"currently battling with my dear friend, the Silverstripe CMS" - 18 hours ago
"is thoroughly relaxed at another Irish farmhouse B&B, this time one run by a character and a half, Sharon Moore.... http://fb.me/Fd1zVe5z" - 1 day ago
"Is this the Nellie bunker you were talking about mate? Safely avoided I'm pleased to report http://fb.me/EHAvCmyU" - 2 days ago
I’m sitting in the back of one of those GMC Arctic lorries, en route to Newark Airport. Our good friend George Eberle very kindly had his driver take us along the last freeways we’ll see in the US of A, before we board our Iceland Express flight tonight bound for London. And then an Easyjet one bound for Edinburgh. Tomorrow evening we’ll be playing at The Royal Burgess with my Uncle David, whom I haven’t seen for years. Quite a lot to take in, really.
It’s been an action packed 63 days here, and today certainly hasn’t passed us by without incident. They seldom do. This morning we awoke with a lot to do – packing, organise a game of golf, play golf, get ourselves to Newark Airport on time. You’d think we would’ve ticked a few of those tasks off our list before the eleventh hour. But you’d be wrong. Because, it seems, we are nutters.
I did my packing first thing, which was less painful than it could’ve been. We’ve accumulated a huge amount of stuff. A rolling stone may gather no moss, but a golf touring Kiwi gathers a lot of hats. In fact I’d say I’m almost at the “hat collection” threshold – something I never actively pursued nor intended. Trouble is the only hats I need to wear – by virtue of our obligations to our sponsor, Westfield – are running thin on the supply side, forcing me to wear a colour clashing bright red one. I’ll get over it.
I don’t quite know how it came to be that we didn’t organise a game of golf for today before today, but that’s what happened. Yep. Down the road from Maison George is Muttontown Golf Club – a grand old beast whose membership is largely Jewish I’m led to believe. At about 9am we approached the pro, Jeff, and explained our plight. Surprise surprise there was an outing on – shotgun start at 12 – so we were bang out of luck. To his credit Jeff did table the option of paying $92 each and zipping around – but that idea wasn’t an incredibly viable one. Onwards and upwards, then.
We drove around the streets of Long Island looking for other prospects. 9.30am, by this time. I swung the truck into the Tam O’Shanter Club, which looked sharpish albeit mobbed. Another dam outing. And a less than friendly maitre de / car park attendant, who was marshalling the troops with militant gusto. He didn’t have much time for me and I didn’t have much time for him, so our relationship was a short lived one. We moved on once again.
This time to a municipal facility a few miles down the road, known as Eisenhower State Park. Similar to Bethpage, except Robert Trent Jones has his name stamped on the “Blue Course / Red Course” signs rather than Tillinghast. The check in area was buzzing with largely elderly folks out for their Monday morning game with their pals. A full tee sheet right through until 11.30 wasn’t looking promising, particularly since it would’ve taken us a good 5 hours to get around. That wasn’t going to work given we were being picked up from Maison George at 4 – and still had a fair bit of packing to do! Paul the pro kindly did his best to help us out, but with the sheer traffic they had there the stars were just not aligned.
At this point Mike and I were getting genuinely concerned about whether we’d manage to get our daily round in. 193 days in a row – the prospect of missing one is a bone chilling one. (Although let it be known that given the state of my calf muscles after going for a run and playing yesterday, under normal circumstances I would quite happily have not played golf today). We really had one last lead, and that was to head to Piping Rock, where our mate Elliott is a member. He’d made the call over the weekend to see if we could make it happen, but run into some friction because the superintendent had designs to do some spraying. Still it was worth a shot – so we plugged Piping Rock Club into the GPS; raced along the back roads at a rate of knots; and told our story one more time.
Gavin, the pro’s brother who’s across from Ireland for a few weeks (he’s a teacher, so is on his summer holidays right now) and the pro’s wife, lent us their ear for a few minutes then were good enough to make enquiries on our behalf with The Powers That Be. Before long Larry the Starter appeared; did a bit of to-ing and fro-ing; then gave us the green light. Hallelujah! What a relief. And even better, we had the course to ourselves anda cart to zip around in. At this point we were looking good for catching our flight...
