The tee is mildly elevated. The green is markedly elevated. The
459-yard par 4 is mightily intimidating. The drive must carry a stream about 175
yards out, as well as a long slit of sand edging more than halfway across the
fairway from the right. Majestic hardwoods frame the landing area. There is no
room to bail out.
The uphill second shot is constricted on both sides by more of
these handsome trees and, for good measure, on the right by a perilously close
boundary signaled by a steep, old railway embankment. The slippery two-tiered
green is, mercifully, open across the front but defended by sand right and left.
There are no tricks, no quirks, no surprises. The hole is all in full view from
the start, all very straightforward—and unnervingly difficult.
The 9th hole at Philadelphia Cricket Club’s Flourtown course is
one of the world’s classic two-shotters, and, along with the other 17 holes
here, it is the handiwork of a man who was a member of the club for many years:
Albert Warren Tillinghast.
Founded in 1854, the Cricket Club was just that and no more for
its first 30 years. In 1895 England’s Willie Tucker, who would design the
initial nine holes at Long Island’s Maidstone a year later, laid out a nine. The
new game was so enthusiastically embraced that a second nine was added two years
later, giving the club what was then considered championship golf: 6,123 yards,
par 73. It was on this 18 that Tillinghast learned the game—and competed in the
1907 U.S. Open.
Half the original course had been laid out on leased land, which
was sold by the owner in 1925. On the remaining nine, holes 1, 2, 3, 6 (the
green complex only), 7, 8 and 9 remain just as they were played in the 1910
Open. Alhough respectful of this historic 18, Tillinghast was keenly aware of
the course’s shortcomings.
In 1920, following his direction, the Cricket Club bought 315
rolling acres in the Whitemarsh Valley near Flourtown. Of such character and
variety, such challenge and charm is this 18 that 80 years later it remains
essentially unchanged. Oh, the trees have matured, some fairway bunkers on the
fourth and sixth have been eliminated, and the third green has been rebuilt. But
the Flourtown course we play today is the one Tillinghast laid out—make no
mistake about that. It is perhaps the least tinkered-with of all his outstanding
designs.
The last three holes are par 4s, all doglegging subtly right to
left. The doglegs are the only thing gentle about this trio. The 16th, 422
yards, plays from a high tee across a valley to a landing area corseted by trees
and sand on the opposite slope. The second shot, which must avoid bunkers left
and right of the green, is rarely less than a 4-iron. At the 410-yard 17th, the
knobby green, full of ripples both subtle and pronounced, is even harder to hit
than its predecessor. As for the 18th, a man-eating 477 yards, it is one of the
glories of the game. Its broad fairway drifts almost imperceptibly downhill
through the trees. A drive of less than 240 yards simply will not do, for the
hole now falls thrillingly to a two-level green far below, flanked by sand,
embowered by trees and backdropped by the beautiful 19th-century farmhouse.
Members and their fortunate guests continue to relish their rounds
at the club where Tillinghast—the master at the top of his redoubtable
form—created a course fully worthy of mention in the same breath with Winged
Foot and Baltusrol and San Francisco Golf and Quaker Ridge.
