Harry Williams - An Australian Golfing Tragedy

HARRY WILLIAMS


An Australian Golfing Tragedy

Born in 1915 in Melbourne, Harry Williams played at Commonwealth and Victoria GC’s. At 14 Williams was playing from a handicap of 2 when he shot 70 at Commonwealth. He had six birdies and two eagles on the card.
Before Williams had turned 24, he had won 2 Australian Amateurs and 5 Victorian Amateurs.
This is the story of promised greatness, which disappeared like a breeze on a warm summer’s day.
The great American Gene Sarazen, who played with Williams during the 1936 Australian Open at Metropolitan first suggested to Williams that he turn professional. Sarazen was astonished at the young Victorian's skill and told him he would make a fortune in the United States on the PGA Tour and play with the greats of the time, namely himself, Hagan, Cotton and Snead (Jones had retired, Hogan was living on oranges still). Sarazen described Williams as the greatest left-hander he had ever seen and possibly the greatest who ever played, but his pleas would not budge Williams away from Australia. Sarazen was not a man to hand out accolades lightly and to emphasise his high regard for Williams he gave the young Victorian an action photograph of himself and wrote on it: "To Harry Williams. The best left handed golfer in the world. Good luck, Gene Sarazen".
Harry Williams burst on to the scene in 1931 at the age of sixteen, the most scintillating talent ever seen in Australian golf. As stated above, in the 1930’s he was unbeatable as an Amateur. Twice Australian Amateur Champion and five times Victorian Amateur Champion through the decade, Harry Williams was consistently made offers by Sarazen and the USPGA to join the lucrative and fast growing US professional tour.
Yet, within a few years, the hopes held for him had disappeared. Had his father belted him once too often? Or his mother too constantly indulged him? Was it that the demands of golf broke him? Or was it that Harry was swept away by the establishment and changes in the organisation of the sport?
All we know is that on Wednesday 13 December 1961, the landlady of the flat Williams shared with his mother smelt gas seeping from within. Mrs Huggett (the landlady) called the police, who burst into the flat to find the double suicide of Harry Williams and his mother. There was only a lettuce leaf in the refrigerator, a box of golfing trophies in the living room, and an envelope addressed, “Fraterman – White via Con Giaopppoliiiiii Snr”
Get a wine before you read on. This is The Wide Open Road, The Triffids, a journey down the Mekong, searching for the lost dream.

Harry’s Second Last Gasp
It is a little known fact that in the sad lonely hours before Harry decided to gas everyone; he listed, in chronological order, the 20 golfers that have influenced the game the most, and importantly, what he thought of them.

These are his comments on the Top 20.

Golfer Comment by Harry Williams
Allan Robertson Original Scottish piss-head cunt.
Willie Park Musselburgh Monster, great man.
Tom Morris Snr Keeper of the Greens who out lived 3 wives and 28 children
Willie Auchterlonie Great surname but ultimately a prick.
Harry Vardon Never won a US Masters, bad grip, essentially a good man
Walter Hagan Ladies man, should have stuck with baseball. Smell the flowers
Bobby Jones Best ever. Period.
Horton Smith Dead set cunt
Sam Snead Deliverance type but would rate Barnbougle Dunes highly
Byron Nelson Soft cock, ranch acquiring, god bothering non-drinking quitter
Ben Hogan Hard unit who would kill Tiger one on one. Completely insane
Peter Thomson Fuck Off Cunt
Arnold Palmer Hard as nails, carved from stone, had it all
Jack Nicklaus 18 Big Ones, did it, Barbara cooks a good casserole
Roberto de Vicenzo Mad rooter and champion man. Poor counter.
Lee Trevino Good jokes but drive you nuts, fucking stupid bloody swing
Seve Ballesteros Outstanding jumpers, pump that fist on 18 you Spanish cunt
Tom Watson Hard drinking duel in the sun god type and a man’s man
Nick Faldo Try-hard, Pringle jumper Pommie bastard.
Tiger Woods Could do better, a bit overrated and not good for the game

