The Best Golf Stories Ever Told Page 15

  He was slightly off his game again at the next hole, which is a not difficult 4. A short iron shot was responsible for his failure in this instance, and he exceeded the figure I have named by a stroke.

  A far better recovery, after being short, was witnessed at the fourth hole, but at the next the prospective champion made what was really his first mistake of any magnitude. It is a long hole, but he got very near to it in 4—within a couple of feet, as a matter of fact. A putt of this distance is as near becoming a certainty as is possible, but by some unaccountable means Braid managed to miss it, and he had to return a 6. At the next he did nothing better than a 5, although it must be pleaded as an excuse for this figure that he was left with a very awkward lie after his iron shot. Accidents will happen, even in the best-regulated families, and it was but the fortune of war after all.

  So he was not a whit dismayed, and at the seventh narrowly escaped a 3 (a performance he repeated at the eighth), while with a 4 for the ninth he turned in 40—three strokes above his figures in the earlier portion of the day.

  Turning for the return, Braid certainly did not reproduce the initial steadiness of his game, but, on the other hand, there were occasional flashes of brilliance. His first hole when coming in cost 4, and at the eleventh (another long hole) he was well-nigh up in a couple of shots. Then he fell away badly, proved terribly weak on the green, and finally could accomplish nothing better than a 6—a great disappointment to those who were anticipating his success. Again, at the next hole he displayed weakness in putting, just where he had failed to do himself justice on previous occasions, and when he failed to discover the way to the hole, his score had reached seven above 4s.

  Then it was that the fighting qualities of the man reasserted themselves. Braid knew that one man at least (Vardon) might run him desperately close, and he succeeded in steadying himself, a fact rendered patent to all by his getting down a difficult putt at his next attempt. At the fourteenth he made a still better showing, for he had the hole in 3; and although he discovered the bunker by his drive to the fifteenth, he made a grand recovery from a deeply indented hollow, and his ball rested within ten yards of the hole. It was a possible 3, but there was nothing disturbing in the fact that he took 4, for that is the par value of this hole.

  Braid dropped another stroke two holes later, for again he missed what appeared to be a certainty, his putt of a yard’s distance not being sufficiently well calculated. But with an aggregate of 80, Braid finished his four rounds in 309, and then attention was turned to Vardon.

  He had not done too well when he started, his tee shot for the first hole going into the wood; but he recovered himself magnificently, and 4 represented the hole. At the second hole I succeeded in securing an advantage of a stroke by means of a four-yard putt, but at the fourth and fifth Vardon recovered himself.

  At the turn his total was 39 and mine 40, and when we had reached the fifteenth we learnt what Braid had done. To maintain the English hold upon the Championship Vardon would need to play a round of 75—a big task at the best of times, but a doubly difficult one now.

  Excitement became intense, for the Ganton man had played such absolutely wonderful games on other occasions that there was no knowing what he might do now; but going to the sixteenth hole he missed his approach by some means, and found himself badly bunkered. This was not encouraging certainly, for the hole cost 6, and it was a necessity for Vardon to take the last couple in 3 apiece in order to make a tie.

  That this was almost impossible of accomplishment was recognised to the full, and the seventeenth taking 4, the hopes of the English brigade fell considerably below zero. Then, in approaching the last hole, Vardon had more bad luck, for he sliced his second shot into the crowd, and his full round amounted to 78, giving a complete aggregate of 312, Braid thus winning by three strokes upon the full four rounds. My round cost me 77, and my aggregate for the complete contest was 313.

  So the Scot trounced the Saxon, and as I said at the start of the chapter, Braid deserved to win upon the game he played. He is a native of Elie, Fifeshire, learnt his golf at Earlsferry and the Braids course at Edinburgh, came southward to the golfing department of one of the principal London stores, and then secured the position of resident professional to the Romford Club.

  US Mint design: Obverse-Don Everhart Reverse-Phebe Hemphill

  THE STORY OF MASTERS WEEK AT AUGUSTA NATIONAL

  TRIPP BOWDEN

  It’s the first full week in April, Masters Week, and I’m sitting on a bench in the caddy house, lacing up a pair of fresh out of the box green and white FootJoys. The shoes are custom-made for Augusta National, caddies in particular.

