May 1953
Where the most disciplined golfer in history came to be left alone.
In the spring of 1953, Ben Hogan came to Britain for his first and only Open Championship.
He arrived a private man recovering from the head-on collision that had nearly killed him four years earlier. He had already won the Masters and the U.S. Open that year. A win in Carnoustie would give him the Triple Crown — and he intended to win.
Carnoustie, two miles down the road, was where the championship would be played. But Carnoustie was where the press would be too. Carnoustie was where the other professionals would gather, where the spectators would walk every practice round, where every shot would be watched. So Hogan came to Panmure.
He stayed for fourteen days. He brought only his caddy, Cecil Timms. He played the Panmure links over and over — quietly, methodically, in his cardigan and tie — adjusting to links turf, to wind off the North Sea, and to the smaller 1.62-inch British ball that the R&A still required in those days. Scottish galleries called him the Wee Ice Mon. He did not encourage the nickname; he did not discourage it either.