During his illustrious professional career, Walter Hagen, a trailblazing American golfer in the early 20th century, built a reputation on a seemingly endless series of ostentatious, headline-grabbing actions. He was photographed swinging a golf club on the roof of London’s Savoy Hotel, though it’s unclear if the 11-time major winner actually hit balls from that urban perch. He was also known to arrive to the first tee of a tournament wearing dinner coats or tuxedos—an entrance that at least suggested he’d been out gallivanting the entire night before.
“I never wanted to be a millionaire,” he once declared. “I just wanted to live like one.”
During the summer of 1920, The Haig, as he was known, arrived on England’s southeastern coast to compete in his first Open Championship. It was to be the second (and last) time that Royal Cinque Ports would host golf’s oldest major. Royal St George’s, just to the north, had already hosted the Open four times, and Prince’s Golf Club, just north of St George’s, would soon host its own Open, in 1932.
In their lead-up and preparation for the tournament at Royal Cinque Ports, Hagen and fellow American pro Jim Barnes set out one morning with a lofty goal. As Hagen later described it, they intended “to play the three links as if they were one.”
In 2011, Richard Craven, then Royal Cinque Ports’ club captain, discovered the details of this venture in a recently published Hagen memoir. Shortly thereafter, the three clubs started hosting an annual event called the Hagen Hoof, a team tournament where players compete on all three courses in a single day. “It’s a nod to Hagen and his route,” says James Leah, Royal Cinque Ports’ club manager, “but it’s not following that route.”
This summer, however, the three clubs created a new event, the Hagen 54, which not only follows Hagen’s and Barnes’ footsteps (albeit, via a shotgun start), but is open to the general public. It’s a marathon round of golf to say the least, but it affords participants the chance to accomplish something momentous. “To play three venues that have hosted the Open in one day is unique,” Leah says. “And, if you don’t have a helicopter, it’s very difficult.”
As for the event itself, the Hagen 54 is merely a golf exhibition. That’s fitting, given that Hagen played in hundreds of such events throughout his career. “We weren’t trying to break any records,” Hagen wrote of his 54-hole practice round with Barnes in 1920. “We were just lucky to go that far. We did it for fun.”
This summer, I participated in the inaugural event for just that reason, and my own memoir of the experience is as follows.
The sun rises just above the horizon, casting golden hues upon Sandwich Bay, as we approach our starting hole at Prince’s Golf Club. Spirits are high, but with 54 holes ahead of us, each player in the group recognizes the marathon that is to come. “We could all benefit from Miguel Ángel Jiménez’s unique pre-round stretching routine,” one player jokes.
Morale has already taken a hit. Native areas are more penal than they look. Fortunately, my errant shot off the tee has been found and a second shot successfully played. Par is still a possibility.
Dissension is quickly setting in. As one player in the group taps in his first par of the day—“I’m on the board!” he happily declares—another crosses the green, quietly muttering self-directed obscenities after sculling a chip shot across the putting surface.
After hitting only the second fairway with my driver through the first six holes, I’m left just a flip of a wedge angled between two devilish pot bunkers. One smooth swing and a steady putt later, and we’re circling a 3 on the scorecard!
Rain clouds that had previously loomed over the horizon at daybreak have blown in from the bay, with the first, faint drops beginning to fall. It wouldn’t be a marathon golf day in England without at least a sprinkling of rain. I’m no Gene Kelly, but I am happy it’s raining … at least for now.
From the championship tees, the closing hole at Royal St George’s is more than 450 yards. Today, it stretches only 418 yards, but it’s playing directly into the fan. The hole’s length doesn’t come as a shock to one of my playing partners, but its par designation does. “This is a par 4?” he exclaims to his caddie in disbelief. “Jesus Christ!”
