jacket and tie, over a pair of gray knickers. He sported a black mustache and a cap that Justin could only describe as a newsboy hat. In fact, he had a cap just like that for sale at his store that was signed on the inside by John Henry Taylor.

When the intruder did not answer, Justin grabbed his cell phone out of the pocket of his shorts.

Justin: “Stay right there, dude. I’m calling the police.”

With that, the intruder finally spoke. “No reason to do that, my good man. I’ve just come to retrieve my clubs.”

Justin: “What the hell you mean your clubs? I bought them earlier today. Who are you?”

Intruder, exchanging glances between the gun and the contraption in Justin’s other hand: “Why, my good man, I am Harry Vardon. I’ve been looking for these clubs for over a century. You see, my good fellow, they were stolen from me after the 1914 British Open and I never again won another tournament.”

Justin: “You’re nuts!”  He was going to dial the police, but the phone fell out of his hand.

Vardon: “Sir, if you would just do me the honor of putting that pistol down, I will prove it to you.”

Justin bent over to pick his phone back up while keeping the guy trained on the nut-job pretending to be Harry Vardon. “How do you even know what’s in there? Did you follow me home from the auction?”

Vardon: “My good sir, I assure you I did not follow you home from the auction, as I just arrived here in California. But I can answer you about the contents of that hard contraption if you will do me the honor of opening it after I have described it to you.”

Just then Justin’s wife, Hannah came into the room. “Justin, what’s going on.”

Justin, wagging the gun at Vardon: “This nut job says he’s Harry Vardon and he owns these clubs I bought at the auction today.”

Justin trained the gun on Vardon again and handed the phone to Hannah. “Call 911 and get somebody out here.”

Vardon, speaking more quickly: “Please, sir. There’s no reason to call the constabulary. If you doubt me so, I can tell you there is a cleek in that bag that has a newer hickory shaft than the other clubs.”

Hannah: “Justin, what’s a cleek? Is that a gun?”

Vardon: “No, mam, I assure you it is not. This particular cleek is the club I used to take the lead in the 1914 British Open up in Prestwick. My caddie put that new hickory shaft in the night before the tournament began.”

Justin was now irritated: “Bullshit, you’re nuts old man. Hannah, call the damn police like I asked you.”

Hannah: “But would it hurt to look, Jason?”

Justin: “Ok, Hannah, we’ll look so you can go back to bed. Vardon, or whatever your name is, sit down on that couch. If you move, I’ll shoot you right where you sit.”

Vardon: “Not necessary, my good sir. I will not move, although I must tell you sir that if you shoot me you will only be shooting this fine couch as the bullet will go right through me.”

Justin roared at the intruder: “Sit your ass down, now, dammit.”

Vardon sat without another word. Justin handed the keys to the travel bag and instructed Hannah to open it. It took her a couple of minutes but she final got it. Justin kept the gun pointed at Vardon as he walked across the room to see what was inside the case. He instructed Hannah to take each club out so he could inspect it. One by one she took out the eleven clubs in the bag and set them on the white carpeted floor next to each other. Once fully displayed, it was obvious one shaft was lighter than the rest.

Vardon: “See my good man. Just look at that cleek? Still don’t believe me, reach inside that pocket on the bag. I was told my caddie stuck a memo I had written him inside that pocket. Hopefully it hasn’t disintegrated over these many years.”

Hannah dug around in the pocket and pulled out a yellow crumbling note. Most of the ink had dried, but at the bottom of the note was a barely legible signature that looked like it said ‘Harry.’ The rest of the signature was missing. She handed it to Justin for his inspection. While he was looking at the note, Vardon spoke again.

Vardon: “Hanna, if you don’t mind me being so forward, you will find a secret pocket in that bag near the top under the fold. If you would do me the honor, please look inside and you will find a picture of my wife, Jesse.”

Hannah dug around the bag but was unable to find the pocket.

Vardon, looking at Justin: “May I?”

Justin: “Sure you can. And if there is no picture then I am calling the police.”

Vardon got up from the couch walking the short distance towards the bag.  Justin walked over and stuck the gun on his head.

Vardon: “My Lord, good sir. I don’t have a gun in there, I can assure you.”

Justin: “Not taking any chances, dude. I paid a lot of money for that bag and clubs.”

With ease, Vardon found the secret pocket, dug around and pulled out a faded and yellowed picture of a woman. He handed the picture to Hannah. She turned it over and could barely make out a signature that looked like it said Jesse with a clear date of 1912 underneath it. She handed it to Justin.

While Justin studied the picture, Hannah offered Vardon a cup of coffee.

Vardon: “No, mam, but I could use a spot of tea if you don’t mind. I’m hardly used to having a pistol stuck to my head and could use something to calm me down some. In fact, if you have any whiskey to put in it, I’d be forever in your debt. They don’t allow us to imbibe where I am from.”

Justin was dumbstruck. He had paid three-million dollars for a golf bag this morning and now he had an apparition in his office wanting the set back. To make it worse, his wife was offering the man a drink. When he looked up, the two were gone from the room.

Justin walked to the kitchen where his wife was making tea and Vardon was sitting at the kitchen table. Hannah had brought in a bottle of Irish Whiskey which Justin snatched up and drank directly from the bottle, getting admonished by Hannah for his rude manners.

The three sat at the kitchen table for the next four hours. Hannah made breakfast in which Vardon wolfed down heartily. Justin barely touched his breakfast but did have much more to drink. Vardon regaled the two with his days of golfing and the many championships he had won, including finishing one back in the 1920 US Open when he was 50 years-old.

Justin left the room, coming back a few minutes later with the cleek: “OK, old-timer. You are credited with inventing the new grip that is still used today. Let me see it.”

Vardon grabbed the club and paused momentarily. He must have been relishing holding his long lost club again. Then he gripped the club. Justin, a scratch golfer himself, instantly recognized the grip.

Justin: “I’ll be damned. You are Harry Vardon. I’ll never understand it, but the clubs are yours, Mr. Vardon. Take them to play wherever it is you are playing these days.”

Now it was Hannah’s turn to balk. “Justin, you paid a lot of money for those clubs…”

Justin, interrupting her: “Don’t worry about it, dear. There are some things in this life we will never be able to understand, but what we do know is this kind old gentleman needs his clubs back. Besides, I insured them today for what I thought we would get paid for them.  We report them as stolen and make a nice profit, and Mr. Vardon gets his clubs back.”

Hannah looked over at Harry Vardon smiling, noticing his wet eyes.

Vardon: “Thank you kind sir. Till we meet again. He took one more drink of his whiskey, without tea this time, and got up to get his clubs, his beloved cleek still in his hand.

Justin and Hannah followed him back into the office. Harry picked up the bag and both the man and the bag instantly disappeared. Justin and Hannah held on to each other for a couple minutes until their son, Rory, broke their reverie.

Rory: “What are you guys doing?”

Justin: “Marveling about life, son, that’s all.”