In a tribute to Gene Sarazen, who died last Thursday, Dermot Gilleece recalls these magic moments from an interview with him during a dinner in his honour at The K Club, in July 1993.

I was born Eugenio Saraceni in Harrison, New York and I thought no more about my name until I made a hole-in-one on the public course near where I lived. They gave me the headline in the sports page the next day and when I saw it I said "Oh Geez. That looks like a concert violinist. I need to change that quick."

There was no legal dimension to changing your name 80 years ago. Anyway, Sarazen sounded good - and it can't be found in any telephone book. A lot of fellas change their names. That Mark Calcavecchia, he should change his. But maybe it's too late now.

What the eye sees is important. And the newspapers were very important in my day. Wonderful writers like Bernard Darwin, Paul Gallico, Grantland Rice and Damon Runyon became great friends of mine. Darwin was the best of them. He did some beautiful golf reports.

Among the first of the great players I met was (Harry) Vardon. And I played against him. It happened when I went over (to Britain) in 1923. There were about four or five Americans practising at Troon and they said "C'mon kid, let's go to Lytham and St Annes." But I replied that I had come to win the Open and I was staying in Troon.

So (Walter) Hagen and (Johnny) Farrell and a few others went to Lytham. And when they got there, they started calling me up on the phone and calling me all sorts of names. They got me so mad that when I hung up I said to the hotel porter "How do I get to Lytham and St Annes?" He said I had to take an overnight train to Liverpool and drive from there. So he booked my ticket.

Off I headed for Lytham and St Annes and when I got there I had a shower, practised and was ready for the tournament. It was the North of England Professional Championship, arranged for the week prior to the Open and when I'm called to the first tee, who am I playing with only Vardon. Geez, I thought, this is really somethin'.

Anyway, Vardon hits a beautiful baffy shot onto the first green (par three), about 10 feet from the hole. It's blowin' hard and I take an iron and I try to steer it on the wind but it never moves and finishes in the bunker. So I says to Vardon: "What sort of winds do you have over here?" And he replies: "The way you hit `em son, they'll never move."

You know, I won that tournament and they were all there. I was the first player ever to come from America and win it. Then I went back to Troon thinking that there was nothing to the Open. But I couldn't understand the R and A putting me, the US Open and USPGA champion, out last on the first day and then first out the next day, when I hit a storm. I started eight, seven for an 85 and failed to qualify. But I vowed I would win it some day, even if I had to swim the Atlantic.

Bobby Jones and me were born two weeks apart; were married the same year and both our wives were named Mary. Later on, when he was confined to a wheelchair and I was doing the commentary for the Shell Wonderful World of Golf shows, I would write him a letter, every show I did. And his wife Mary would say "keep writing, Gene, keep writing."

He was a wonderful, wonderful man. I remember after winning the US Open at Stokie in 1922, I was real proud when I showed him the trophy. "What do you think of it?" I asked. "Well, you won it," he replied. Then he came back and won it for the first time a year later.

Hagen had a different way about him. When he saw the trophy he offered to play me for it. I remember another time when I beat him in the USPGA in 1923 at Pelham, he claimed that my ball had gone through the window of a nearby house and that an Italian, who was eating spaghetti, threw it out.

Then there was this hillbilly by the name of (Sam) Snead from Virginia. I thought he was a helluva player. So I told Tom Wilson (president of the equipment company) that he was the best player I'd ever seen and that from the cut of him, he'd take anything we had to offer.

Later on, I discovered that Snead could tell the dirtiest stories you ever heard. When we were eating together at Augusta National this year (1993), I told (Jack) Stephens (the club chairman), not to let Snead tell more than one story or I'd lose my dinner.