  This is the first year someone who’s not a caddy gets the privilege of slipping them on.

  That someone is me. Me and two others, a veteran Augusta caddy named Tip Lite and another kid who is a couple years older than me. I figure he must have some pull, though I never get around to asking how much.

  Outside I retrace the cart steps from my ride with Freddie, and twenty minutes later I’m slipping under the yellow ropes and taking my position behind the 2nd green. The one Freddie drove onto from the Bobby Jones sundial wearing bedroom slippers.

  It’s a different sort of job, this forecaddying. My assignment is to fix players’ ball marks and sweep sand off the green with a fiberglass pole after they blast out of the bunker. Sounds dull as Parcheesi at first glance, but I feel like the guy who feeds the dolphins at Sea World. It’s a menial job, but once you’re on stage you get as many eyes on you as the Golden Bear himself.

  There’s no feeling quite like it, being not two feet from the likes of Nicklaus, Palmer, Player, and Watson, fixing their ball marks as they approach the green to raucous applause. Some players seem to appreciate us, some act as if we’re not even there.

  Palmer always says thank you.

  Two years ago I had no idea who he was. Today I know him as the King. And the King just acknowledged one of his court jesters.

  Good stuff, this. But as good as this is, it’s not nearly as good as what awaits me after my job is done for the day.

  Freddie’s office.

  Freddie’s invited me to come by after I’m done, but only if I want to. My forecaddy ID gives me all-day and all-week access to Augusta National, the most revered golf course in the world. And to the Masters, the most elusive ticket in all of sports.

  I understand if you want to take a rain check.

  Rain check, my ass.

  An invitation to Freddie’s office blows everything else out of the water in ways you could never imagine. When the last group putts out I tell my fellow forecaddies I’ll see ’em tomorrow. Walking towards the clubhouse, I repeat Freddie’s words like a mantra.

  Walk up to the pro shop like you belong. Push back your hat so the Pinkerton can see your eyes. Look dead into his and say, “I’m here to see Freddie.” Don’t miss a beat and don’t slow down. Walk in like you own the place.

  I do as I’m told, only to later realize all I ever need to do to access almost anything at Augusta is mention five simple words: I’m here to see Freddie.

  After thanking the Pinkerton, I walk down the short path around the side of the pro shop, squeak open the door to Freddie’s office. A tall, good-looking Spaniard is standing over Freddie’s desk, talking in broken English. He would win the Masters that year, after a rain delay that pushed the tournament to Monday, beginning his final round 3, 3, 3.

  Birdie, eagle, birdie.

  Freddie sees me, nods, and flicks his wrist, the sign to come in. He gets up from his chair and gestures to it with an open hand and so I sit down. The Spaniard looks at me like I just walked on water. He turns to Freddie, asks about changing out his grips. Had Freddie ever done that before?

  Freddie nods and says, “Yes, sir. All day long.”

  Under his breath I hear something else, but I can’t quite make it out.

  The Spaniard shakes Freddie’s hand, thanks him, and leaves.

  When th
e door bounces shut, Freddie opens his hand and a five-dollar bill falls onto the floor. He laughs.

  “Ain’t that something? That sonofabitch wants me to re-grip his clubs and he gives me five bucks—five bucks to make sure they’re ready for tomorrow!” He’s really laughing now. “But I’ll do it. Ain’t no doubt about that.” Freddie reaches into the Spaniard’s bag and pulls out his driver. “Hey, this feels pretty good. Got it balanced just right.”

  The fiver is still lying on the floor.

  He hands me the driver. I stand up, grip it, and waggle. I’m in awe as much as I am dumbfounded, but Freddie’s right. This club feels great.

  “So, how’d it go, man? You make out all right?”

  “It was awesome,” I say, and then I tell him how Chi Chi Rodriguez poked me with his putter and asked if I was Frank Beard’s son (I had no idea who Frank Beard was) and how Arnold Palmer thanked me for fixing his ball mark. Looked me right in the eye.

  “You mean this guy?” asks Freddie, in a voice only I can hear.

  In walks the King himself.

  “Hey, Freddie,” says Palmer as the two men shake hands. “Always good to see you.”

