The Day I Called Faldo Home (Muirfield, 1992)

Yes, I know the image above is of St. Andrews. I spent the week previous to the Open Championship at Muirfield at a place called Rockview on the Scores just a short stroll to the Royal & Ancient Golf Club, Old Tom Morris golf shop, the Old Course Hotel and the first tee of the Old Course itself, The Home of Golf.

Muirfield in ’92 smelled like salt and cut fescue, the wind pointy enough to find every gap in my ABC windbreaker but it was hot for Scotland with just light rain to start the round and the sun making an appearance in full after just a few holes. I was there as a TV golf spotter—eyes for the announce team, a voice in the producer’s ear. No ShotTracer, no ShotLinks, no apps, just a yardage book smudged with pencil, a brick of a two way radio, and a clip board in case they wanted not just the hitting orders but stats, greens in regulation, fairways hit, number of putts, etc. My job: stay one shot ahead of the players, only replying to questions as to who was away. Nothing else, I did not volunteer anything even when Pate had to take an unplayable, orders shouted at me to call the producer and ask for an official. And a final admonition given to me by Jack before air time with a smile, “I will be calling you for the hitting order on every hole, we have tee to green coverage for all 18 holes, whatever you do rook, do not get distracted by drunken questions hurled at you by spectators outside the ropes about who is leading or rules questions or whatever, comprende?”

A funny aside about Muirfield to demonstrate it’s unique brand of snooty exclusivity: This may be the oldest, longest joke in golf, so I will sweep through the narrative with seemly haste.

A rather decent-looking sort of fellow appears, cap in hand, before the Club Secretary at Muirfield. The man is not a member but would like to play golf. Sheepishly, he hands over his curriculum vitae, at which the Secretary glances swiftly—Duke of Omnium. Church of England. Eaton and Caius College, Cambridge. Sandhurst. Coldstream Guards. Mentioned in dispatches, V.C., D.S.O., V.S.O.P. Related to the Queen Mother through his aunt, Marchioness of Orpington.

The Secretary’s brow unbeetles, and he allows, “You may play nine holes.” As the fellow, awash with gratitude, rushes to fetch his clubs, the Secretary adds, “The back nine, of course.”

The Honorable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, now based at Muirfield, holds the claim of being the oldest verifiable organized golf club in the world, dating back to 1744.

A fortnight that felt like a lifetime

ABC housed the crew in Gullane, the nearest town to Muirfield. Before the week really spun up, I’d been on a little pilgrimage: St Andrews and North Berwick—representing John Jacobs Golf Schools. Jacobs was revered in Europe, and I was playing a new set of their beryllium-copper irons, custom fit to my specs by Todd F., a guy that worked in the golf club manufacturing division of the John Jacobs golf schools. A club fitter who knew more about club fitting in his sleep than his overbearing, snaggled-toothed boss and later to become one of my best golfing buddies.

Luck found me at the Old Course starter’s hut: having walked from my rented home, Rockview on the Scores, a pleasant stroll along the Fife toward town, ending at the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse, Old Tom Morris Golf Shop, the Old Course Hotel and other famous landmarks. and the starting hole of the Old Course at St. Andrews. (See the featured image above the post headline)

A British club pro and club members had a four-ball minus one getting ready to tee off (one had to rush home for a family emergency) “Join us,” they said—music to a single’s ears. We tossed balls for teams, laid down pint wagers, and played the Old Course, which for me was practically a religious experience. I don’t remember my score, it must have been in the high 90’s, I was a decent player, with a handicap of 8 but I think I was in shock at where I found myself, this was hallowed ground for a golfer! Then they waved me into the Royal & Ancient for after-round pints—members-only—where I floated on Guinness and history.

We later hopped to North Berwick West Links, hard by the sea, all stone walls and little burns and the famous par-3 Redan. I loved that course immediately, they were still holding qualifying there for the last spots in the Open. In the pubs, hearing I was “inside the ropes” for ABC (and BBC), I got the full Scottish welcome. These folks are serious about their golf!

