We head out in my friend Don’s car around 6 a.m. on a dreary Sunday morning. There will be no fair-weather players at Royal Melbourne today. I’m not bothered by a little rain, and there is no need to worry about Don—he’s the maddest golfer going. He claims to be gainfully employed, but he logs more course hours per week than anyone I know back in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s been four years since I last saw him, rather worse for wear, with his perfectly sober girlfriend in a hotel bar after the final concert of my tour. He had read in the local press that I was planning to play golf while I was in town and offered to host me at his club, Metropolitan, while his mate Wally would do the same at Royal Melbourne—saving me about five hundred dollars. As that night wore on he went from describing my concert as having been a “beaut” to a “cracker” and eventually, when he could barely stand, it had been “absolutely ripper!” I worried that our night out had jeopardized his then-nascent romance, but what do I know?They’re engaged now. He’s got it made. He’s also got my number: To date I’ve never beaten him, a fact neither of us forgets.
Wally, who is hosting us again, meets us in the pro shop, and under umbrellas we make our way to the first tee of the West Course. It’s an unassuming opener for what Nick Faldo has said “might just be the best golf course in the world.” Almost as wide as the first at the Old Course, you’d have to be Ian Baker-Finch circa 1997 to lose a ball here, but the green falls away from the player, so it’s no easy par. Today, nothing is an easy par for me, and bad golf being infinitely more tiring than good, it’s an uphill round.
Despite my game, despite the weather, MacKenzie’s masterpiece still shines. This corner of the Sandbelt was originally called Sandringham. Sadly, most of the native vegetation was wiped out by development: roads, houses and, ironically, golf courses. Only Royal Melbourne chose absolutely to embrace what nature presented. Everything in sight is indigenous—I can’t think of an inland course that seems so completely natural. And the golf is glorious fun: undulating terrain on a grand scale; turf firm and fast with the spring of a dance floor; immense, immaculate greens; and cavernous bunkering at once rugged and artful.
Even given its generous width, Royal Melbourne is not an easy course. Few holes reveal their secrets to the debutant. Take the short par-four tenth: The green is drivable, but it’s blind. Wally hits a three-iron to lay up and seems happy with it. He’s longer than I am, so I hit three-wood on the same line and, for once, stripe it. Bad idea. Wally has a full wedge, but I find myself too close to the green to hit a spinning shot. There is nothing on the tee to tell you which shot to hit. Yes, the bold golfer is rewarded here, if he can execute. But the reckless player, while he may not lose his ball, will not win his match. On this day I lose, but I will be back. And I agree with Faldo: The West is really something. Don’t come all the way around the world to play it just once.
In the afternoon, the sky having brightened to a slate gray, we play the East Course, which has some great holes of its own, the best of which are integrated into the composite course that’s played when the club hosts the pros. The land, however, is clearly the second choice on the property, and the surrounding neighborhood can obtrude uncomfortably. Nonetheless, some regard Royal Melbourne East as the second-best course in Australia, and it certainly is a must-play, though on this trip once will be enough for me. After thirty-six holes, I’ve taken quite enough of a beating for one day.
All bets are off at Metropolitan Golf Club the next morning, my innocent nightcap having metamorphosed into an all-hours poker game with seven charming strangers. I feel like a zombie and am unable to muster even a practice swing, so naturally I smash my first drive straight down the middle of the fairway. Stupid game. Unable to think, I am unable to overthink, and I become a par machine—three up on my nemesis after nine, at his home course.
Metro is known for its difficulty. Rightly so, but although it is a long, strong course, it is also flat, and because of the inordinate amount of roll, yardages don’t play anything like the numbers on the card. MacKenzie was consulted on the design and he did submit a plan, but what was and was not implemented remains very much a gray area. Much of the course dates from the early 1960s, when half of the original land was lost to city development and Dick Wilson was brought over from America to create a new nine. Still, there is plenty of width to reward thoughtful play, and to be honest, for “sneaky short” players like me, it makes a pleasant change to see your drive careering out there far closer to the green than you have any right to expect.
It is the green complexes, though, that make Metro worth a visit. They are exquisite, with deep bunkers that look like Matisse’s jazzy lithographs and cut right into pristine putting surfaces that are kept firm enough to reject anything other than well-struck shots. Most are raised somewhat and surrounded by closely mown swales, creating the impression of more elevation change than is really there. Lob wedges did not exist in MacKenzie’s day, but I’m sure he’d find repeated reliance on them just as uncouth as he did the pitch shot. It is no surprise that Victorians like Stuart Appleby and Geoff Ogilvy are known on Tour for their short games: Growing up here, you need all the shots.
