Joshua Crane In The Golden Age, Part II
by Bob Crosby

Crane’s Design Philosophy

Golf course rankings are a commonplace these days. Every magazine seems to have its own, each with its own rating criteria. But whatever their differences, all modern systems give considerable leeway to raters’ personal preferences. Such flexibility serves a number of useful functions, including assuring that rankings are as neutral as possible as between different styles of architecture. Crane’s “objective” ranking system, however, was anything but neutral. He baked into his rating methodology specific design preferences. That methodology had two main goals – first, to unmask the “prejudices” and “subjectivity” that had plagued golf architecture theretofore, and, second, to provide a roadmap for how courses should be modernized and improved.

Crane made no bones about these goals, writing in 1924:

At first thought it seemed impossible to put a mathematical value on such a heterogeneous mass of elements [of a golf course], many of which apparently have no relation to each other, but on analysis into its basic elements, and by proper balancing of the relative value of these elements, a result was obtained which gives an extraordinarily fair measure of comparative excellence. After the method had been worked out to a successful conclusion, it was found that the value of the tables in giving the comparative rating of two or more courses was greatly overshadowed by the fact that they furnished an accurate and graphic method of exposing the weak point of any particular course, thus making it simple for a golf architect to record his criticisms and suggestions for future use for both himself and the green committee of that particular club. Thus, by marking the weak elements on the chart with a red pencil, he could place a graphic criticism and a permanent record before the green committee as a goal towards which it might work.

After making the required measurements and applying his weighting formulae, Crane believed he had “furnished an accurate and graphic method of exposing the weak point of any particular course.” In other words, after a “scientific” assessment, the specific things that needed improving (that is, things that would make certain features more “ideal” under his system) would jump off his spreadsheets, ready to be “recorded” by the architect and then installed by the green committee. It was just a matter of collecting the data.[1]

Crane used his ratings in exactly that way. Specific proposals for improving a hole were derived from the deficiencies uncovered by his rating of that hole. His rating of a hole was, in effect, a short hand description of changes required to bring the hole closer to Crane’s “ideal”. For example, his rating of the 16th at Pine Valley proposed lowering the mid-body ridge to make the green visible from the tee, removing trees, and installing a diagonal bunker across the front of the green to provide more “control” for the approach shot, all for the purpose of making it a hole that would come closer to a 100% rating. For the 5th at Myopia Hunt Crane’s proposed improvements included:

…adding twenty yards to the second shot to encourage carry of the bunker to the left, shortening the bunker slightly giving nearly two thirds of the fairway to the right, and enlarging the further (sic) bunker on the right so that the right hand end is a little nearer the tee and the left hand projects half way across the fairway to control the long driver a bit more. Then the fair but severe rough on the left substituted for the present bushes, and mounds and swamp on the right by sand dunes and bunkers, a … hole will be ensured …which will force both control and length if par is to be secured.

These proposed “improvements” were, in essence, the application of Crane’s larger reformist program to specific features of a given hole. His rankings were the business end of the big stick with which Crane wanted to push golf design into a new and better era. Much as modern discoveries in chemistry had overthrown antiquated beliefs in alchemy, so a “calm scientific investigation” of specific courses would overthrow older “superstitions” that had plagued golf architecture and propped up the reputations of many older links courses. Crane saw himself as bringing the sweet light of reason to a hidebound golf establishment:

The popularity of golf and consequently the real charm is due to the improvement of its clubs, longer balls, better tees, better fairways fairer rough, better control, better greens. Who would want to go back to balls which could only be driven one hundred yards? The thrill would be gone. Who would want to play on courses as they were fifty years ago? Is the beauty of a property laid out on a hole, with green turf and white sand, a detriment to our enjoyment of the open spaces and lovely surroundings? Do we want to play a wide open expanse of lawn-like country, with no punishments for wild shots?

No. The standard of play is improving because the punishment for poor play is becoming universally fairer. Why do good billiard players insist on a perfect table and balls and even constant temperature?

Why do tennis players insist on tight rackets, uniform balls and level courts?

Why do polo players insist on a new ball every few minutes and on having the field as well rolled and smooth as possible?

Because the better player usually wins, no matter what the conditions and implements (a very common argument of those insisting that a large amount of luck is necessary for pleasure in golf), the real pleasure lies in the manipulation of these implements in a skillful and thoughtful way, and under conditions where victory or defeat is due to superior or inferior handling, not to good or bad luck beyond either player’s control.

