Of all the great golfers I have seen in more than half a
century of covering the game, I believe the best never to win a major was the
majestic Irishman Christy O’Connor Sr. A two-time winner of the European Tour’s
Order of Merit (1961, ’62) and a member of the Great Britain and Ireland team in
10 consecutive Ryder Cups from 1955 to 1973 (a record until Nick Faldo broke it
in 1997), O’Connor was a superb ball striker who particularly shone in the
tempestuous weather so common to golf in the British Isles.
I also believe that if O’Connor had not fallen victim to a
hard-drinking lifestyle, he might have won twice as many events. As it was, he
earned 26 international victories, including the 1956 and ’59 British Masters,
and he was among the top six finishers at the Open Championship on seven
occasions between 1958 and 1969.
Certainly “Himself,” as dear Christy was always referred to
by his adoring countrymen, was the best golfer on a hangover I ever saw. That’s
simply the way it was in an era when there was no such thing as a touring
professional in Great Britain and Ireland. Tournaments back then, including the
Open, typically finished with 36 holes on Friday, and players were generally
club professionals on leave until the weekend.
O’Connor could be the fiercest of competitors when he put his
mind to it. I witnessed that fire one miserable day in 1955 at the long-defunct
Penfold-Swallow tournament at Southport and Ainsdale Golf Club. It was a
landmark day in British and Irish golf history, because the promoters—golf ball
manufacturer Penfold and rainwear maker Swallow—were offering, for the first time ever, a four-figure check
(£1,000) to the winner. And O’Connor was hell-bent on winning it.
Christy and I sat down to lunch after the third round. A
devout Roman Catholic, he was horrified to learn fish was no longer on the menu.
He bit his tongue, thought for a minute, then asked the waitress to pile as many
mashed potatoes as possible on the biggest dinner plate she could find, and also
bring him a half-pound of butter, still in the wrapper. She scurried away and
returned with an enormous pile on a carving dish. O’Connor promptly patted it
into the shape of a volcano, carved out the core and emptied the butter into
it.
The antithesis of the modern-day tour pro for whom the
fitness trailer is an integral part of his pre-round routine, O’Connor scarfed
every mouthful of the potatoes, got up from his chair and marched boldly through
the gale and sideways rain to secure the victory. The celebration, as usual,
went on long into the night.
My most bizarre Christy O’Connor story occurred at the 1965
British Open at Royal Birkdale, where the legendary Australian Peter Thomson won
his fifth championship over the same course he won his first on, 11 years
earlier. Going into the final 36 holes on Friday, O’Connor had recorded rounds
of 69 and 73 to stand tied with Thomson (74-68), two strokes behind the leaders,
Bruce Devlin and defending champion Tony Lema. Several other strong contenders, including Welshman Brian Huggett and Argentinean Roberto De
Vicenzo, were also in the mix.
I arrived at the course early that day and was greeted by an
Irish writer friend emerging from the locker room, shaking his head, clearly in
shock. I asked what was wrong and he replied that he had found O’Connor standing
at the sink in his skivvies, shaving and cleaning up from what had apparently
been a rough night. It seems the great man had become so inebriated, he could
not locate his hotel. “So I found that lovely deep bunker by the 9th green and
had a wonderful night’s sleep,” O’Connor explained. Even in such a ragged
condition, Christy had final rounds of 74 and 71 to finish two shots behind
Thomson, tied for second with Huggett. It was his best finish in the Open—and
clearly he had fun along the way.
