Golf

Hagen vs. Walker. "WORLD'S UNOFFICIAL CROWN TO BE CONTESTED," blared the headlines. At St. Petersburg, Fla., Cyril Walker, 1924 U. S. Open Champion, was to play 72 holes with sleek Walter Hagen, 1924 British Open Champion. Spade never digged a pit as murky, foul, treacherous as that which gapes for the spirit of a golfer who is off his form. Into that pit plunged Cyril Walker and thus did sleek Wal- ter become unofficial golf champion of the world. Hagen, at the end, was "17 and 15". Of 57 holes played, Walker won but 7, tied but 25. Said statisticians: "Never before* has a match between two great professionals of seemingly equal merit been so lopsided." In the first day's play, Walker turned in a 76 to Hagen's 68, a 74 to his 71. Next day, he did an 80 to Hagen's 75, began the fourth round 16 down. He lost the first hole, lay dormie, won the second with a par 3 to Hagen's 4. The third hole is long. Walker's drive, his brassie, were perfect. He laid his hand on a light mashie, cast a wary eye at the pit of tawny sand that gaped at the right of the green. If this shot were perfect, if every shot he made that afternoon were incredibly good, he might be almost even with Hagen before defeat stopped him. His ball rose in air, pointed itself straight for the flag --and then curved insanely aside, buried itself in the yawning bunker. Walker wallowed after. He asked that a niblick be thrown down to him; those above could hear his mutterings as he beat the ground at intervals with this heavy instrument. One, two, three, four thuds and, at last, a ball came from the pit, Hagen putted, won the match. Rockefeller vs. Baker. John Davison Rockefeller, 86, drew from his pocket a pair of white cotton gloves, put them on. He took a pinch of sand out of a tee-box. "Take the honor," said George F. Baker, 85. About the first tee of the Hotel Ormond course, Ormond Beach, Fla., a group had gathered. Mr. Rockefeller placed his pinch of sand, poked a white ball onto the top of it, took a stance. Swack! Off went the ball, down the fairway, clear of the water. He gave his club back to the caddy; his eyes shone like blue beads in his parchment face. Up came Mr. Baker, swacked off his ball three yards further. The two began their match. It was Mr. Rockefeller's first game of the season.* His opponent, he knew, was a dangerous player. He manned himself for his task, halved the first hole, won the next. So the match seesawed. Mr. Baker hit the hardest; sometimes, indeed, the natural recoil of his flourish forced him to stagger back a step or two. Mr. Rockefeller was warier; he never waggled, but bent for a moment over his club in the attitude of one who offers prayer, then struck. As they approached the eighth hole, the wearer of the cotton gloves was one up. Mr. Baker's ball dropped ten feet from the pin; he putted; it serpentined from view--a five. The match was even. Mr. Rockefeller normally plays but eight holes. Fearful of untying what Fate had so obviously tied, the two old gentlemen removed to the hotel. Score for eight holes: Baker, 54; Rockefeller, 54.

*Unverified.