No! Golf course development is on the right track, and those who take the other attitude are already finding themselves side-tracked by their own ignorance and lack of comprehension of the demands of human nature for fair play.

Crane’s aim was not merely to make courses more difficult. He was not the clownish “penologist” sometimes depicted by his critics. Rather Crane was a crusader for “fair play.” Though hazards should be robust, the punishments they inflict should be “proportional,” by which he meant punishments ought to be commensurate with the degree of the missed shot. Crane objected, for example, to the wall along the right side of the 16th at the Old Course. Its proximity to the fairway centerline meant that even minor misses to that side would suffer draconian consequences. Crane had similar reservations about water hazards. Trees were likewise a disfavored type of “control” for Crane. They might block one player but leave others with clear approaches to the green, thus failing to punish similarly shots that were similarly missed. Trees also caused uneven turf conditions, creating inconsistent playing conditions and thereby giving luck too big a role in competitive outcomes. Particularly problematical were blind shots. A well designed hole should unambiguously signal the consequences of a good or bad play and blind shots, by definition, failed to provide such signals.

For Crane there were consequences for courses that didn’t live up to his edicts. When luck or fluke interfered with competitive results, the problem wasn’t just “unfairness.” The problem was that golf’s claim to being a sport was put at risk. The issue was exemplified for Crane by an incident during the final match of the 1911 U.S. Amateur.

It is impossible not to wonder if Herreshoff and his friends felt that [luck was an acceptable part of things] when Hilton on the thirty-seventh hole in the finals at Apawamis, having sliced his approach thirty or forty yards off the green, strikes a rock and bounds onto the green, thereby winning the U.S. championship. The true sportsman deplores such happenings, and happily the modern architect is striving to eliminate these rawnesses (sic).

“Unfair” results caused by “rawnesses” or fluky, badly conditioned features were a particular problem on links courses with their irregular swales, dunes, blow-outs, hidden hazards and inconsistent turf. To the extent these irregularities had a bearing on competitive outcomes, to that extent a course was deficient. Crane suggested that those deficiencies had dire consequences. They risked turning the true sportsman against the golf, disgusted by the game’s “inequities.”   

Joshua Crane, 1928.

Joshua Crane, 1928.

 The point of Crane’s rating system was to measure how well a course stacked up against a set of ideals rooted in notions of competitive equity. Those ideals might be summarized as control, predictability and proportionality (hereafter referred to as the “CP&P” principles). For Crane the quality of a golf course was a function of how well it tested each shot (the “C”)[2], the predictability of good or bad outcomes and the proportionality of the penalties imposed (the “P&P”).[3]  By contrast, generous playing corridors that failed to control shots; irregular or severe contours, blind shots and inconsistent turf conditions were markers of bad or negligent design. Tellingly, such features virtually define historic links courses. And that is exactly what Crane’s rankings tell us. The least links-like courses or links courses that had been remodeled in ways that Crane thought matched up best with his ideas (e.g. Muirfield, Gleneagles) tended to get the highest marks. Regarding the recently remodeled Muirfield Crane wrote:

For many years the natural disinclination to make changes in the historic courses was strong enough to combat successfully the revolutionaries who desired such changes, but, unlike at St Andrews, about three years ago reason prevailed, and the results of the remodeling have entirely justified the position the taken by them.[4]

Conversely, the Old Course, Prestwick and N. Berwick, among the oldest, least modified and more traditionally links-like courses, tended to get lower marks.

Crane’s analysis of golf course design raised questions that went to the very heart of things. He forced a re-examination of what – at bottom – golf architecture is about by asking hard questions about what – at bottom – the game of golf was about. Should, as Crane claimed, golf architecture be reduced in the name of “fair play” to the factors embodied in his CP&P principles, factors that had universal application to all sports and their venues? Or was there something unique about golf and golf courses? Those are all big questions. Indeed, they don’t get much bigger for a golf architect.[5]

The Debate Over Crane’s Design Philosophy

From the beginning the controversy over Crane’s rankings was less about where he ranked a given course and more about the design philosophy that underlay his rating criteria. Just a week after Crane’s first essay appeared in Field in the spring of 1924, A.C.M. Croome[6], the magazine’s anonymous golf editor, responded that that “the second hole at St. Andrews comes poorly out of the comparison with Mr. Crane’s selected holes, which suggests that there is something wrong somewhere.”[7]  That is, if the second at the Old Course is rated as a poor hole, the problem isn’t that it ought to be rated higher, the problem is that the rating system is flawed.