Because of the urgency of the situation, we played a Canadian foursome. For those who don’t know it, you both hit drives; pick the best one; then play alternate shots until you’re in. It took us 1 hour 41 minutes to get around, and we weren’t even gunning it. I think I’d describe that as a Result. Our score was a very mediocre 3 over par, courtesy of a string of 3 putts, but to be honest we were just glad to fulfil our obligations and be on our way.
In the melee we still managed to absorb the quality of C B MacDonald’s fine handywork. Piping Rock is quality. And it has a beautiful, Georgian looking clubhouse overlooking the front 9 to match. Very majestic indeed, I say. Similar in character to parts of The Creek – and possessed of a string of strong par 4s at 450+ yards (not to mention a couple of par 3s well over 200). We had fun.
As I look out the window Manhattan is to my right, it’s giant skyscrapers climbing into the stratosphere. What a magnificent spectacle. We must be nearing Newark; it’ll be a relief when those bags and checked in and all we need to do is board. Then sleep.
Following the pleasantries at Piping Rock we made our way hastily back to George’s, had a quick dip, then finished our packing. As I said before, a lot of stuff... Mary the Maid being the good soul that she is helped us slap together a couple of chicken sandwiches, and we were on our way. Toga is doing a fine job at navigating the 568 million cars on the New Jersey Turnpike (which according to our pal Slambino is the most amazing feat of road engineering in history – I’m not so sure myself). And soon we’ll be off, to commence another leg of this mad journey.
Never a dull moment.
JP
Welcome to a humdinger of a day at Garden City Golf Club. The club where the golf is pure and the atmosphere is electric. Even during the afternoon where everyone ought be watching the world cup final.
Blazer requirements in the clubhouse at all times and so we sat and read some books on golf looking dapper and reminisced of our last 61 days in the US of A whilst we waited for our host Mr Alex Barnet to arrive.
And that he did, in fine form and with none other than Mr Andy Leveen, one of these infamous brothers who seem to pop up everywhere. Fortunately Mr Leveen was to be chasing our heels today in another four ball, where he subsequently crashed and burned amidst a sea of ‘transfusions’ on the golf course in a feeble attempt to replicate his fine scoring during the Westhampton Experience. He did hit it close on the second though whilst we were standing on the 3rd tee and I’m going to humor Mr Leveen and show y’all a photo of the short birdie putt he subsequently missed..
By the way I am rolling with some New York Times journalistic style today by my rather tongue-in-cheek use of Mr. It has been bizarre to read about Mr Rooney shooting at goal, Mr Nelson and his stellar defending and so forth..
So between Mr Leveens fourball, hosted by a charismatic chap by the name of Bob, and us the staff were kept busy and there was a bit of a buzz around the bar heightened by a few guys, including us kiwi’s of course, eager to have their first look at the golf course.
A Corrs Light and a few practice swings later we had left behind the pre-match analysis for the world cup final and were onto the first tee with our caddy Nick who was to drive the cart around with all our bags piled on so we could stroll the property and take it this C B Macdonald course. A Very Good gig for Nick today and I’m now recommending caddying as a job to a few young people we bump into, particularly during College holidays..
I was up first on the opening hole, a 300 yard par four guarded by a large bunker which my tee shot just carried resulting in a wee two putt birdie start. Couple of holes later there was another on the very reachable par five 4th hole, to use Mr Pattons prose ‘take that Charles’.
Mr Barnet was a fanstastic host today and the lad knows how to enjoy a day out at golf. He is one of two junior members initiated into the club each year and has strong roots here having lived besides the property growing up. His locker still has the name of his grandfather, George, on it and the two of them used to play a lot of golf together. Now Mr Barnet runs a charity in memory of George by putting on events and raising money for Alzheimer’s. That is when he is not busy working in the insurance industry in Manhatton (read: entertaining clients). Another Top Man with a good gig here – we’re meeting more than a few of them recently and it is starting to give NYC a pretty strong pull for life post 2010.
Garden City golf course is pure (as you can see from the photo above!!) and one of the best on Long Island. Perfectly conditioned from tee to green, the course has very few trees in play and each hole being surrounded by long hay that you don’t want to go into. The course has C B Macdonalds stamp all over it with burns, unique bunkering and subtle green complexes (like the 10th where the green is merely an extension from the fairway and tilts away leaving a difficult approach shot and two putt from the front of the green). There are a few blind shots too, particularly if you get your angles wrong. The wee agglomerations of bunkers sprout up here and there which are fiddly to say the least. With such tiny bunkers you don’t know what kind of lie you’re going to get making it all the easier to chunk it into the following one! It is unusually a par 73 with 4 par fives and only 3 short holes – a very unusual balance in the US, but I always enjoy the opportunities that arise with four par fives which increasingly seems to be a rarity.
