When the name Muirfield is mentioned, most ignorant American golfers think of Jack Nicklaus’ grand course in Dublin, Ohio. Serious golfers, however, know that the real Muirfield is in Gullane, just east of Edinburgh in Scotland. When the Golden Bear won the Open there in 1966, he fell in love with the place and named his new course “Muirfield Village.”

Last month, thanks to dear friends Mike and Lisa O’Keefe, we had the treat of playing the real Muirfield, and staying three nights at the Greywalls Hotel, the famed small hotel which sits adjacent to the golf grounds. The backyard of Greywalls is just inches from the 9th green and 10th tee with a sign that makes it clear that riff-raff like me should stay away. Even with a tee time the next day at Muirfield, we should not wander about the holy grounds.

Visitors’ book extract at Greywalls Hotel

My favorite time of day at the hotel was 4 to 6 AM, leaving our humble room #9 to go sit alone in the library with a coffee, feeling the ghosts of Greywalls, soaking up the history, smelling the oldness of the place, imagining that Bobby Jones would join me soon. It was my early morning version of heaven.

For a glimpse into the incredible history of the hotel, look at this picture of the hotel’s sign-in sheet in 1980 which now hangs in a hallway. I hope you enjoy, like I did, trying to read the ‘Hall of Fame” signatures. The ghosts of the greats seem to still be there. I couldn’t help wondering who had been in my room #9 during the 1980 Open.

Imagine being in the breakfast room at Greywalls during that Open. Lee Trevino, Ben Crenshaw, Tom Watson, Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Johnny Miller and more ordering the full Scottish breakfast, or just having a bowl of porridge? Imagine the pressure on the chef to get the poached eggs just right.

Our friends Bill Rogers and Jerry Pate were actually there, along with their wives. You will see their signatures on the sign-in sheet. Just one more piece of evidence that Bill and Jerry used to hang with the big boys. Perhaps you know that Bill won the Open next year! Muirfield was just his tune-up.

The golf course at Muirfield is the latest home of the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, a club that can document its continuous existence back to 1744. That makes it, as far as its members are concerned, the oldest golf club in the world. At least one other Scottish club, the Royal Burgess Golfing Society, claims to be older—but it doesn’t have papers to prove it. The Honourable Company has the papers, and facsimiles of them are on display in glass cases inside the quasi-Tudor clubhouse.

My first appearance inside the clubhouse was forty years ago. It was July 1984 when I arrived on a Tuesday afternoon at 2 PM. My pitiful attempt to qualify for the British Open at St Andrews had failed and my brother-in-law Steve Davis and I were hoping to ‘walk on’ at Muirfield. Looking back, we were obviously ignorant of the history and the rules. There were no more than three cars in the car park. We could not see a single person on the course, where all eighteen holes are laid out in front of anyone looking from the stately old clubhouse.

No fence kept us out, so Steve and I wandered into the most likely place to find a human to provide information. If there was a “pro shop,” we never saw it. The floors in the hallway were squeaky old wooden floors which made it impossible to sneak in or out. I felt like an intruder in heaven, waiting to be thrown out. There were no “Welcome” signs, but there also were no “Keep Out” signs.

We found a door marked “Secretary”. I decided not to knock. I opened the door, barely, and peeked into the room before making a full entrance. My sneak-peak revealed a large room, full of file cabinets. Lots of papers on several desks. To my left, near the window overlooking the golf course, sat a middle-aged lady who appeared quite busy. This was long before email and computers so the desks were cluttered with papers and files and clutter of all kinds. She must have heard the door open but she ignored us completely.

I decided to make a full entrance. Steve ignorantly followed like a Scottish sheep. Looking back on that moment, the busy lady must have surely had a sly grin as she knew what would happen next. We looked so American, probably wearing pink sweaters or yellow pants. It was 1984, after all.

Paddy Hamner looking out his window for trespassers at Muirfield in about 1980

I knew the Secretary’s name was Major J. G. Vanreenen, a famously grumpy old gentleman whose predecessor, Mr. Paddy Hamner had set the golf club standard for rudeness and grumpiness. Legendary stories about these gentlemen, who held the ‘keys to golfing heaven’, are myriad. Click here for an article from Golf Digest, which hilariously chronicles the stories, including Tom Watson being thrown off the course on the same evening of his Open victory in 1980.

The Major’s primary duty was to manage the affairs at the club. His secondary duty was to keep away the common riff-raff, such as lawyers from Kentucky who charade as proper golfers.

As Steve and I slid quietly into the office, we glanced to the right and saw the great man, sitting behind his desk. Vanreenen was in a very typical rumpled sport coat with a too-short tie that needed ironing, or so it seemed. The great man never looked up. He was apparently busy reading another letter from another foolish American who wanted to play the greatest golf course in the world. No one acknowledged our presence.

I had led our band of two into enemy territory. Like Joshua and Caleb entering the Promised Land, we were the grasshoppers. The Major and his assistant were the giants.