Over the next several years Crane and Croome debated Crane’s rating criteria in Field[8], with Croome countering many of Cranes pieces either concurrently with or soon after their publication. Croome was especially concerned with the emphasis Crane placed on equity in golf design. He worried that the significance Crane gave to it would drain away the “spirit” of the game. For those reasons Croome objected to Crane’s suggestions that “control” could be achieved by way of additional rough and thought Crane’s concerns about visibility and predictability were over the top. Echoing Tom Simpson’s comments elsewhere, Croome put forth the notion that any course that did not require multiple plays to be understood was, by definition, an uninteresting course. That is, if local knowledge didn’t matter, a course was likely to be a quite dull affair. Crane responded directly to many of these criticisms, at one point publishing in Field a lengthy letter addressing some of  Croome’s main concerns.

But responses to Crane in Field involved more than Croome’s criticisms. As if concerned  that Crane’s ideas were threatening to fill a void in design concepts, Croome (or possibly Tom Simpson) authored a seven part series on bunkers. Crane is not mentioned by name in the series, but the timing, content and the strawmen of the pieces suggest that Crane was an inspiration. The Field chronology at the end of this essay provides some of the flavor of that bunker series.

More significantly Crane inspired a series of twenty articles in Field on ideal holes. Charles Ambrose was assigned “to further search for the truth” about design issues raised by Crane through the selection of “eighteen holes of modern construction which shall make up what [Ambrose] considers the ideal round…It is reasonable to expect that Mr. Ambrose’s articles, complementary to those of Mr. Crane, will assist materially to secure the object sought.” Regarding Ambrose’s project, Croome commented:

The article in which Mr. Joshua Crane has proposed a set of formulae by which existing golf courses may be examined and their respective merits assessed, have been the cause of widespread and occasionally heated discussion. They produced startling results when applied to a baker’s dozen of the more famous greens in Scotland and England. But none, even of those who differed most violently from Mr. Crane’s conclusions, has dared to accuse him of prejudice, or any other misleading sentiment, or to impugn the inexorable logic with which he argues from his premises to his conclusions….To further the search for truth we have invited Mr. Charles Ambrose to select eighteen holes of modern construction which shall make up what he considers the ideal round, and by means of diagrams, drawings and letterpress to give reasons for his choice. It is reasonable to expect that Mr. Ambrose’s articles, complementary to those of Mr. Crane, will assist materially to secure the object sought.

….We anticipated that when asked to select eighteen choice holes [Ambrose] would go to St. Andrews and Westward Ho! for most of his material, with excursions to such places as Prestwick, Hoylake, North Berwick and Rye. But with remarkable acumen he has observed that on seaside links the planner of a golf course must follow the lines indicated by Nature, and has comparatively little scope for expressing his artistic individuality. He has, therefore, limited his field of choice to the holes of artificial construction on inland courses. Incidentally this self-denying ordinance carries with it the suggestion that Mr. Crane may have erred in applying to seaside golf criteria which are fully applicable only to the game as played inland.

Ambrose discussed eighteen “ideal” inland holes designed by Colt, Fowler, Simpson, Abercromby and Croome, limiting himself to inland holes because “Mr. Crane may have erred in applying to seaside golf criteria which are fully applicable only to the game as it is played inland.”[9]

The responses to Crane’s design ideas in the United States were equally pointed. MacKenzie in “Pleasurable Golf Courses”[10] noted that Crane’s design philosophy harkened back to “a similar mentality to that which in Britain gave us Tom Dunn’s and other dreary courses…” Contrary to these “dreary” Victorian courses, MacKenzie pointed out that golf courses ought to give pleasure, that they ought to be playable by all classes of players, and that the game ought to be approached in the spirit of adventure and not merely as a competition. These objections echoed objections MacKenzie had made about Victorian designs seven years earlier in his book Golf Architecture. Nor were they very original. Harry Colt, John Low and others had been making similar arguments for a decade or so.[11]

Crane fired back in “Log Rolling,” accusing MacKenzie of making ad hominem attacks[12] and, even worse:

…[making] a rush to the defense of indefensible architecture, the more indefensible the more violent and illogical the defense.

Crane wanted to dismiss MacKenzie’s objections as nothing more than sour grapes over the low rating given to the Old Course:

Not a word of careful criticism, not a line devoted to showing where the detailed analysis of any hole which rates low was weak, but a violent protest against the result, in articles which are full of generalities, quotations from golf writers and poets, truisms and axioms.

