John Panton - an appreciation: When I was a lad in Linlithgow there were three great Scottish heroes revered above all others in the Salmond household. One was golfing great, "Gentleman" John Panton.

ALEX SALMOND

When I was a lad in Linlithgow there were three great Scottish heroes revered above all others in the Salmond household. One was "King" Willie Bauld, the second was James Graham, First Marquis of Montrose, and the third was the Scottish golfing great, "Gentleman" John Panton, who died last Friday in his 93rd year.

Back in the mid-1990s, when I wrote a column for The Herald, I learned that I was far from alone in my hero worship. The column was a political one and I usually had a fair weekly response from the readership - one for, one agin and one not so sure.

Occasionally, to demonstrate a hinterland (or normality), I wrote about other subjects and, one such time, I penned a piece on what I termed the "golden round" - the idea that everyone at some stage in their life does something just about perfectly - the politician produces the perfect speech, the artist a perfect painting, or the engineer a perfect machine.

I suggested that the round of a then 53-year-old John Panton in the final day of the St Andrew's Open of 1970 was such an event. In the height of a hooley, the old man tamed the old lady and I watched every single unerring shot.

John came in with a one-under-par 71, the best round of the day by a clear two shots in by far the worst of the weather. For a mad hour or so after he finished, as player after player scored in the high 70s or worse and the leaders were being blown to perdition on the front nine, it seemed that he might even win the tournament.

Such are the fickle fates of golf, though, that the wind subsided and Jack Nicklaus and Doug Sanders played out that memorable finish where Sanders missed the three-footer and the veteran BBC commentator Henry Longhurst merely said: "there but for the grace of God . . ."

In the article, I described the Panton round blow by blow and it provoked not the usual occasional snowball but an avalanche of correspondence from people who had also been there, all enthusiastically welcoming the subject, if some disagreeing about the precise account of some of the holes.

It was an illustration of two things. First, that people's attention is often best captured by matters above and beyond politics, and second, an illustration of the extraordinary high regard in which Panton was held by those who had seen him play.

On one level, this was hardly surprising given that his career encompassed innumerable Scottish championships, three Ryder Cups, a Varden Trophy, a matchplay championship and many other triumphs. However, there was a bit more to Panton than mere success.

His conduct on the course was exemplary and his long iron play simply sublime. Few players could master the wind like Panton. Lack of length probably prevented him from winning the greatest prizes of all, although he could have won the Open in 1956 and probably should have foiled Gary Player's first win at Muirfield in 1959. It is reasonable to speculate that, if he had been of this era, with modern golfing technology offering him vital yardage, Panton would have been all but unbeatable.

Along with the Irish maestro Harry Bradshaw, he was among the first to treat the embryonic post-war tour seriously. It is said that they even devised the drink, the "John Panton", to assist their efforts to scoop up the then pretty modest prizes.

A "John Panton" - angostura bitters around the glass, ginger beer and a dash of lime - is basically a non-alcoholic drink with a bit of a kick. In this way, Bradshaw and Panton enjoyed the conviviality of the tour but were able to do themselves justice on the course. Even now, asking for a John Panton is a good way to test a real barman's knowledge.

For his legion of fans, perhaps the most satisfying aspect of Panton's career was its long and glorious Indian summer. By the late 1960s he had become the best senior golfer on the planet - soundly defeating the legendary Sam Snead in the world final of 1967.

I didn't know John all that well, although my father was his most loyal fan for the best part of 40 years, watching him at every available opportunity. However, at the St Andrews Open of 2005 I had the enormous pleasure of having lunch with the great man.

One of his main topics of conversation was the considerable achievements of his daughter Cathy, who inherited her father's swing and had an outstanding professional career in her own right.

I asked him if he was still playing. "Every day" came the answer but always at Glenbervie. His failing sight didn't matter on a course where, as club professional for 40 years, he knew every single blade of grass.

"How are you scoring?" I asked the then 88-year-old. "Not well,"

said gentleman John with a sigh.

"No better than mid-70s."

The Royal and Ancient had arranged a car to take their honorary professional back home. However, by then John was already off and away, out on the course catching some of the golf. I bet none of the players were matching the grace and authority of the "golden round" on that windy day way back in 1970.

The Old Course was just the same. Only the times had changed.