Alex on the 2nd. A favourite hole amongst the pro's.
The par five 17th I snap hooked it so violently that I was nearly OOB a fairway + to the left. See the flag stick just below the steeple that signifies a bunker. This is another feature of the course.
Playing this inland links course is good preparation for Scotland and we’re transitioning from landing the ball by the pin to landing it 5 to 10 yards short, and often 5 to 10 yards left or right. It makes the role of a caddy even more important as rather than simply aiming at the flagstick and swinging you need to realize that the perfect shot will actually bring your ball down somewhere entirely different.
Mr Patton, Mr Barnet and myself played a split sixes match (which most Americas are unfamiliar with so I will explain briefly: 6 points up for grabs on each hole split in a variety of ways between the three players, for example: 4:2:0; 4:1:1; 3:3:0; or 2:2:2. 108 points up for grabs over the course of the round with a maximum if one person won every single hole outright of 72). In the end, standing on the par three 18th green (also unusual), with the practice putting green around us, we had a bizarre situation where we were all tied on 36 points each having all played exactly to our handicaps of 1, 4 and 9. Mr Barnet could have / should have cleaned us up particularly with his freddy couples swing knocking it long and with a high draw down the fairway time after time.
After golf we saw the real club atmosphere – the self proclaimed party club although there are no women here just lads having a few beers so it is not that kind of party.. We sat around on the deck overlooking the 18th (and practice putting green) and shared stories about our adventure with more than a couple of locals and their guests. We were even invited back to the famous New Years day party and the locals pointed out we could play 31st December in NZ and then fly here in time for it… I don’t think that will happen this year but you never know! Me being the sensible one and driving I eventually pulled Mr Patton from the table and we retreated back to George and Aimee’s place to start our packing for Scotland.. Thanks Alex for hosting us and Mr Leveen for jacking it all up – another fond memory to leave the US with.
Matt Prince was one of the first chaps from the US to contact us, some months ago. He extended us a kind invitation to join him for a hit at Quaker Ridge (which I must confess I’d never heard of). Needless to say we accepted, pencilling in 10 July into what was a fairly empty calendar back then. The words “Quaker Ridge, 10 July” sat there as others names appeared in fits and spurts on my spreadsheet, week by week. Then I found myself on Friday afternoon checking the schedule, wondering where we were playing tomorrow – it’s easy to get caught up in the moment and lose sight of what’s coming next. Quaker Ridge! Aha, at last. Matt from his correspondence seemed to be sound as a pound, and the course was designed by none other than Mister Tillinghast, so the stars really were aligned for a cracker.
The club’s next door to Winged Foot (from some points you can see what I assume was the East Course), but has a quite different religious fabric, being a largely Jewish club. As we’ve mentioned in previous postings, it’s intriguing for us to experience clubs that were formed along religious lines – given New Zealand is a very secular and liberal society. The road in takes you past tennis courts and cuts the 9th hole in half (which happens to be one of the best holes on the course, a short par 3). A swimming pool and large, striking clubhouse give something of a country club atmosphere – very laid back.
Our eyes lit up when we pushed open the doors of the men’s locker room. On the table there was a veritable feast of muffins, croissants, cakes and refreshments. Welcome. Matt hadn’t yet arrived, so we parked up with a copy of the New York Times – a publication I’ve very much enjoyed perusing at stolen moments over the past week or two (which has been described rather unkindly as “liberal trash” by some of the more conservative friends we’ve met of late – and carb loaded! With all this golf boys gotta eat...
Matt and his pal Scott arrived and saved us from ourselves. Had they been delayed by 10 minutes I may be looking for some wider garments. Just in the nick of time, after my second bagel. And second coffee. Not that either did my golf any good!
Matt’s a few years our senior, and was married last year (first guy I’ve ever met who met his wife on the internet – interesting story). He manages his own small hedge fund (which is probably not that small, but I didn’t ask). Very cool guy. Scott was also one of life’s nice people, a good natured soul, so the four of us had a good ol’ time. Crucially too we avoided getting struck by lightning; the storm that was promised never came, although dark clouds sat there threateningly throughout the afternoon. A lucky escape.