MacKenzie would have none of it. His concern was not with Crane’s rankings but with the theory of golf design that underpinned those rankings. In a letter responding to Crane’s “Log Rolling” article,[13] MacKenzie made the nature of their differences clear:

As Mr. Bernard Darwin says in regard to Mr. Joshua Crane, “His ideas differ so fundamentally from ours that discussion is hopeless.” Why criticize the details regarding his individual holes when according to our ideas his fundamental principles are wrong and entirely opposed to our conception of golf?

MacKenzie’s run-in with Crane was not soon forgotten. Several years later in The Spirit of St. Andrews MacKenzie recounts meeting with Crane and Max Behr at St. Andrews in the summer of 1929. After reviewing their philosophical differences, MacKenzie reconstructed what appears to have been an actual conversation.[14] If MacKenzie’s account is anything like an accurate transcription, the two men seemed to talk past each other. Crane continued to express his concerns with competitive equity and MacKenzie continued to see Crane as a stand-in for older, Victorian ideas, with the result that their conversation doesn’t advance things very much.

If MacKenzie seems to have missed much of what Crane was about, Max Behr didn’t. Behr proved to be Crane’s most interesting and determined opponent.  From the beginning Behr saw Crane’s course rankings as a Trojan Horse. The real issue was a very troubling design philosophy hidden in its belly and it was that design philosophy that Behr focused on and over which he and Crane did battle. That debate amounted to hand-to-hand combat in letters and articles, most of them published in 1926 and early 1927, in Country Club/Pacific Golf & Motor, a California golf and travel magazine. Their exchanges remain one of the most remarkable, but perhaps one of the least known, in the history of golf architecture.

A Short Life of Max Behr

Max Behr was born in 1884 in Brooklyn Heights, New York, the oldest son of Herman Behr, founder of Herman Behr & Co., an abrasives and paint company (the paint company has changed ownership many times, but still bears the family name). Herman Behr was an avid pioneer golfer and played in many tournaments with his eldest son Max. Max went on to Yale College and played on the golf team, competing  against future golf architects H. Chandler Egan at Harvard and William Langford at Princeton.[15] His coach at Yale was Robert Pryde, a Scot and early golf architect in New England. Like Crane, Behr was a gifted athlete and competed in multiple sports. Also like Crane, Behr was best known during his undergraduate days for his exploits in sports other than golf. He was a star hockey player (newspaper reports suggest that Behr was the best player on the Yale team) and played as well on Yale’s football and tennis teams.

After college Behr moved to New York City to sell the cutting edge technology of the day – typewriters. In 1906 he married Evelyn Schley, the daughter of a prominent New York financier.[16] Behr compiled an impressive record in numerous amateur events after Yale, losing to Arthur Travers in the finals in the 1908 US Amateur and winning the New Jersey Amateur in 1909 and 1910, after finishing second to Travers several times. Behr seems to have taken an ownership interest in and became the editor of the US Golf Illustrated in 1914, the preeminent golf periodical in America at the time. Devastated by his wife’s death from the Spanish influenza in 1919, Behr sold his interest in  Golf Illustrated and moved to California, setting up shop in Pasadena as a golf architect. He spent the rest of his life in California.

Behr did not design a large number of courses, but several were (and remain) highly regarded. In The Spirit of St Andrews MacKenzie called Behr’s Lakeside Golf Club[17] one of the best in courses in the world. Bobby Jones was a friend and most of his famous instructional shorts were filmed at Lakeside in 1931, films that give tantalizing glimpses of the original course. Behr also designed Rancho Santa Fe Country Club in San Diego, the original host course for Bing Crosby’s pro-am celebrity clambake. Behr seemed to have an unquenchable appetite for difficult causes and took up many during his life. He battled the R&A and the USGA on a number of rules issues. In the early 1920’s Behr and John Low had a series of exchanges in Field about the lost ball rule in match play. He adamantly opposed  the rubber core ball. Together with MacKenzie and Bobby Jones, Behr urged a return to the gutty after Jones’s shocking sub par winning score at the 1927 Open at the Old Course.

Max Behr during the construction of Rancho Santa Fe.

Max Behr during the construction of Rancho Santa Fe.

