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The Archie Wheeler! An Odyssey in an amazing summer tournament! About fifty feet from the main entrance to Brooklawn Country Club, you’ll find a wall filled with photos of yesteryear’s golf greats, such as Gene Sarazen, who passed through Brooklawn on their way to international stardom. Sharing the wall with the golf legends are black and white photos of nameless first- generation American golfers. Judging from their mischievous grins, they were likely blowing off more solemn duties to play golf when they were immortalized on film. Gene Sarazen, former pro at Brooklawn A little further down the corridor, in the grill room, a Country Club is only one of only five mahogany board sits behind the bar commemorating the golfers to win all four major tournaments men’s club champions. Brooklawn’s logo is a large elm tree with 18 and 95 wrapped around its base, the 1895 presumably indicating the year Brooklawn Country Club was founded. However, the first men’s champion listed on the board is 1901. Considering that only eight golfers participated in the first British Open in 1860, it’s reasonable to deduce that it took Brooklawn six years to !field enough golfers for a proper club championship. The club’s champion board inscribes each year’s winner’s name in impressive gold leaf. Over time, several names repeat themselves so often you wonder how private Brooklawn actually was at the turn of the century. The first men’s club champion was Archie Wheeler, winning in !1901 and repeating in 1902. ! Brooklawn occupied a warm spot in Archie’s heart because he bequeathed money to Brooklawn to be spent on the festivities of an annual club tournament that now bears his name: the “Archer C. Wheeler Memorial Tournament,” affectionately know as the “Archie”. In a testament to Archie’s evident bonds to all of Brooklawn’s members, the Archie is open to all current and former members. Thus, the Archie serves as a reunion of sorts for many long-lost members or at least the ones that squared away their Archie Wheeler, Brooklawn’s first men’s Champion !tabs at Brooklawn before departing. Whether Archie specified the details of the tournament in his will is debated. In any event, it was settled long ago that the Archie would be a “net” tournament, meaning that anyone (and more specifically the mid-to-high handicappers) has a chance to win. For the non-golfer, “net” scores are determined by simply taking your “gross” or actual score and deducting your handicap. Thus, if you shot an 82 with a 12 handicap, you subtract your handicap from your final score !(82-12=70) and post a net 70 for the round. The normal golf “courtesies” extended on weekend matches don’t apply to the Archie. Every stroke is counted and every putt, no matter how close the ball is to the hole, is putted. Two- footers induce knee-buckling moments, ballooning more than a few scores. Also, just like the big boys, you’re given a pin placement sheet, lending an air of importance to the tournament despite the fact that such strategic information for anyone sporting a double-digit handicap, is as useful !as giving carpet bombers precise coordinates. After playing 18 holes of golf, the winner of the Archie is decided by a three-hole playoff between the players with the four lowest net scores (and all those that tie). While the purists surely sniff at Archie’s “net format,” the three- hole playoff is also a “net” format. A low handicapper is screwed if the high handicapper reels off three good holes in a row. The playoff is referred to as “going down the hill,” since the first playoff hole rolls downhill from the !clubhouse. As I’m sure Archie wanted, members roll out in full force as cocktails, supplied by Archie’s beneficence, flow and a band fills the air with festive music. Drinks in hand, several hundred march down the hill to watch the three- hole playoff unfold with the solemnity of the British !Open, just with far more cocktails, thanks to Archie. Before my first Archie, the pre-tournament buzz was palpable, with every member and former member harboring hopes that they would find their rhythm and “go down the hill.” My three partners for the Archie were Alex, Peter and Ernie, all long-time members who had played in over 60 Archies! collectively. I learned that only Peter had gone ‘down the hill’ before. I The 14th tee box looking “down the hole.” think Peter traces his lineage to the guys who carved Brooklawn’s fairways with horses. Peter is a good golfer who recently won the club’s senior championship. Like me, he practically overheats over golf history and reminiscing over the mystique of the ancient game. I can picture him sitting alone in Brooklawn’s trophy room, scotch on the rocks in his hands, savoring the scent of the hickory- shafted clubs and chatting away with the ghost of Archie. Then the nice security guard turns on the lights and politely reminds him that the club has been closed for three hours. This fictional scene unfolds in my head all in a good way, of course. Anyway, golf or gowf, is in Peter’s !DNA. Our group started on the first tee of the shotgun format. (In “shotguns” golfers start on all the holes at the same time.) I started off slowly but managed to pull off several “scrambling” pars by pitching the ball close enough to the hole to give myself a prayer at a one-putt and actually sinking the putts. I also chipped in on the ninth hole for a birdie. As the round progressed, I managed to avoid any blowups and ended up shooting 81. With my 13 handicap, I shot a net 68. !(81-13=68) After finishing, it didn’t seem like a particularly momentous round until Peter put things in historical perspective. “You’re definitely in,” Peter said as we finished the round. “There’s never been a 68 who didn’t !go down the hill. Never.” Espoused with the certainty of a guy who has been the club’s historian, golf chairman, green chairman and about seven other committee positions at Brooklawn, I accepted his declaration as gospel. “In fact, I’ll caddy for you when you go down the hill,” he added. Caddy for me? I liked how my first Archie was unfolding. ! I learned I had to wait around until about 5 p.m. when the afternoon qualifiers finished to see !who officially qualified to ‘go down the hill.’ No worries. I drove home and told my wife and kids that I was likely going to “go down the hill” and that people actually were going to watch me play. Yawns. An eyeroll. My wife, who had just !taken up golf, then sprouted a “I’m worried for you” look. “Who is going to watch YOU play?” Charlotte, my youngest daughter asked, with a mildly disdainful laugh. While I couldn’t argue with Charlotte’s sentiments, I replied cockily, “Oh, !probably a few hundred people.” Guffaws. I showered, ate and prepared myself to “go down the hill,” though this being my first golf tournament, I was exceedingly short of experience of what to do while you whittle away time before a playoff. As the afternoon wore on, I began imagining I was just like all the pros who I’ve watched on television waiting in tents before a playoff. You had to be there to understand the tension, the nerves, the stress. With calm professionalism, we bide our time. It was the first of many delusions to !sweep over me. When I returned to Brooklawn I hit a few range balls and then moseyed on back to the 14th tee area. The two- man band was in full swing and the cocktails which Archie had !bequeathed were already flowing. I handed my golf bag to Peter and we headed to the 14th tee where the other three guys in the playoff were already waiting. Jim Fatsi, then the assistant pro, drew straws to determine who’d tee off first. I don’t know if I won or lost, but Jim bellowed my name first. “Now on the tee is Tom Reilly from St. Lawrence University.” (I was wearing a Saint Lawrence golf shirt.) A smattering of claps. As I approached the tee, I could swear that in my peripheral vision I saw a !few heads turning away from me, as if diverting their eyes from an oncoming train wreck. Without paying too much attention to the doubters, I stuck the tee in the ground, positioned the ball on top of it, stepped back, breathed deeply and then swung. While the swing didn’t feel any different from ones which periodically result in gargantuan slices into the next county, I managed to stripe it down the middle of the fairway, opening the relief valves of my neural system. As the other three golfers teed off, my breathing slowly resumed to normalcy. Maybe they thought it was the price of Archie’s free drinks, but to my surprise, after the other golfers teed off, at least 200 people !followed us down the hill. My ball settled in the middle of the fairway, about 155 yards from the green. When my turn came, I breathed deeply, took a practice swing and then hit an 8-iron. Miraculously, it was as good a shot as I could muster, landing seven feet from the pin.

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