The first 8 holes at Quaker Ridge run anti-clockwise along the perimiter of the property, which means one thing. Out of Bounds. OB is not your friend when the par 4s are relatively long and your driver is misbehaving like a college kid on Spring Break. I lost one to the white posts, dam things. My partner Matt on the other hand decided he’d hit a controlled fade down the middle of every hole he played, casual as you like. Like The Golden Bear Himself (although perhaps not as powerful).
That rascal Tillinghast put a large mound in the middle of the 8th fairway that’s covered with ball swallowing thick rough. Some of the thickest rough on the course, we were told. Typical Tillinghast, up to his usual trickery. I hit my gracefully drawing 3 wood towards the left portion of the fairway, but came up 2 inches short in said hell grass. I got my revenge on the old sod though by chopping a wedge out to 12 feet then draining the putt for my first birdie of the day. Take that Albert.
The 9th which I mentioned is a pearler of a short par 3 – I forget the yardage but it was a smooth 8 iron. A quite tiny, amoeba shaped green is pitched towards the tee. And when the greens are fast it would be Tough. They weren’t so it wasn’t. We still managed to play it like twits and none of us carded a par. How inept.
Then we replenished our energy reserves with what has become my staple diet at golf clubs – a chicken sandwich. After all the burgers of the first few weeks here, something had to be done. I needed to find a healthier alternative or risk having to buy two seats for my next plane trip. The chicken sandwich was it and until anyone tells me otherwise, I’ve decided it’s significantly healthier. Incidentally you know you’re at Jewish golf club when the “Hot Dog” on the blackboard in the half way house has the word “Kosher” in front of it. I was tempted to ask for a non-kosher one to put the cat amongst the pigeons, but decided better of it.
By the 10th tee we found the suggestion box, pictured below. Nice touch.
On the back nine we also found a skunk – the first I’ve ever seen of his kind – but kept our distance for fear of being sprayed. Scott’s mate’s dog got caught out, and apparently they were shampooing the poor fella 3 times a day for weeks to get the stench out. Our caddy, Saul, wondered whether skunks know they stink. To be honest, I’m not sure.
But I’m getting sidetracked. The 12th hole (pictured below) is the signature hole at Quaker Ridge. It’s an uphill long par 4 and is rather charming. Not to mention quite hard (as in mildly mishit driver followed by 3 wood hard). When those rock star golfers flew around the US in their helicopters playing the 18 best holes they could find, the 12th was the one they played here. So there you go. We had the luxury of playing the other 17 too, which I was glad of. A very nice track indeed. Quite a different beast to the courses Albert designed next door at The Foot – probably marginally more forgiving if you ask me – with quite a different atmosphere. Vive la difference.
I can’t sign off without mentioning the showers. The pipes are so wide that if installed now they’d be illegal (thankfully they were saved by a grandfathering provision in the regulations). 8 cubic metres a second must flow out of those showerheads, pounding your shoulders like a Tahitian waterfall. Top 10, for sure. I even managed a shave and brushed my fangs, then left feeling fresh as a daisy. After another pleasant day in good company.
Cheers Matt and Scott – you were great hosts!
JP
Sleeping in and swimming in the pool and catching up on a spot of administration were the precursors to the latest round of golf at Deepdale Golf Club, a seriously private track just off the Long Island Expressway about a 10 minutes drive from base camp in Locust Valley, Long Island.
Our round here was arranged through Raymond Floyd Junior, a friend of a friend and so it turns out a friend of a few friends we’ve met during our US travels. You may have guessed that Ray’s father is none other than Raymond Floyd Senior, aka the legendary golfer who won the US Open down the road at Shinnecock.
Unfortunately Raymond and his buddies were on a golfing weekend up in Canada at a place called Red Tail so we played unaccompanied. But a huge thanks to Raymond for having us (I hear he and a few of the guys at his work including Andy Leveen, are often distracted from the stockmarket by the antics of a couple of kiwi lunatics).