  “Always good to be seen,” says Freddie, “especially at my age.” Palmer laughs, and they talk about things that don’t pertain to me, don’t pertain to golf. I stand there in pure disbelief, not three feet from the man who, through television and his amazing charisma, changed the game of golf forever.

  Just like with the Spaniard, I can feel Arnie’s eyes on me, wondering who I must be, given access to this mother of all backstage passes.

  “This here’s my doctor’s son,”says Freddie, as if reading Arnie’s mind.

  The look on his face says he has a vague memory of me, but nothing clicks. He smiles a hello, turns to Freddie, back to me, then Freddie again. He says something about him and his 4-iron no longer being friends, then pulls the iron out of the bag and grips it.

  What a grip! If God had hands they would be Arnie’s. Wrapped around a golf club they look like something off a wall in the Sistine Chapel. No wonder they call him the King.

  Arnie slips the 4-iron back in the bag, tells Freddie he’ll see him tomorrow, and walks out, waving as he goes.

  “Check this out,” says Freddie as the door shuts. He hands me Arnie’s 4-iron. The clubface has his name on it. “Grip it, see what you think.”

  Are you kidding me? Grip Arnold Palmer’s 4-iron?

  But grip it I do, and the leather grip feels sticky and smells like earth. Not dirt, but the big ball you’re standing on.

  “This is real golf here, man. How the game was meant to be played. Leather grips, iron shafts, and a ball that won’t fly to hell and gone.” Freddie looks at me, looks through me, comes back to himself, and reaches for the 4-iron. “Come over here,” he says. “Got something I want you to see.”

  What could possibly top this?

  Comstock/Thinkstock

  THE STORY OF BEN HOGAN’S ULTIMATE TEST

  JEFF MILLER

  After Lloyd Mangrum christened the 1949 P.G.A. Tour season with a victory at the Los Angeles Open, Ben Hogan and Jimmy Demaret did their best to turn the rest of the month’s schedule into a match race. Hogan won the Bing Crosby Pro-Am. Then they finished in a tie at Long Beach with Hogan taking the playoff 67 to 69. On to Phoenix and another playoff between them, won this time by Demaret 67-70. There was no reason to believe things would be any different at the Tour’s next stop, the Tucson Open, except that Hogan was headed back to Texas for a break before resuming play in San Antonio following a week’s break.

  If the Hogan-Demaret heroics weren’t enough to gain the attention of golf fans across the country, Hogan was the cover story of the January 10, 1949 edition of Time magazine. The cover display offered the advice on which he based his career: “If you can’t outplay them, outwork them.” The extensive profile was written by Marshall Smith, who gave Hogan a taste of his own medicine while interviewing him. When Hogan was made aware of something that would be in the story that he wasn’t enthusiastic about, he confronted Smith: “You’re not going to say that in your story.” To which the writer replied, “Look. Your game is golf. This story is my business. Let me handle it my way.”

  As January gave way to February, post-war tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union reached a new milepost. Soviet Premier Josef Stalin had offered President Harry S. Truman the opportunity to engage in disarmament talks— but only at a location behind the Iron Curtain because of his health. The administration recoiled; the new Secretary of State, Dean Acheson, replied in a news conference that the United States wasn’t interested in such a summit. Stalin, Acheson said while referring to voluminous notes, had previously rejected invitations from the Americans to meet in Washington. Plus, Acheson added, such talks would involve many other countries and shouldn’t be confined to simply the two well-armed superpowers.

  Everything was going Hogan’s way until the Greyhound bus coming at him in far west Texas knocked his Cadillac off the road, nearly killing him and his wife. Hogan skipped the Tucson tournament and left Phoenix on Tuesday, February 1 bound for Fort Worth, where that night “Jug” McSpaden was giving a golfing lecture at TCU’s auditorium. The Hogans nearly covered half the distance in driving about seventy-five miles beyond El Paso. They reached the small town of Van Horn and called it a day, stopping at the El Capitan Motel. The following morning was frigidly cold across much of the Lone Star State, with snow covering parts of Waco and Austin. In Fort Worth, Oscar the Groundhog saw his shadow. Out in far west Texas, there was early morning fog and at least a slight glaze of ice on U.S. Highway 80, the main route between El Paso and Dallas-Fort Worth. The Hogans were back on the road at eight looking at almost another full day’s drive before arriving home. They had not gone far when Hogan told his wife, “I think we’ve got a flat tire.” He pulled off the two-lane road, determined there was nothing wrong with the tires, and continued driving. Having noticed ice on the road for the first time that morning, he told Valerie that he’d drive slightly slower.

