THE R&A’s OFFICIAL OPEN CHAMPIONSHIP MAGAZINE
If there is any doubt that sporting success can have a transformative effect on the wider national psyche, the events of a magical 10 days in the British summer of 1934 when a new national hero emerged at Royal St George’s, provide compelling evidence.
As the proverbial storm clouds gathered over Germany, and Britain struggled to recover from the Great Depression, no British player had won the Open for 11 years, the Wimbledon Gentlemen’s title for 25 years, or the Ladies’ title for eight years.
The last time the Open had been played at Royal St George’s in 1928, the American Walter Hagen had collected the third of his four Championships, but, with the exception of a single narrow victory by Arthur Havers in 1923, the home players’ post-war trophy cabinet was noticeably bare. The country needed a new sporting hero.
Cheshire-born Henry Cotton had turned professional at the tender age of 17. Known for practising so hard that his hands occasionally bled, his early career produced a couple of victories and a good Ryder Cup singles win in 1929. But, by 1934, the 27 year old’s place in the pantheon of British golfing greats was far from assured.
He arrived at Sandwich to play his first qualifying round with four sets of clubs, and ‘couldn’t hit his hat with any of them,’ according to Henry Longhurst. Like Bobby Jones, Cotton suffered badly with nerves, and despite his undoubted talent, the desperate desire to win was quite literally cramping his game.
A Monday course record 66 restored his confidence and guaranteed his presence in the tournament proper. For the first round, Cotton was paired with French champion Marcel Dallemagne, and both players blazed away on the front nine. The Frenchman birdied the first; after a monster drive, Cotton birdied the 350-yard second, then chipped in at the fifth. With the adrenalin pumping, he was out in 31, his partner close behind with a 33.
With Cotton bogeying the 11th, both players faltered on the back nine, but a 67 was still good enough for the clubhouse lead, four shots ahead of his playing companion. Gene Sarazin, already the winner of six Majors, was further back on 75.
The next day, with nerves now firmly under control, the nattily attired Cotton attacked. Wearing baggy plus fours and a determined expression, he reached the turn in 33. But, as those familiar with Royal St George’s will know, the back nine presents the harsher challenge, with the four closing holes responsible for many a shattered dream.
Cotton’s 32-stroke inward nine was one of the greatest achievements of his life. The 65 broke his own course record, and gave him a seven-stroke tournament lead over compatriot Alf Padgham. The first two round Open total of 132 would not be beaten for 50 years.
So far so good, but as a number of British players have recently discovered, the ability to maintain concentration over the final two rounds of an Open is the test that separates champions from the field.
At the time, the final 36 holes were played on the same day, which, in this case, dawned wet and blusterous. It is a feature of the Open, always played on links courses, that a change in the elements creates new challenges. Indeed, many believe a day or two of inclement weather adds spice to the occasion, rewarding those of sound mind and swing, while punishing lesser mortals.
In the morning, Cotton battled through for a 72 and a three-round lead of 10 strokes. Both crowd and player realised a career-defining British victory was within touching distance. After a light lunch, the player approached the starter at the appointed time, only to be told there was a 15-minute delay.
The wise move would have been to return to the practice ground, stay limber and continue hitting shots. Instead, Cotton retreated to the privacy of a nearby tent. As he began to contemplate the enormity of his prospective triumph, and the consequent potential of a humiliating failure, his body turned against him. Severe stomach cramps set in, almost preventing him from returning to the first tee.
Watchers were astonished by the deterioration of the tournament leader’s demeanour. Not only was Cotton pale as a ghost, he seemed unable swing the club properly on his opening drive. A mid-handicapper hook resulted in a bogey five. A shadow of his imperious second-round self, he took six at the 5th, dropped a further stroke at the ‘Maiden’ 6th, and reached the turn reeling, with an outward 40. One of the more memorable collapses in Open history beckoned.
The clubhouse leader at this point was Sid Brews on 288. Cotton calculated an 83 would win – normally a breeze, but he was now under the cosh.
Struggling through 10, 11 and 12, he approached the par-5 13th with trepidation. But a long drive, an iron close to the green, a chip to 10 feet and a birdie putt righted the ship. ‘That seemed to cheer me up, and I relaxed a little for the first time in two hours,’ Cotton later wrote.
Despite missing several birdie chances, he approached the 18th without further mishap. Finding a greenside bunker, he blasted out to six feet. He pulled the putt but was left with a tap-in for a 79 and victory by five strokes.
Cradling the Claret Jug at the presentation, he modestly declared of his wire-to-wire win: ‘For years, I’ve been looking at photographs of golfers holding this cup like this. Now, the day’s arrived when I can hold it like this.’ The date was June 29th. On July 7th, fellow Britons Fred Perry and Dorothy Round won respectively the Wimbledon Gentlemen’s and Ladies’ titles. Joy was unconfined in the national press. The national mood lightened.
It was the first of Cotton’s three Open wins, with the bestselling Dunlop 65 golf ball subsequently named after his stunning second-round score. Twice Ryder Cup Captain and a renowned course designer, Sir Henry Cotton would go on to become one of the giants of the post-war British game.
And for those who believe in sporting omens: the same year, 1934, that an English golfer stemmed the tide of foreign domination in the Open, Manchester City won the FA Cup. City won again this May.