It was Donald Steel, a former president of the Association of Golf Writers, who recognised that the old menu among his memorabilia would fascinate the media. Not just because four of the signatures across its pages – those of the late Peter Thomson, Henry Cotton, Bobby Locke and Max Faulkner – belonged to Open champions, but because Australia’s Thomson was one of us, the writers.
For almost 50 years, this winner of five Opens worked for a Melbourne newspaper, The Age, with his daily columns pouring forth as naturally as the swing which won him five Opens between 1954 and ’65.
“He used to come off the course, hang his media pass round his neck and get to work at the back of the press tent,” said Steel, who chose his knowledgeable Aussie friend to pen the foreword to his book, “Classic Golf Links of Great Britain and Ireland.” And when he had finished his work, Thomson would chat away to all the other journalists.
To his credit, Thomson always wrote what he thought and, as the owner of a diploma in applied chemistry – he designed golf balls for Spalding before turning professional – he had his own less-than-popular thoughts on American golf when he first arrived in that land: “I have always regarded the bounce of the ball as the third dimension in golf, but the ball is not allowed to bounce in America. It is sickening to see the game reduced to something like archery or darts.”
Moving on to another controversial topic, Thomson saw the beginnings of today’s golfers vs. press problems when Nick Faldo refused to answer the call to speak to the media after he had missed making the play-off for the 1990 U.S. Open at Medinah.
Typically, Thomson recognised that there were two sides to the story. “More and more is being expected of the golfers. … Personally, I never experienced their level of pressure because when I was winning, such money as there was had gone by Christmas!”
When I interviewed Thomson during the 2005 Open at St Andrews, the links where he spent his summers, he began with a cheerful comment about how, now that he was in his 70s, he could say and write what he liked without fear of repercussion.
Only no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he was criticising what the R&A had done to the bunkers. He felt that some of them were so deep as to be out of keeping with the course. When he learned that the R&A had been insisting that they had only taken those bunkers back to how they used to be, he produced a photograph of the ’55 Open which proved otherwise.
In his role as an honorary member of the R&A, Thomson revelled in playing in the odd match against the town’s university and there came a day when the R&A sent him and his partner out as their third couple.
After a few holes, a member of the opposition said that Thomson looked as if he had been a good golfer in his day.
“I had my moments,” came the reply.
“What was your handicap?” persisted the youngster.
“I didn’t really have one; I was a professional.”
The student asked if he had been a winner and, if so, what was the biggest thing he had won.
“The Open,” replied Thomson.
“When?” queried the open-mouthed youth.
“In 1954, 1955, 1956, 1958 and 1965 …”
Wry humour was his thing rather than the fan-loving showmanship of another of golf’s scientists, Bryson DeChambeau.
Lewine Mair
E-MAIL LEWINE
Top: Peter Thomson after the 1965 Open Championship
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