Final Sunday starts crooked

I’d worked a few non-contending groups the first three days. I was still relatively new at this—hadn’t yet called a regular tour event final pairing much less a major like the British Open, as Americans refer to it. Just “The Open” to Europeans.

Sunday morning, striding down a shortcut hill to Gullane for breakfast, I stepped in a hole and rolled my right ankle, face-planted in the weeds. Pride bruised, ankle swelling. I thought, “Great—producer sees me limping, I’m benched.” Once back at the tournament site I detoured into a first-aid trailer—my all-access TV credentials worked there, too—got taped and dosed, and walked almost normally into the TV compound.

Assignments came next. Twosomes, final day—bread-and-butter for a spotter. I drew a back-of-the-pack pairing that included a South African I’d never heard of: Ernie Els. (That didn’t last long.) Another spotter—a tour caddie whose player missed the cut—held the leaders: Nick Faldo and Steve Pate.

Then he asked to swap. He was friends with Els and wanted Ernie’s group. Producer Jack Graham—steady, fair, and exactly the kind of boss you want in a broadcast truck—looked at him, then at me. “If it’s okay with Dick, it’s okay with me.” I nodded. Just like that, this half-lame American was calling the leaders home at the Open Championship. Holy hell. Somebody pinch me.

(Quick word on Jack: ABC’s golf had rotated producers for years—Jack Graham, Terry Jastrow—each with a different style. Jack lived near ABC’s New York offices, did most of his work for ABC, and ran a calm ship. You felt trusted.)

The rope line, the wind, and a long Sunday

For much of the week, Faldo had put on a masterclass in links golf. But on Sunday morning, he and Steve Pate could hardly hit a green. Scramble city. My radio cadence settled into the rhythm: “order in the first fairway approach, putting order on the greens. Right rough, heavy lie, lost ball, no matter, keep your mouth shut until asked, feel the wind on my cheeks, wonder at being here for the umpteenth time, enjoy then focus. Jack has the hard job, back in the control room looking at 20 monitors deciding what gets on the broadcast.

Somewhere between shots, I carried a couple of images that still make me grin. One: Friday night in a jammed pub after the cut, the tour circus letting off steam—behind-the-ropes life is never dull, a tour pro’s wife striptease and abduction. Foremost: a story you hear in whispers all your life: be ready; your break arrives without fanfare. Mine did, on a taped ankle and a swap.

The hinge

As the inward nine tightened, it felt like the whole course held its breath. Then John Cook, the only guy left to threaten Faldo’s grip on the Claret Jug, three-putted the par-5 17th after reaching the green in two shots. In that instant I felt it: That’s Faldo’s opening. Later he’d say he had to “play the best four holes of my life” to close it out—and he did. He forced himself to, really. The last four were clinical under pressure, the kind of hard, exact golf that separates majors from memories. That last three iron approach from the 18th fairway was a gem to behold, framed as it was by grandstands surrounding the green..

When the putts fell and the math settled, Nick Faldo had won The Open by a shot, lifting the Claret Jug for the third time in six years—joining only James Braid as a double Champion Golfer at Muirfield. He thanked the British press “from the heart of my bottom,” which was very Faldo: dry, sideways, unforgettable.

After the cables go quiet

When the applause finally rolled across the links like surf, we broke down in that little village of cameras and cables. Jack Graham caught my eye and said, “Dick, you can spot for me any time.” That sentence still warms me like a clubhouse fire.

Those two weeks in Scotland were the highlight of my golf life—yes, even more than spotting the ’86 Masters for Chuck Will and Frank “the Ayatollah” Chirkinian when Nicklaus won number six, or the 2010 U.S. Open at Pebble Beach when Graeme McDowell took it. Muirfield ’92 was where the wind, the work, the luck, and the golf all lined up—and I got to be the voice whispering the truth of the moment into the game’s ear as Nick Faldo played the best four holes of his life.