Near the Royal Liverpool Club at Hoylake, where the British Open was played last week, stands a hotel owned by a man named John Ball. Old now, John Ball has gone to live in a cottage over the Welsh border, but they remember him at Hoylake—his wiry figure, the yellow tea rose he used to wear in his buttonhole, his deadly iron shots, the intense partisanship of the many friends who came over from Liverpool and marched silently behind him when he was playing in a championship. There is a place on the...
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