In another life James Johnstone was a Glasgow cop, a big man with a badge who thrilled at high-speed chases and worked his rugged beat without the backup of a gun. He didn't suffer fools. He made them suffer, like the drunk who tried to stab him (cuffed; tossed in the clink) or the woman who called him at 3 a.m. and asked if he could help her force-feed a hungry crow. ("Force-feed the bird a bullet," was the gist of his reply.)
It wasn't a bad gig, but it eventually aged, and so did Johnstone. So, for his second act, the man that friends know as "JJ" decided to swap his billy club for a buggy and restrict his crime fighting to combating slow play.
Four days a week, from dawn to dusk, JJ meets-and-greets golfers on the first tee and patrols the windblown fairways of the world's most famous links. It's a prestigious, if low-paying, post—starter and ranger at the Old Course at St. Andrews—and the duties aren't that much different from law enforcement, except that he encounters fewer thugs. Both require the soothing insights of pop psychology and the people-pleasing skills of public relations.
His job, as JJ sees it, is to ease people along and to quell the fears of foursomes as they face the terrors of the first tee. Never mind that the opening fairway is wider than an airfield, with scarce trouble to speak of other than the demons in each player's head.
"When they come to that first tee, most people are a bit nervous, and understandably so, since odds are they've been looking forward to it for a lifetime," JJ says. "My job is to get them relaxed, to inject a little humor and try to remind them that the goal is to have fun."
They make a fitting pairing, the ex-cop and the Old Course, both having mellowed and matured with time. In his younger years, JJ liked fast cars and the frisson of excitement that came with police work. Nowadays, flooring a golf cart is his version of a race. At 6' 4", he still cuts an imposing figure. But he's 63 years old, his hair is tinged with gray, and his broad expressive face and bemused demeanor lend him a friendly, avuncular look (think Uncle Leo from Seinfeld).
When JJ signed on at St. Andrews in 1998, after 19 years on the Glasgow force, the Old Course, too, was in mid-life transition. Long a tweedy venue with a stiff-lipped reverence for tradition, it was learning to relax, opening its arms to corporate outings and pricey golf packages booked overseas. A new clubhouse had been built. Emphasis had fallen on American-style service. Out went grouchy icons, like the gin-blossomed starter who growled at you to move it. In came guys like JJ, who spoke a local's brogue but was less of a curmudgeon than a company man.
"In the old days, you might have come across some crusty characters who could be quite intimidating, especially for someone coming to a course that already left them in a bit of awe," says Colin Dalgleish, the GB&I Walker Cup captain and director of Perry Golf, the largest golf tour operator in Scotland. "These days, service expectations are higher. But visitors still come looking for a starter who has that unique Scottish flavor."
It's a delicate balance, honoring the past while adapting to the present, all the more so around St. Andrews, where locals like their golf without frills or fuss. Some lament the changes at the Old Course. They pine for the days of the late Bob McCrum, a longtime ranger whose Sabbatini-esque intolerance of slowpokes often led to brusque evictions from the links. That era has passed.
In keeping with new policy, JJ gives laggardly groups three warnings before asking them politely to move up a hole. In 12 years on the job, he has never had to kick anyone off the course. "JJ is always very amiable," says one St. Andrews regular, who admits that he misses the old rule of law. "It's the iron fist in the velvet glove approach."
Since early tee times still go to locals, morning rounds require little intervention. Most wrap up in under four hours. But later in the day, when tourist play takes over, JJ's job demands diplomacy: urging golfers onward without forgetting that the customer is (almost) always right.
Unfolding his lanking frame from his buggy, he ambles up to offending foursomes, a smiling but skeptical onlooker, a sympathetic ear who has heard it all. He dismisses lame excuses.