A constant theme we’ve come across in these parts revolves around a chap who lives not far away and goes by the name of Julian Robertson. No we don’t know him, and no we haven’t met him (yet), but yes he has two outstanding golf courses in New Zealand that we are bookending our trip with. Mr Robertson is a member of Deepdale and a few other courses we’ve played on Long Island and seems to be as revered around these parts as Charles in England. Or maybe his name is just very closely linked to New Zealand because of all the great publicity he drives, particularly in the US, for Kauri Cliffs and Cape Kidnappers. The rumour is that Mr Robertson is one of 18 billionaires who knock it around at this club.. Deepdale probably best describes itself on its website where it says it is "one of the preeminent private clubs in America continues to this day, welcoming a diverse membership of men and women united by their common love of the game of golf."
The property at Deepdale an old estate and the golf course, originally designed by C B Macdonald and his proteges Seth Raynor and Charles Banks but then redesigned by Mr Wilson after the Long Island Expressway was cut through the course, now weaves its way through the estate passing by a number of old buildings which have no been converted. An old indoor tennis court adjoins the 9th hole and this has now been converted into a caddyshack. An old barn lines the 15th hole and this is now the quarters for the professional and his assistants. Upon arrival we were greeted by Scott and made to feel entirely at home in the grand clubhouse despite playing unaccompanied. I forgot to say g’day to Scott from a friend of his from his days on Wall Street and none other than Jeff Leveen – one of these infamous brothers who seem to pop up everywhere. We were introduced to our caddy for the day, a kiwi turned English lad by the name of Dylan, and we scooted down to the range to hit a few balls. Hitting balls pre-round is part of the routine in the US – unlike downunder. We’ve both got very used to warming up and it helps being loosened up before the first hole or two – particularly as our bodies are getting creakier by the day – feel like 25 going on 55 at times. Today I went for the unusual option of hitting some chip and pitch shots for 15 minutes before we played which definitely helped (to both warm up and score better) although I have to be wary not to do that again as it may be interpreted as ‘practice’ which is not part of the ethos of the journey!!
We started on the 4th hole (pictured below) at Deepdale as there were a few groups around and this place is low key and understated and you do what works. Which I like. Wasn’t so sure about the first shot of the day though, a 165 yard into the wind par three to a front pin in a portion of the green only about 8 paces wide. I shut my eyes and knocked it close which set the tone for a good day ahead. JP and I played a best ball and were 5 under par through the first 6 holes as we traded birdies. As we were thinking about best-ball-Paul-Goydos-59 we went off the boil, started missing the putts and ended up at the mark of 5. But lets not get distracted with trivial matters like scoring on what was an absolutely pristine track.
Deepdale’s reputation has proceeded it as we’ve traveled around Long Island. Firstly the greens here are as pure as they get. The story goes that the pro’s come out here to replicate the putting experience at Augusta National the greens are that pure. Being so quick they also take a heap of break and a few greens with a tilt on them, for example the uphill par four 15th, require a pretty creative 2 putt. The same can be said about the 18th which would just be scary with them rolling at a 14 on the stint meter (which is where they normally are but today we were given some respite and they were quite a bit slower as greenkeepers in these parts are worried about this crazy heat wave and not cutting them too short in fear of losing their greens altogether).
Looking back at Deepdale four days on and sitting in a plane which has been designed for school children - my knees are up by my head and I’m only of average height - I can’t think of one particular hole that absolutely stands out at Deepdale and would make it into my ‘best composite 18 in America’ (*** see blog post to follow) but I can remember every single hole and every single shot with complete clarity. When you play as much golf as we do, and you start on the 4th hole, knowing the routing and broadly understanding every hole is really the sign of a great course. The 10th hole is a different one as it reads 400 yards on the card but plays sharply downhill at about the 270 mark right towards the green such that a well struck driver and you’re not far from the front edge. Good for the ego if you’re so inclined to hit driver but we both kept the ball at the top of the hill with irons – Jamie a little further back on this occasion after hitting a tree…
The dogleg left, par four 8th to an elevated green surrounded by beautifully sculpted bunkers. Don't leave it short and get stung by the false front!
The tight par four 15th, played uphill and to the left. The barn on the right is the Professionals abode.
The short par four 16th, with our man Dylan watching on.
We finished playing the last couple of holes alongside a father / son duo who are members here which gave the day a nice personalized touch. Sans golf it was time to shower up (top 5 shower in the US) and a wander through the clubhouse which as the old homestead was really something. And then back to home base to chill out.