Behr later advocated the “floater” ball. In articles, letters and by direct appeal, he campaigned for its adoption by the USGA. Behr was not just an armchair critic, however. He played with a floater in tournaments. In the 1929 British Amateur Behr’s use of a floater was noted for ceding to his opponents a considerable distance advantage. (He lost in the second round.) After others  had given up the fight, Behr pressed on with a formal resolution to the USGA that he presented at its 1937 annual meeting. Behr wrote that the rubber core ball had rendered golf a test of “brawn rather than of skill” and that an imbalance existed between the technology of the game and the courses on which it was played. It is a recurring theme in Behr’s writing.

Behr wrote for both the US and British versions of Golf Illustrated on a range of topics, including handicaps, golf design, rules, equipment and the golf swing. He contributed articles to the USGA Green Section Bulletin and regional periodicals based in California. His social milieu in California was an interesting one. Lakeside was Behr’s home course. It’s membership was a volatile brew of movie stars, local politicians and hustlers, including the notorious renegade John Montague. Behr was arrested in 1924 for punching a Hollywood writer at a party at the home of Mary Miles Minter, then one of the major stars of the silent screen. Like George Thomas, another golf architect who had emigrated to California from back East, Behr cultivated roses and his hybrids were honored in national shows. Behr advocated a religion that took complicated relationships between numbers as evidence of divine providence. In the late 1940’s and early 1950’s he wrote opinion pieces for the Los Angeles Times and other newspapers, taking a hard line against communists, their fellow travelers (for Behr that usually meant Democratic politicians) and lamenting the decline of America. Ironically Behr, MacKenzie and Crane all held similar, hardcore conservative political views. Behr died in California in 1955 at the age of 71.



[1] The relegation of the architect’s duties to that of a “recorder” in Crane’s scheme did not go down well with architects at the time.

[2] Philosophers in the room will have noted Crane’s reductio problem here. Given the emphasis on controlling individual shots, the concept of a “hole” was largely superfluous for Crane. Indeed Crane explicitly down-played the significance of holes as a framework for his analysis of courses. A framework based on holes, Crane believed, allowed “old shibboleths” to fog the analysis. How the design of a hole linked one shot to the next was not of great significance in his system. Much more significant was how individual architectural features tested individual shots viewed in isolation. Analyzing things in terms of “holes” got in the way of that metric. A golf course for Crane was not a set of 18 holes but a series of discrete tests of golfing skills.

But if what really matters is testing golfing skills, there are better places to conduct such tests than on a golf course. One might, for example, line-off a field and set up hitting stations. If testing shot-making skills is the main point, measurements on such set-ups would be more precise, variables such as turf, trees, blindness and out of bounds could be easily controlled and so forth. It is an absurd idea, but given Crane’s design criteria it is a reductio ad absurdum against which he has no principled defense. Indeed, such testing fields ought to rate 100% under Crane’s “design and layout” criteria. Arguably, any theory of design or any tournament set-up philosophy with a similar emphasis on shot-testing has the same reductio problem. If shot testing is your main design goal, then a golf course is, strictly speaking, unnecessary to achieve your goals.

[3] The CP&P principle served another important function. They were the hidden premise in Crane’s claim that his course rankings were “objective.” Crane broke down each hole into its discrete, measurable features. Bunker and green dimensions, fairway widths, turf conditions, the proximity of water and out of bounds and so forth, were all precisely measured. This “objective” data was then rated against the CP&P standards, standards that Crane believed to be self evidently true and beyond debate. Thus the payoff from applying his “neutral” CP&P criteria to an “objective” data base was ratings expressed in neutral, mathematical terms that be used as the common denominator for ranking different courses on an apples-to-apples basis.

[4] Simpson disliked Colt’s changes to Muirfield for the same reasons that Crane liked them. Simpson called Colt’s changes, “featureless, by reason of their OBVIOUS and STRAIGHTFORWARD character… Now in Golf Course Design, the obvious thing is almost invariably the wrong thing”… Simpson went on to say the holes in question had a “complete lack of subtlety…”

[5] Such ideas have fairly ominous implications for the profession of golf architecture. If the principal design objectives in building a golf course are reducible to basic design objectives applicable to all sporting venues, the role of the golf architect will have been effectively marginalized. If there is little that is unique about golf architecture, then there is little that is unique about the skills required to be a golf architect.

[6] Max Behr identified Croome as the anonymous Field golf editor. Much of what Croome purportedly wrote, however, echoes ideas expressed by Tom Simpson elsewhere. Croome and Simpson were friends and seemed to have had similar views about golf architecture. But more than just friends, they were also at the time partners in the architecture firm of Fowler, Simpson, Croome & Abercromby. It’s not much of a stretch to think that Simpson might  have had a hand in the responses to Crane.