We had decided on a simple strategy. We were hoping for a smiling face and a “welcome to Muirfield”. We were hoping to discover that Tuesday afternoons were the perfect time when the course was empty and visitors were more than welcome to fill empty tee times. Just pay some exorbitant fee and walk on. I had made sure I had plenty of cash in my pocket.

If needed, I would impress them with my badge that said “COMPETITOR, 1984 OPEN” from the qualifier the day before at nearby Leven Links, one of four qualifying sites.

If that failed, I would mention that I was a member in good standing of the Bar. I had heard that several members of Muirfield were advocates and solicitors, my fellow lawyers.

I could mention that I was the club champion at Lexington Country Club in Kentucky. I would try not to lie, although I would say whatever else might impress the Major to let us play a simple round of golf.

We would carry our own clubs if no caddies were available. We would be no trouble at all. Just let us play a simple round of golf on a virtually empty golf course. Money was no object. Time was no object.

But now our strategy was in big trouble. We were obviously in the right place. I had been in Scotland enough to know the “Secretary” controls the play of visitors. I was now hovering five feet away from the man himself, who was working that day, sitting at his desk. He remained silent. He never said a word. He totally ignored us. A visit with the Wizard of Oz could not have been more intimidating.

I coughed. I shuffled my feet. I had argued appellate cases at the 6th Circuit, the Federal appeals court where three Judges in black robes go out of their way to ask questions with no answers, presuming that young lawyers deserve to be embarrassed by their lack of preparation.

But nothing had prepared me for this moment with the Major. This was the Judgement Seat, and Steve and I were naked and speechless.

Finally, I gathered my nerves and dove into the deep end. I heard myself say, “Good afternoon, Major. My name is Tim Philpot. I am here to qualify for the Open. Unfortunately, I failed to qualify yesterday.” I paused, leaving the false inference that my failure to qualify was a surprise to the worldwide media and golf pundits who had gathered near St Andrews for the 1984 Open, hoping he might mistake me for a real player. He did not need to know that the Lexington City Championship was a “major” for me. Nothing could stop me now. “We were hoping today to be permitted the honor to play your course.”

Silence. He was busy doing something. Too busy to look up. Too busy to speak. I continued, knowing that I was too close and too desperate to stop. I had come too far to quit now.

“I play off a Plus Handicap at Lexington Country Club in Kentucky, U.S.A. We of course understand we would be paying a full green fee. We could play any day this week if you have any times available.”

The sun was shining. There were three cars in the lot. There seemed to be plenty of times “available.” The Major seemed to have heard nothing.

I continued: “I am an attorney at law and a practicing member of the bar in good standing.” Nothing. It felt like I was proposing to Miss America, who doesn’t even know I exist. I forged ahead with my fantasy proposal.

“Major, it has been my lifelong dream to play one round of golf at the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers.”

Finally… the great man spoke. The Wizard was in full form. He never actually looked up. He continued to write or read or whatever he was doing. But his voice was unmistakable. He spoke, but not to me.

“Mrs. Mustard.”

“Yes, sir?”, came the female voice from the desk near the window.

“Kindly look at the ledger. Are there any times available this week for visitors?”

Without looking at any notes or records, the answer came loud and clear from Mrs. Mustard’s corner of the large room: “Fully booked, sir. We are fully booked.”

Only then did the great man look up at Steve and me. His head moved very deliberately, and his eyes finally zeroed in on mine. This was not the first time that Vanreenen and Mrs. Mustard had tag-teamed innocent Americans. Oh my, I thought to myself. I was so petrified by now that I barely remember what came out of the great man’s mouth, but it was something like this. He delivered a speech about Muirfield and the sanctity of the holy ground upon which we stood. The tone of his voice inferred that anyone who showed up in his office unprepared like this was a scoundrel. This was the moment that I began to understand why Moses was instructed not to go ‘face to face’ with God on the mountain. If you do, your heart may stop beating with sheer terror.

“Young man, of course, you would like to play here. Everyone wants to play here. Even this morning Jack Nicklaus, Tom Watson, and J.C. Snead called and wanted to play. They received the same answer as you. Perhaps you are unaware that this is the finest golf club in the world and our protocol for visitors is well-established. We are fully booked.”

He then became just a little more polite and directed Mrs. Mustard to give us information about how to properly book a tee time, since we were unfamiliar with the commandments of the Almighty. She handed us a piece of paper which explained the gospel of getting a tee time at Muirfield.

I later wondered if J.C. Snead knew how great he was to be mentioned in the same breath as Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson.

But with forty years of hindsight, I am thankful for that day. If God and his judgment seat are anything like Major Vanreenen, I’m worried.

Worried, but ready.

Indeed, I followed the instructions given to me by Mrs. Mustard and made it to the first tee in 1986.

FYI, just as Mrs. Mustard’s information sheet explained to me the way of entry into Muirfield, the Bible also explains that the grace of God through Jesus Christ has made a way to get a tee time in the heavenly realm. I recommend you follow the directions. The Judgment Seat does not need to be a scary place.