Teatime With Harold Hilton

Pardon me," said the man hitting balls from the mat behind mine, "but I know what's causing your problem."

Swell, I thought, another 14 handicapper who thinks he's Britain's answer to David Leadbetter. But when I turned to brush him off, I did a double take. The stranger was a short, handsome man of about 40 wearing navy blue knickers, a bow tie and a buttoned-up wool jacket. He gripped a hickory-shafted spoon, squeezing and then relaxing his hands in an exaggerated manner.

"It's my contention," he said, "that we have too many fingers on the right hand. To encourage a free swing, I like to tuck away one or two to keep them out of mischief." He raked a ball into position, assumed a wide stance and then lifted his right pinkie off the club. "Like so." He abruptly twisted away from the ball, his left heel coming well off the ground, and then hurled the club forward with a violent, slinging stroke, his head tilting so far back that his chin pointed at the target. The ball, meanwhile, rocketed downrange with a penetrating trajectory and a tight draw.

He lowered his club and smiled at me. " Harold Hilton," he said, "two-time Open champion, three-time Amateur champion, and winner of the 1911 U.S. Amateur at Apawamis."

I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead.

We had afternoon tea in the shade of an umbrella behind the tee line. While we talked, Hilton cast fond glances at the children swinging adult-sized clubs on the mats. The Formby Golf Centre was only a few miles from Hoylake, where he had learned the game on the Royal Liverpool links. "Most of the leading British players of the guttie era," he said, "were brought up within a stone's throw of one of our famous seaside courses."

"Is that why you're, uh, haunting me?" I asked. "Because Hoylake is hosting the Open again?"

"I am not haunting you." He frowned over his cup of tea. "It's more of a courtesy call. I used to be a wordsmith, like you. I edited golf magazines. I wrote books."

I raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Point taken," I said. "But so far I haven't met a golf ghost who didn't have an agenda. The last one was plugging his son's book."

"Well, all my books are out of print." He sipped from his cup. "I do have something I'd like to get off my...."

I started to laugh, but caught myself. "Go on," I said.

He gave me a sharp look and shifted in his seat. "It's this Mickelson fellow," Hilton said. "As I understand it, he led your Open championship by a stroke with one hole to play. And then, due to ill fortune and some inattentiveness on his part, he finished with a 6--a 6!--allowing that Australian chap Geoff Ogilvy to win."