I am perched precariously atop a shallow but steep-faced bunker fronting the left side of the green. My ball has come to rest about 20 yards from the flag but less than a foot from the bunker’s edge, requiring my best impression of a tightrope walker. Putting from this predicament leaves me 15 feet short, but then, a miracle! My second putt drops, leading to one of the more memorable pars I’ll likely ever make.
After repeatedly assuring the rest of us that he’s only moments away from total command of the game, a player in the group announces that he’s now reverting to bribery. “From here on out, I’m rewarding myself with whisky for each par that I make,” he says, pulling out a flask. Sobriety, it would seem, is the only certainty in his future.
We’ve reached the tee box of the 15th hole at Royal Cinque Ports, and the rain is now falling steadily and with conviction. I’ve abandoned any prior affections that I had for this weather. Authenticity is overrated. Sunshine is not.
James Leah meets us on the first tee of Royal Cinque Ports and, after consulting a weather app on his phone, boldly proclaims that the rain should stop in about 10 minutes. I’m typically an optimist, but at this moment, in addition to being rain-soaked, I’m also highly skeptical.
As we walk off the tee box, the rain softens considerably. It’s only a faint mist by the time we reach the middle of the fairway. It would appear Mr. Leah, that upstanding English gentleman, was right.
Never trust a Brit or his app about the weather. The skies have opened up again. Just as before, I’m tasked with trying to ignore the droplets of water falling from the brim of my hat each time I address the ball.
After almost nine hours on the course and more than two full rounds of golf under our belts, swing speeds and carry distances have started to suffer. I stripe a wood from the fairway—a blind second shot on this average-length par 5—and expect to be around the green, maybe even putting. But as I crest the hill, I discover my ball is still 30 yards short. In this emotional battle with the course and the elements, it’s hard to know who is winning.
Opening the cooler on the tee box of a 500-yard par 5, I find a few bottles of the event’s specially made lagers and IPAs, but nary an ice cube. Fortunately, what at first appears a tragedy soon reveals itself a blessing. Cold and damp, I take a swig and revel in the discovery: It’s the first time—and quite possibly the only time—a warm beer has been just what I needed.
The sign hanging from the halfway house only a few paces from the previous hole’s green tells the tale of the day’s events. “Golf: An endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle.” It also foreshadows what’s to come—my surprisingly well-struck drive hit on the center of the clubface, which cuts through the wind and lands in the right-center of the fairway.
Waterlogged and battered by the wind, I come to a realization: Hagen and Barnes must’ve completed their cross-country golfing adventure on one of those legendary nice summer days in Great Britain—the type locals will continually talk about years after they occur. There’s no way the two pros would’ve subjected themselves to harsh conditions for an entire day, especially with an Open Championship right around the corner.
As I walk down the fairway somewhat removed from the rest of the group, the relative silence affords me a new discovery—the sound of my feet splashing through the puddles. Except, there are no puddles in the fairway. I also notice that I can feel my feet splashing through puddles, which is odd. Then it hits me: the puddles are inside my shoes.
Our wayward playing partner continues to spend several minutes searching for errant shots. The rain isn’t letting up. The wind is still blowing. Yet, he continues to consult the yardage book and employ a rangefinder before every shot. I have briefly consulted the other two players in the group, and we have reached an accord: we might have to kill him.
The wind is blowing hard into us, just as it has for the last three hours or so, but we’ve reached the final hole. One more good drive; that’s all I need. Instead, I make contact high on the clubface and watch as my ball balloons in the wind. For a moment, I worry that it won’t even make the fairway. Eventually, my ball returns to earth and, fortunately, finds the short grass—albeit not by much.
The final putt has dropped! We’re a haggard bunch, but we’re done. According to one player’s Strava app, we’ve covered almost 20 miles, walked more than 41,000 steps, and burned about 3,100 calories. Collectively, we’ve carded eagles, birdies, and pars (and probably more bogeys and doubles than any of us would care to admit). Like Hagen and Barnes, we did it for fun. And it was fun. So much so that I would gladly do it again—even in the rain.
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