There’s a good chance that Chapter 1 of The Book is going to be dedicated to The Westhampton Experience. We were shown the light by Jeff LeVeen and his brother Andy – two top drawer punters from New York. Jeff contacted us some weeks ago offering his hospitality, but at that time it was looking like we were overbooked for our last week in the US. As fate would have it other plans fell through and I’m dam glad that they did. Because in Jeff and Andy we’ve found two solid guys that I know we’ll keep in touch with for a long time to come.
Westhampton is unsurprisingly the Westernmost spot in the area known as The Hamptons. It’s significantly more understated and “normal” than its Eastern cousin, although certainly no shanty town. Our instructions were to meet Jeff at his pad out there, where he spends time in the summer (he lives down in Jersey most of the time). The drive was a different experience for us. Our mate George Eberle, who was our good host yesterday at The Creek, has kindly lent us his spare Toyota Land Cruiser for the remainder of our time here, since we’ve sold Dodgy to The Swiss. Talk about trading up. The Land Cruiser has a GPS system that talks you through every turn – quite a different experience to having Goldy barking directions at you from the Google Maps picture on his laptop! George you are a Saint.
Jeff met us at his house, and took us down the road to the local deli, for the first instalment in TWE. An egg and sausage breakfast sandwich, and a gallon of iced tea to wash it down (I say gallon but it was probably only half a gallon). A very good start to the day indeed. The deli was an unpretentious one; it reminded me of my local on King Street in Newtown, Sydney, when I lived there for a summer between years at University. A long counter housing unimaginable treats and blackboards up above with myriad sandwich options. Not one of those wallet emptying upper crust flash delis where everything is marked up at 800%; you’re scared to move in case you disrupt the perfect display evidently laid out by an overpaid consultant; and you need to sell a vital organ to buy a loaf of ciabatta.
We hopped back in Jeff’s gangsta Jeep and soon found ourselves at Westhampton Country Club. We were introduced to a number of the staff, including the very affable Steve – who hails from the Sutherland area of Scotland, and who spent 10 years working at Cape Kidnappers in our native land. Steve’s going to be in our neck of the woods next February, so we’ve teed up a couple of games of golf to look forward to. As we’re prone to doing.
While changing our shoes in the locker room LeVeen Brother #2 turned up. Andy’s several years Jeff’s younger, and is a shot lower on the handicap index. The Brothers LeVeen had played in a Member / Member event last weekend at the club but not covered themselves in glory – a subject that surfaced on several occasions throughout the day. Andy would tell you it’s because Jeff burned the candle at both ends all weekend, and couldn’t hit a shot. Jeff would tell you the same about Andy. Regardless of who you believe, it’s clear that too many Rumdy Dumdys had something to do with it. Nothing like a bit of brotherly banter.
Andy and I played together against the infidels. Things were looking good too when Andy blazed a drive down the 1st fairway, just short of the creek; pitched on to 25 feet; then casually rolled in his birdie putt to get the scoreboard heading in the right direction. Personally I think those Frank Sinatra black and white brogues he was wearing had something to do with it – it’d be impossible to play bad golf while wearing those things, because it just wouldn’t look right.
The course is a Seth Raynor design, a chap whose work we’ve come to appreciate over the past few weeks. Our first Raynor experience was at The Country Club of Charleston. And at The National we probably experienced a bit of Raynor too, given he was C B MacDonald’s understudy. Clever fellow.
Right away at Westhampton his mark was apparent. Relatively straightforward off the tee; the bunkers are well sanded and don’t have severe lips; and large, almost square greens, with funky undulations. The 3rd green (pictured below) sits in a punchbowl, much like the 16th at National. Local knowledge from The Brothers LeVeen and from our caddies was key. My caddy Tyler may have been 8 feet tall. I’m sure if he gets sick of going to college in Vermont and snowboarding and all that good stuff, he could just go and play in the NBA (when I say “play”, I mean stand by the hoop; catch the ball; and drop it in the hoop above the hands of the despairing guards).
Below is a photo of a deep bunker I found myself in (the only place on the hole that you really don't want to go - something Jeff kindly mentioned after I'd hit it there).
The Goodies took the front 9 3 up, as they well should. Jeff and Michael were in disarray, and their challenge was beginning to fall apart at the seams. That’s until Jeff muscled his first drive into a fairway on 14 then casually steered a wedge to 10 feet. All of a sudden the match was on and big Jeff had a glint in his eye. Brotherly rivalry being what it is though, Andy wasn’t going to take any of this sitting down. So on the 17th hole – a 200 yard or thereabouts par 3 with a green 70 yards long – he struck a pure rescue club (a club that no self-respecting Kiwi bloke would ever use, as they are generally reserved for the pleasure of women) to the middle of the green. Driving the nail into the coffin, once and for all.
