The Last Match
“I’m not going to worry about it anymore. I’m just going to go down there. I’m not going to get in bed, not going to wake up in a few hours, I’m just taking my stuff and sleeping down there. I’m not leaving it to chance.”
“Ok, so you’ve made up your mind. You’re not sleeping in here tonight.”
“No, I’m done.”
Thirty minutes before, my godbrother and I were walking over the Swilken bridge from dinner. After crossing the humps and rumples of the 18th fairway, we looked left. I was surprised that no one was queued up near the first tee yet, to hopefully play the Old Course the next day. We had heard during the first week of our trip that there had been a major influx of golf travelers in 2022 due to everyone’s trips being rescheduled from past years due to the pandemic. One day we even saw someone line up at 7 pm… only to not get a tee time the next day. As soon as I saw no one in line, my mind was made up. I took a quick shower, gathered a few things, took whatever bedding I could reasonably get out the front door, and off I went.
An hour later, I found myself seventh in line. The first six people showed up about 20 minutes earlier, and I was half relieved. Of course, you want to be first—and get to tell the story that you were first—but also it helps to not feel like you’re the only crazy one down there. It’s an immediate bonding experience with strangers from all over the world: introductions and quick friends were made. I told them why I was there and needed to play. We shared snacks and drinks. Then I tucked my head slightly around the corner to shield from the lights and got a few hours of sleep next to the Royal & Ancient Clubhouse. Of all my camping spots, I can’t imagine a better one. Maybe if I slept on the 1st fairway, but I didn’t want to lose my spot on a technicality.
* * *
Even though the goal is to “sleep” by the Old Course starter building, it’s not a reality for light sleepers: the anticipation and the concrete are the main hurdles. But you also realize that seven hours of waiting next to the course where golf truly began isn’t that bad. At 6:30, the staff opens the doors, and us overnighters pull themselves together after a rough night, and we learn our fate. Some of the people who lined up before me wanted to get on with it and tee it up as early as possible. Not me: I wanted to get back to that bed I paid a decent amount of money for. I’m also a big fan of breakfast. I wanted a nap and the opportunity to repack. I also had something back in my room that I couldn’t play without. After all, that item was why I came to St Andrews in the first place.
“How does 10:00 sound?”
“Maybe a little later?”
“Well, we are trying to pair up the guy behind you with the one in front. … 2:20 work?”
“Perfect.”
I really should’ve written that down. All day I was worried that he said 12:20. That would be a bad story to bring home. I really don’t have a feeling to compare it to in my golf life, mostly because I never played competitive golf. But the whole day seemed scripted to build up and peak for the round, almost as if I was in a final pairing on a Sunday.
Anyone who’s played the Old Course may tell you how surreal it is. There are holes engrained in your memory before you even set foot in the town of St Andrews, but there are 10 or 13 others you don’t know. In fact, given my mental state and lack of sleep, I can't vividly remember many of the holes from the round. My mind was on much more: I was going to play my last match ever with my Dad.
* * *
Most of the holes that stick out have a common theme: they were during close matches with my Dad. I don’t remember the first time I beat him, but I remember the first time I choked under the pressure. He came to visit me when I was in college at the University of Georgia, where they have a fantastic golf course. I was up by two strokes on the 18th tee. Then it happened: I’ve never push-sliced a drive so hard in my life. After my 8 and his 5, he shook my hand and simply said, “Sorry, son.” He never let me win at anything, and I know I’m better for it. For my Dad and me, ping pong was just as intense as golf.
Sixteen years later, I was on that same tee box at UGA, having the round of my life. Which didn’t make any sense. My Dad was entering his last few hours of life after a five-year battle with cancer. I couldn’t get our final encounter the previous week out of my head. I hadn’t been sleeping for days. Earlier, when I was on the 1st tee box, I wrote my name on the scorecard, then thought to write “Dad” as the other player. So there I was, four hours later on the same tee box where I choked away my first potential win over my Dad 16 years prior, standing at 2 over par … and I topped it. Golf doesn’t care about karma. Thankfully I learned how to smile after bad shots and striped a 3 wood to the front of the green, where I would two putt for par to sign for 74. That round tied my lowest round ever, and it ended up happening on my Dad’s last day on earth. My other 74 was with him, and I remember how excited he was to get beat that badly by his son.
* * *
For my third time playing the Old Course, the nerves were gone. It is very easy to get wrapped up in the history and ghosts that are all over the ancient linksland. But if you are going to shoot any kind of good score, you can’t think about that. It helped to have a clear objective and some course knowledge. The biggest one is to avoid the flat bottom bunkers: being next to a sod wall is worse than hitting into water.
