"British Captain Summoned before PGA Executive Committee,
Fired for
Lack of Effort in First-year Ryder Cup Debacle.” So screamed the
fictitious tabloid headline I concocted at the conclusion of the 1976
“Real
Ryder Cup Matches.” Let me explain. While covering golf for CBS that year, Jack
Whitaker
and I conceived the idea of an annual series of 18-hole matches between
us—no quarter asked or given—staged only on the game’s best courses, a
lineup
that included Merion, Shinnecock Hills, Bel-Air, St. Andrews,
Muirfield,
Wentworth, Sunningdale and Royal St. George’s.
Our first match took place on the West Course at Winged Foot,
where
the great golf promoter Fred Corcoran had a house and served as our
referee. Winged Foot would become a site for numerous Wright-Whitaker
matches
over the next few years, and Fred’s home always made a fine pit
stop for us to
joke around and scheme up those pretend bulletins to an
eagerly awaiting
press.
At the end of each year, the winner was privileged to demand
of his
vanquished victim a piece of sterling silver, regardless of expense.
Whitaker won that inaugural “Real Ryder Cup” and requested an antique
cocktail
shaker. By good fortune I found a gorgeous specimen in a
Woburn, England,
antique shop. I believe Jack still serves martinis
from it.
But Whitaker never won another season of matches—not after I
stopped
trying to match the old Silver Fox into the wee small hours prior to
every encounter. Because Jack was a member of Shinnecock, victory was
always
particularly sweet at that venerable Long Island club. It became
my favorite
course on the East Coast; in fact, I think I now prefer it
to even Cypress
Point.
My headline that year screamed, “Bonfires Lit across Britain
to
Celebrate British Captain’s Triumph at Shinnecock Hills; PGA Summons American
Captain to
Explain Real Ryder Cup Debacle.” The prize from Whitaker was
a
salver with claw feet, suitably inscribed: “Ben Wright—1977—Real Ryder Cup
Champion.” I have been proudly serving drinks on it ever since.
But the victory of which I am most proud came at the end of
the
third year of the series in 1978, with Corcoran again the referee at Winged
Foot. Early the previous day, Pat Summerall and I had set off at dawn
from Los
Angeles. That evening we met up with Tom Brookshier, Pat’s
teammate on CBS’ NFL
broadcast team, for cocktails and dinner at The
Palm in New York City.
Some hours later, Pat, Tom and I climbed into a horse-pulled
coach
driven by a giant Irishman named Michael O’Ryan. We quickly realized we
enjoyed O’Ryan’s company, so we asked him to join us for drinks on
arrival at
our hotel.
“I can’t possibly leave my horse,” Michael protested.
“We’ll take him, too!” we chorused.
We led that poor creature all the way up to the hotel’s glass
doors,
which opened automatically. Each time they did, the unfortunate animal
reared and neighed piteously. Finally realizing it was time to call it
a night,
we bade O’Ryan farewell. Somehow, I prevailed against Whitaker
the following
afternoon.
That year Whitaker gave me a cocktail shaker, curiously
shaped like
an artillery shell. On its base was an even more curious
inscription:
“Happy anniversary. Every time. Bottoms up—Rene—April 13, 1948.” As
far
as I know, Jack was not acquainted with this mysterious Rene; I’m not sure
he was even aware of the strange message.
Of course when Whitaker moved over to ABC, all our fun went
out the
window. (“Nation Mourns Passing of Real Ryder Cup Matches; British
Captain Devastated.”) Our antics may have been puerile, you might say.
But I
have never had more fun—and isn’t that what golf is supposed to
be all
about?
