Old Friends #4 - "My Favourite Club" by Stephen Proctor
I can think of no thrill in golf to compare with that of watching in awe as a purely struck brassie sails toward the flag, bounces once in front of the green and rolls inexorably to within a few feet of the cup.
It is nothing less than a moment of communion with the supreme master of that club, John Ball, Jr, the first Englishman to win the Open and champion of an unthinkable eight Amateurs. Ball was so remorselessly long and straight with his woods that it struck fear in the heart of his opponents.
The prospect of hitting such an inspiring shot has made the brassie my favourite of the eight clubs in my hickory bag. That’s the set I carry nearly every time I take to the links, as modern weapons simply don’t deliver the same spiritual joy as playing golf the way it was meant to be played.
It is hardly a coincidence that the club I love most is the only one in my bag that still has its original shaft, a century after it was hand-made by Robert Simpson in his shop at the corner of Links Parade and Links Avenue in Carnoustie. A great shaft, as Old Tom Morris would say, has music in it, and that is certainly true of the one that has served so faithfully in my brassie. I never take it in hand without a sense of confidence in the outcome.
Among the great joys of hickory golf is coming to know the stories of the men who made your clubs. Born in 1862 in Earlsferry, a hotbed of golf that gave the world both James Braid and Douglas Rolland, Robert was one of six Simpson boys. All of them became accomplished players, especially older brothers Jack and Archie. Jack won the 1884 Open, and Archie racked up two second-place finishes in the Championship.
A fine golfer himself, Robert would make his mark at clubmaking. He played a pivotal role in the evolution of long-nosed woods into the rounded shape of modern drivers and fairway woods. He also patented several key inventions, among them early versions of muscleback irons that gathered the weight in the centre of the clubface.
Robert learned the art of clubmaking from two masters. At 17, he was apprenticed to the famed George Forrester, whose shop was across the street from the links of Elie. Later, he would continue his studies under the legendary Robert Forgan at St Andrews.
Simpson’s life-changing moment came in 1883 when, at age 21, he was hired as golf professional to the Dalhousie Club in Carnoustie and opened his first clubmaking shop. It was there, sometime between 1908 and 1912, that he made my brassie, marrying that sweet-swinging shaft to a small, hand-carved clubhead with gorgeous grain that speaks of wood carefully chosen for the purpose.
I know it was made during those years because at the top of the shaft, just under the grip, is a maker’s mark used only during that four-year period, according to Jack Mishler’s “Robert Simpson: Carnoustie”, a lovely tribute to the man and his work.
Of course, a club that has survived so long inevitably endures a few trials along the way, and my brassie is no different. I picked it up on an impulse two decades ago in the gift shop at the World Golf Hall of Fame in St Augustine, Florida, in part because I’d previously fallen in love with a Robert Simpson Perfect Balance driver.
The shaft of that driver had snapped during a round, leaving the head to serve as a paperweight on my desk until I learned enough about the world of hickory golf to find a master clubmaker who could restore it to its former glory, Jim Von Lossow of Spokane, Washington.
It was the repair of that driver, along with a few other coincidences, that put me on the road to playing hickories all but full time. So, naturally, it was to Jim that I turned again when, to my horror, I noticed that the face of my brassie had become so soft that shots dented it.
I feared for the life of my favourite club, but by some unexplained magic Jim was able to return the brassie to me with the club face restored to its original hardness. Not long afterward, I noticed a tiny imperfection in that ancient shaft and added a whipping to be sure no further trouble developed. It stiffened the club a bit, but the music is still there.
Now, whenever I play golf, I can live in joyful hope of that rare moment when I am suddenly transformed into the immortal John Ball of Hoylake, and, at the crucial moment of the match, I deliver the dagger by banging a brassie right up to the flag.