[7] Croome is fronting-running Crane here. He seems to have had in hand the text of Crane’s analysis of the Old Course more than a year before it actually appeared in the magazine. The same thing occurred several months later with Hoylake.

[8] Because access to Field is difficult, appended to the end of this essay is a time line of the exchanges between Crane, Croome, Ambrose and others  in Field over the periods in which the above discussions occurred.

[9] The series is interesting not just as a push back against Crane, but also because it gives detailed descriptions of a number of highly regarded holes in Britain that no longer exist.

[10] MacKenzie makes the distinction in this essay between Crane’s “penal architecture” and his own favored “strategic architecture,” a distinction he makes here for the first time in print. Crane accused MacKenzie of stealing the distinction from Max Behr, which is probably right. In fact MacKenzie “borrowed” a number of ideas from Behr, many of which he acknowledged in The Spirit of St. Andrews; some of which he didn’t.

[11] As far back as John Low’s Concerning Golf, proponents of strategic architecture saw themselves as being surrounded by incomprehension or even outright hostility. Low, Harry Colt, Tom Simpson and others, when making the case for the superiority of strategic designs, all take on a remarkably adversarial tone. Their writings are less expository than they are argumentative, usually aimed at the designers of  older Victorian courses. That was, essentially, the fight that MacKenzie saw himself in 1920 at the time he wrote Golf Architecture. He was still fighting the fight against the Victorians in The Spirit of St. Andrew and, somewhat inappropriately, against Crane as well.

[12] Not without some justification, Crane thought everyone was out to get him.

[13] The same letter suggests another reason why MacKenzie was so troubled by Crane. MacKenzie believed that Crane’s views represented those of the “majority of golfers”:

It can be pointed out…that where Mr. Crane’s views (and the majority of golfers, until they have learned from experience, have similar views to those of Mr. Crane) have been introduced, golf courses turn out a failure. But on the other hand, wherever ideas largely opposed to those of Mr. Crane have been introduced, the courses have turned out a success.

[14] The full text of the reconstructed conversation goes as follows: 

“Tell us, Joshua, how is it you took a house at St. Andrews after rating it the worst of all championship courses. You admit you love St. Andrews.” Joshua, replying in a tone which suggests that his system of rating is similar to the Laws of the Medes and Persians: “Well, it comes out last in my rating.” 

“Then that simply proves that your rating is wrong, and we suggest to you that if you turn your list of ‘order of merit’ upside down you will be right. Let us analyze your system. You give so many marks for rough; we suggest that this be reversed and that it should read ‘absence of rough.’ Golfers pay for pleasure and surely they should not be subjected to the annoyance and irritation of searching for lost balls. It is no fun looking for your own ball and even less searching for your opponent’s.” Joshua, somewhat haughtily: “But do you suggest that a hole should be played with a putter?” 

“That is precisely what we do suggest. No hole can be considered perfect unless it can be played with a putter.” Joshua, a bit puzzled: “Why?” 

“Everyone should be allowed to enjoy a golf game, including even old gentlemen of ninety, and children of five or six. Some of them cannot drive further than a good player armed with a putter. Moreover, a stretch of rough extending a hundred yards from the tee is of no earthly interest to a scratch man but may be intensely irritating to a beginner.” Joshua: “Do you then consider it fair that two men should five perfect balls and one of them should have to play from a hanging lie and the other from a level stance?” 

“We do. We consider it absolutely fair and we believe that one of the great charms of the British championship courses that you admire so much is these undulating fairways. They simply differentiate between a first class player like yourself, who is able to play from a hanging lie, and others, like ourselves, who are not so skillful. Apparent luck of this kind is always, in the long run, to the advantage of the first class player.”

[15] Chandler Egan was also an excellent hockey player and the two probably met regularly in the rink in the winter months. Behr just missed competing against Hugh Wilson who graduated from Princeton the year before Behr arrived at Yale.

[16] As a wedding present Evelyn’s father gave the couple a summer home in Far Hills, New Jersey, a faux rustic house ingeniously built to straddle a creek. The odd, brooding residence remains largely unchanged, located near the main entrance to the U.S.G.A. headquarters in Far Hills.

[17] Presaging Augusta National, a number of commentators at the time thought Lakeside was a revolutionary design because of its very wide fairways, minimal rough and paucity of bunkers.

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