The boy dun good, and until the 18th didn’t have a double bogey. With that women’s club in hand again he blocked his second into the car park and unfortunately allowed a blot to appear on an otherwise glorious card. His shoulders must’ve been sore from carrying me all day, so it’s not surprising that he eventually came unstuck and showed human weakness. The match aside (actually, included), we had a hell of a time walking round with the lads. Their good humour and rivalrous banter was refreshing. And the centrepiece of The Westhampton Experience was a true pleasure. [If I don’t mention Jeff’s swashbuckling tee shot on 18 I may get an abusive email – the photo I took of the ball soaring off into the distance, down the carpet, will most likely grace the cover of The Book.]
Parched after slogging it out in the heat for the best part of 4 hours, we found solace in the air conditioned comfort of the Men’s Grill. It was here that we would experience the next instalment of TWE: the Rumdy Dumdy. Those South Sides ain’t got nothing on this thing. I’m not even going to try to explain what’s in this concoction – the barman explained briefly but I was deeply focused on drinking the thing and not on his recipe – but suffice to say it’s a sour rum cocktail that like everything should be enjoyed in moderation. One and we were out of there. Via the pro shop that is, where Jeff very generously insisted that Michael and I take away a souveneir to Represent Westhampton CC for the remainder of our journey and beyond. Despite wise counsel from The Brothers LeVeen (not to mention a few angular jabs), I settled on a dapper navy cardigan bearing the Westhampton flag. To say they had reservations about my sexuality from that moment onwards would be like saying Australia has no water – namely, a significant understatement! I happen to think it’s a dam fine garment, yes Sir. And Graeme MacDowell just won the US Open wearing one. I rest my case.
Jeff zipped us back to his pad, to pick up his togs (Andy’s wife kindly procured a couple of spares for us), then we hopped in Jeff’s fully restored 1978 Toyota Land Cruiser Convertible – tunes blaring – and set sail for La Ronde Beach Club for the next instalment. A dip in the Atlantic. After the famous egg and sausage breakfast sandwich; golf at the Country Club; and a Rumdy Dumdy, nothing could’ve been more fitting. TWE was really living up to its billing, and then some. In the basking afternoon sunshine we body surfed and doggy paddled around trying not to swallow salt water (without success in my case). Then we hung out inside the beach club for a while; met some of the locals; then retreated back to base camp to freshen up for dinner.
I wish I’d had our camera with us when we arrived at the place we had dinner. Right out of one of those early James Bond films. I half expected a younger Ursula Andres to appear from the sand in that famous bathing suit, waltz up to the bar, and order a martini. She didn’t appear, sadly. We found ourselves out on a deck overlooking the dunes and the ocean behind, with a Pina Colada in hand. Scores of folks lined the tables and bar stools – some decked to the 9s in their glad rags; others in shorts and a t-shirt – and the atmosphere was quite electric. An acoustic Beach Boys-like band were strumming away over in the corner. And all was well.
Jeff being the kingpin that he is somehow managed to get us the best table in the joint, right on the corner of the deck between the main seating area and the bar – in full view of the dunes and the band. Martha (Jeff’s wife) and Grayson (Andy’s pregnant wife) were vintage company, as were the Brothers it pains me to say. A spaced out dude called Evan was our waiter (we’d already heard about his aloof nature based on Jeff’s past experience), and thankfully he had a lucid moment long enough to remember our orders. Seafood starters; a bunch of pizzas; and a couple of key lime pies to share for desert – a very relaxed affair.
The Westhampton Experience will be forever etched in my memory as a very happy one indeed. The Brothers LeVeen went out of their way to make it so. Jeff and Andy were true gentlemen, generous hosts and, most of all, a lot of fun. I’ve promised them The Wellington Experience when they make it to the Land of The Long White Cloud, but will have to really put my thinking cap on if it’s to measure up in any way, shape or form to TWE. Thanks lads!
JP
Postscript: Jeff & Andy tragically lost their father when The Twin Towers fell on September 11 2001. Below is a photo of a memorial plaque laid by the 17th tee commemorating the life of their father Jeff, and 3 other members of the club who lost their lives that day.
Shinnecock
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