Scotland's modest hero

COMMENT
Kenneth Roy on the death of 'Gentleman John' Panton, who embodied the finer qualities
of the race

He was a good bad weather player

With the death of John Panton last weekend, a little bit of my own life went too. At the age of 13, I won £60 – quite a lot of money then – in a short-story writing competition for schools, my first and only piece of successful fiction. Pocketing my winnings, I went straight to the pro's shop at Glenbervie Golf Club, near my home, and bought a set of Fred Daly Master Models. It was John Panton himself – the head honcho – who selected the clubs he considered would suit a boy of my height and weight. They served me well. Yesterday, for old time's sake, I fetched the 5-iron from the bag and remembered that important day long ago. Winning £60 for writing a silly story was the least of it. The real thrill was meeting John Panton. Later, his assistant taught me the rudiments of the game and once or twice Mr Panton, seeing me at the bus stop, would give me a lift to Glenbervie. He was the first famous person I'd ever met. I still think of him as one of the greatest.
     I am not alone in the reverence I felt for him. For a while Alex Salmond and I wrote adjoining columns in a newspaper. One week I made a passing reference to Panton and in his next column the First Minister (as he then wasn't) said something to the effect that, although we agreed on little else, if I was a big fan of Panton I couldn't be all bad. His own father, Alex added, idolised Panton. It made me very sad on Saturday that my former employers, the BBC in Scotland, thought so little of the news of his death, at the grand old age of 92, that they omitted to mention it in the Scottish pages of their Ceefax news service, among all the PR-inspired drivel they did find it possible to publish. Of the BBC as a serious news organisation, I despair; but let that pass. I would rather tell you what made John Panton so special.
     Born in Pitlochry in 1916, he became a professional golfer while still in his teens. Like so many promising sportsmen and women of that era, he was wretchedly unlucky. Just when he should have been developing his talent, war came and tournaments were suspended for seven years. By the time they resumed, he was 30 years old and had missed what might have been some of his best competitive years. Unlucky in another way too: his career flourished just before golf acquired mass appeal as a spectator sport and fortunes could be made by playing it. The biggest cheque Panton picked up in his career was £1,200. Few golfers were able to rely on their tournament winnings alone; they required the security of a club job. Tournaments ended on a Friday so that the competitors could be back in the pro's shop in time for the weekend trade.
     Panton made the most of limited opportunities. He won golf's Order of Merit as the most successful player of the season, played three times in the Ryder Cup and, late in his career, defeated Sam Snead to become World Senior Champion. He was one of the sweetest iron players. Had it not been for his inconsistent putting, he might well have won the Open Championship; he came close more than once.
     An outstanding golfer, then, if not quite a great one. But none of that explains why he was so special; why the admiration widely felt for him – by Alex Salmond's dad and many thousands of others – was so deep and enduring. To his army of supporters, he embodied not only the finer qualities of the sport but the finer qualities of the race. Modest in victory, gracious in defeat, he conducted himself on and off the course in a manner that would now be called old-fashioned: a man of few words, never one for the loud gesture or the empty boast, a craftsman who let his work speak for itself. Once, he was approached by a golf journalist who had been following another player. 'How did you get on, John?", the journalist asked. Panton was sipping a cup of tea: his favourite drink. 'Not bad,' he replied. When the journalist consulted the scoreboard, he found that Panton was leading the field after a superb sub-par round.
     In retirement, sports personalities tend to fade quickly, at first from view, then from memory. There are a few illustrious exceptions. Football's Bobby Charlton is one; Panton was another – and for the same reason. We recognise that, in such rare people, what they stand for as human beings is more important than anything they achieved in competition. So John Panton, as an old man, was garlanded with honours – by the Queen, the Professional Golfers' Association, and the Royal and Ancient Golf Club, which appointed him its honorary professional and commissioned a portrait. The painting hangs in the clubhouse by the Old Course, outside the office of the secretary, Peter Dawson, who has described Panton as 'a magnificent golfer, a model professional, and a true gentleman'. Perceptive on all counts, particularly the last.
     I thought of John Panton during the recent Open Championship at Turnberry, when two of the outstanding Scottish golfers of the modern era, Sandy Lyle and Colin Montgomerie, were engaged in an unpleasant public spat, Lyle accusing Montgomerie of 'sort of cheating' during a tournament four years ago and of behaving like a drama queen, Montgomerie going on to blame Lyle for his poor form in the championship. How very far golf has travelled since the salad days of Gentleman John. The colossal purses distributed weekly on the European tour have enabled many mediocre talents to earn a more than decent living. Yet, as the prize fund has grown to ever dizzier heights, we no longer expect that golf – or any commercialised sport – should be known and respected for its true gentlemen. Peter Dawson's eloquent summing-up of a life was more than a tribute to one exceptional man. It could stand as a lament for sportsmanship.