Harry’s Last Gasp
The last thing Harry did before the oven was left on was to leave a note to his greengrocer, Con Giaopppoliiiiii Snr, who had been bonking Harry’s mother Mrs Williams for years, and had sold Mrs William’s that last lettuce.
The letter was addressed to Fraterman and White and was to be given to them 47 years later in 2008. Con Snr said he’d try and live that long.
Con Snr knew he wouldn’t make it. In 2005, as he lay dying in his lettuce patch behind the shop, he gave the note to his son, Con Giaopppoliiiiii Jnr, himself recently out of jail for urinating on himself in public at Princes Park watching Carlton train.
Jnr didn’t know how to contact Fraterman and White. Snr told Jnr to take the note to Snr’s close mate, Noel Gallagher, of Oasis fame, who would provide the details.
Jnr arranged to meet Gallagher through the Band’s manager Owen Williams, who duly set up the meeting.
Noel asked why Con was there. “What the fuck do you want you cunt grocer piece of shit?”
Williams, dragging on his 10th cigarette in the meeting, told Jnr to “get to the fucking point”.
Jnr said “Noel, maaattteee, this note was written 47 years ago by the legend Harry Williams. Can you mail it to Frats, please Mr Gallagher, cunt”.
Noel smiled. He looked at Con Jnr, nodded and said “sure cunt”. Noel had known Frats since the Sony days in Sydney back in 2002. Noel asked if Frat’s buddy Longy was cool. Con said “he’s cool, cunt”. Noel also remarked about Frat’s mate Whitey, and complained how Whitey writes emails every day to Noel asking him how to play “Don’t Look Back In Anger” on guitar. He’s a “fucking annoying cunt” Noel said.
Noel high fived Jnr, addressed the letter to his buddy Frats, went to the Manchester post office and gave it to the Post Master.
“Fuucckking post this cuuuuunt” he said.
The note arrived at Frat’s house a few weeks ago. Frats got Whitey over, they opened the letter and there it was, dated Wednesday 13 December 1961. The letter read:
“Dear David and Nick
I’m writing to you from 1961 because I have a vision. I don’t know if it’s the gas, it’s a bit stuffy in here, but I have a vision of golf in 2008 and only you can help. So the last thing I do (Mum…..for the last time SHUT THE FUCK UP !) is to write to you two soft jokes and demand you get into gear and help me, help me from beyond the grave.
By 2008 the game as I know will be on its knees and will be praying for mercy.
Mercy from a man called Tiger Woods.
Tiger will kill golf.
Golf is not a game of perfect, but this Tiger will come close. An automaton of perfect, a terminator of the tour, who relentlessly grinds on, winning tournament after tournament, holing putt after putt.
It’s not golf and it’s wrong.
Golf is pain, frustration, anger, more frustration.
Occasional happiness blooms when a fairway is hit or a three footer sneaks in the side door.
Ridiculous pleasure and satisfaction when you play well.
But mainly golf is a journey of inevitable pain and furious anger that generally is only quelled one way.
Through alcohol and the close bonds of male company.
I had alcohol but no mates.
I live with my Mum. (Not for much longer though, thank God) and what money we had has been frittered away. At Caulfield. Boys let me tell you about one day at Victoria in the par comp. I was eight-up after nine holes. I owed shots at both the third and sixth holes from my plus-two handicap, but eagled them both for wins. At the turn, I was bored. And you can’t have 16 up in a par comp. It’s not right, so I decided that I’d go to the races at Caulfield. I marked nine losses on the back nine and handed in a card of one-down. I won the comp. I lost big at the races though.
I had golf by the balls early on. I could have been the greatest Australian golfer ever. I could have dominated the game like Tiger but I loved it too much.
So what I want you two blokes to do is get golf back to its purest form. Pure golf on a pure course. Lots of laughs and lots and lots of piss. A few dollars on the nags and lots of bullshit. Go to the footy. But most of all just play golf and enjoy it for what it is…the greatest game on earth. And when that little white ball paints pictures in the sky, holding up against a stiff left to right breeze, to settle a couple of feet from the hole, just think…..Fuck me ! How good was Harry Williams !
Fraterman and White!! Do it Cunts. Organise 16 blokes and play links golf in Tassie!
Kind regards
Harry Williams
Ps. I’ve enclosed our latest gas bill. It’s a bit large and Mum wasted our last sixpence on lettuce instead of piss, so do you think you could get Frats to pay it?
Cheers
Harry. “