  Only a few minutes after the Hogans were rolling again, the glow of headlights—right in front of their Cadillac—came seeping through the fog. It was a bus in their lane, the driver in the midst of passing a truck. The driver, Alvin Logan, had spent about six miles behind the truck and decided this stretch of winding, dipping road was suitable for trying to make the pass. As the Cadillac and Greyhound bore down on each other, the Hogans were crossing over a culvert with a concrete barrier that prevented Hogan from swerving to the right. Valerie screamed, “Honey, he’s going to hit us!” Hogan instinctively threw himself over his wife’s lap to shield her from the impending collision. Had he remained in the driver’s seat, the impact of the steering column being thrust back into him surely would have killed him. The car was knocked well off the road and into the ditch. Hogan was concerned the Cadillac would catch fire and yelled for Valerie to get out of the car. As they both managed to escape the vehicle, passersby began to come to their aid. With people frantically concerned for the Hogans’ welfare, it somehow took about an hour for someone to summon an ambulance. Hogan tried to assure people that he was fine, though it was already obvious that he’d suffered at the very least a broken ankle and an injured left leg. While they were waiting to make the trip to the Hotel Dieu Hospital back in El Paso, Hogan kept asking about his golf clubs, which were in the trunk of the Cadillac. Valerie asked police on the scene to please get the clubs and send them along with them. It turned out Hogan had sustained a double fracture of the pelvis, a fractured collar bone and a chipped rib in addition to the leg and foot issues. As for Valerie, her injuries were limited to some bruises and a black eye thanks to her husband’s quick thinking.

  Hogan initially recovered at an encouraging pace in El Paso. Royal Hogan, who rushed there upon hearing the news, indicated to hometown reporters that his brother would be transferred home within a matter of days. But the timetable soon changed when Hogan suffered a signi
ficant setback; blood clots worked their way from his injured left leg into his lungs. For the first time since the initial aftermath of the crash, there was legitimate concern for Hogan’s life. A specialist in vascular surgery was contacted in New Orleans, but he couldn’t immediately get a seat on a commercial plane bound for El Paso because of the ongoing Mardi Gras celebration. Valerie then recalled one of the visitors in Hogan’s first days in the hospital was a brigadier general stationed nearby. She contacted him at midnight and, with his help, a plane was sent to bring Dr. Alton Ochsner to Hotel Dieu. The operation was a success, but Hogan remained hospitalized in El Paso for two months and never fully recovered from the leg injuries. They would require daily attention—massages, baths and extensive leg wrappings—for years to come. The Hogans were overwhelmed with well-wishers and expressions of people’s concern for Ben while in El Paso. Valerie told the Fort Worth Star-Telegram the episode had made her husband realize how much people cared for him.

  By the time the Hogans rode a train to Fort Worth in early April, no one was possibly considering Hogan would play P.G.A. Tour golf again—except for Hogan himself. Maybe he doubted he could do it or maybe he was building his own target for motivation when he told reporters, “Don’t waste your time writing about me. People are tired of hearing about Ben Hogan. They’re interested in the guys who are playing now. It won’t be long until they forget all about me.” His return to golf came as captain of the United States’ 1949 Ryder Cup team, which retained the trophy with a 7-to-5 victory at the Ganton Golf Club in Scarborough, England. By that autumn, he was prepared to take steps to return to the game. In early November, he was on the practice range at Colonial. About a month later, Hogan played his first round of golf, with the aid of a cart, since the playoff in Phoenix about eleven months earlier. News of the Saturday afternoon jaunt around Colonial on a chilly, cloudy day appeared in the next day’s Star-Telegram without a writer’s byline and beneath a headline that began with the word FLASH! “I didn’t hit them very well,” Hogan allowed. His playing partner, Ridglea pro Raymond Gafford, offered that Hogan hit them “well enough.” That following day’s Press noted Hogan played another eighteen holes at Colonial that Sunday, shot 71 and 72 for the weekend and complained of being “a little tired.”