For this round, it’s 11 years, 3 months, and 2 days since my dad shot 78 on the Old Course. That wasn’t crazy for his eight handicap at the time, but pretty good for the first time seeing the track. I elected to not take a caddy, mostly because I wanted to push my own trolley, and my dad’s ashes. I brought a little magic over to Scotland as well: my Dad’s old 3 wood, the same one he used at the Old Course. Before I packed for the trip, I took exactly two swings with it before I replaced my current 3 wood, which needed to be put in time-out anyway. During the trip it became my favorite club. Links golf offers so many options, and I would hit this old technology anywhere from 160-230 yards, depending on the wind and where it needed to land. I could also curve it either direction and felt in complete control of the trajectory, including this sweet knuckleball shot that maybe got seven feet in the air. The 1st hole was playing 355 yards downwind, and the only choice was my Dad’s 3 wood. I felt zero nerves and purred a baby cut, running out 50 yards short of the burn.
For the last match, I brought his scorecard to St. Andrews and copied his scores into the new card. Player A - Craig. Player B - Dad. His portion of the match took place 11 years ago, but I could feel his presence on the scorecard. This would be a match-play round, mostly so I wouldn’t have to worry about blow up holes. (It wasn’t not like he was there to argue for match or medal play, anyway.) I had a slight advantage knowing what he did on each hole before I teed off, but I wasn’t going to let that take anything away if I were to win! He beat me enough.
The front nine proved to be a tight match. I even thought I was going to beat his birdie on the par five 5th. One of the best drives of my life hit a jetstream, then a downhill kicker, and traveled 395 yards. With only 115 left to a front pin and the wind at my back, I hit a great three-quarter pitching wedge … only for it to come up just short and roll back into the valley. That can happen when you get overly aggressive. There’s about 80 yards of green behind a front flag to bailout. I still made par, but I lost to his birdie. I was 1 Up going into the 9th, but trying to match an eagle was a tough task. I hit a great drive into the wind, but my 40-yard putt came up 10 yards short. All Square on the front.
Turning home on the Old Course starts at the 12th. With a decent drive, you can easily carry a minefield of bunkers, which only make sense when you play the hole in reverse. This is where my putter went cold. Even with decent ball striking, I found myself 2 Down after leaving short a couple of makeable putts. The 16th is my favorite hole: it asks questions and entices. The smart play is always left, to an area of rough that is easily playable. My tee shot is safe and just left of the principal’s nose. I hit a great approach, but just miss the birdie. I’m still 2 Down, so my Dad is dormie, but I only needed two closing pars to tie him.
The Road Hole is quirky. It’s very hard when playing into the wind, and when the pin is tucked behind the infamous bunker. I had all of that. This is the last hole my Dad and I talked about as well. We discussed how we each played the hole in the past. He had an easier pin, front right, but he found the bunker on his approach. He made bogey, which left me an opening. After hitting a cut around the wall, I have 190 to the pin, playing 210 into the wind. There’s no question what club I’m hitting here. I attempted to hit a low, drawing, choked up 3 wood landing 175, five-to-seven yards to the right of the bunker that guards today’s pin. My Dad hit a draw every time, and my natural fade didn’t care. My ball ends up just off the right side of the green: thankfully not on the road. It really isn’t that hard of an up-and-down from there. In fact, that’s where many top players opt to miss. But with so many people on the road stopping to watch me hit this chip, against the most famous backdrop in golf, my hands tighten up. I blew it past the pin, but then make a nice up-and-down from there. I really could feel my Dad in that moment shaking my hand as he won 2 & 1. I just wish we could’ve hugged.
When darkness fell on St Andrews that night, and the course was quiet, my godbrother and I grabbed my Dad’s ashes from my golf bag and walked over to the Swilken bridge. My Dad left no plans for his ashes, providing no directions in his will. That really personifies how he raised his kids. He rarely told us what we should be doing, but he almost always supported whatever decision we made. Well, it didn’t take me long to figure out what we’d do. We spread his ashes into the Swilken burn, where they were carried away under the small, famous bridge that connects the town to the links, out to the North Sea. After the moment, I knew he would have approved of this decision as well. We then took his urn and burned and buried it on West Sands Beach.
While playing the Old Course together with my Dad would have fulfilled a lifelong dream, our last match and experience in many ways was better. I know it will stick with me forever. Now I want to discover the rest of Scotland that he wanted to find.