Links Magazine | The Best Of Golf

I was seated at the far-left end of the first row of the dais, and midway through the meal I had the inspiration of getting the book signed by the assembled luminaries. Here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a chance to possess a true treasure. I passed it to the dinner companion on my right, Watson, who cheerfully got the ball rolling.

The evening proceeded beautifully with speeches by several honored guests. Snead broke up the crowd with a succession of mildly off-color stories, and each living player of the decades said a few words. But the most dramatic moment came when Ben Hogan
offered an impromptu lesson based on the fundamentals of Harry Vardon. For 20 minutes the huge room was completely silent.

At the end of the evening, the announcement of the Player of the Century fell to me. Each of the three living candidates had been asked to prepare a speech, and former Golf editor Charles Price had been asked to be ready to speak on behalf of his close friend Bobby Jones. After brief videos of the candidates, I made my way to a lectern beside the statue, which was shrouded in a black cloth.

“We won’t keep you in suspense a moment longer,” I said. “I’m pleased to announce that golf’s player of the century is Jack Nicklaus.” As hundreds of cameras flashed, I pulled a cord that unveiled a magnificent likeness of the Golden Bear in the finish of his swing. (Today it is the centerpiece of the Nicklaus museum in Columbus, Ohio.)

Jack was so stunned that he left his prepared speech at his seat. With his entire family seated at a table just in front of him, he spoke movingly, at times tearfully, of what golf meant to him. He later referred to the evening as the greatest moment of his career.

As I think back on it, it was the greatest moment of my career too—nearly a year of work had come to grand fruition. There was an after-party in the Waldorf, and a few after-after parties as well. At the last of them, I suddenly realized I had completely forgotten about the book—signed by more than 50 of the game’s mightiest players and contributors.

I raced back to the ballroom—a dark, empty cavern, the dais dismantled, not a soul in sight. I inquired with the hotel management. No one had returned the book.

I’m not sure who has it now—a retired busboy or whoever was sitting at the right end of the third tier of the dais. But he or she surely knows its value. I can’t imagine what the book might bring at auction—surely thousands of dollars—but to me, it has a significance well beyond the price it may command.

So if you’re the one who has it—or know who does—this is my plea to send it back to me. Send it anonymously, if you want, to LINKS Magazine. At age 20, they’re responsible enough to pass it on to me. If you can’t bring yourself to return the book, at least put it on eBay. I promise to be the first bidder—though probably not the last.