The Best Golf Stories Ever Told Page 16

  His next step—literally—was to complete a round while walking, which he did a week later. His goal was to enter the first event of the 1950 season, the $15,000 Los Angeles Open scheduled for Friday through Monday, January 6–9. About the same time that Hogan was first playing eighteen holes without a cart, representatives of the L.A. event asked him if he could come out to the tournament and serve as the honorary starter. A few days later, the Hogans were on a train headed to California. He piqued the interest of reporters at the station in Fort Worth by indicating he was interested in actually playing at Riviera Country Club, where he won the 1948 National Open. At least one Hogan fan was certain he would return to tournament play—Alton Ochsner, the surgeon who saved his life. “Ben has the kind of determination that leaves no doubt as to the ultimate outcome,” Ochsner was quoted in the Star-Telegram during the Los Angeles tournament. “Doctors not infrequently recognize this will in patients, but in few people has it ever been more evident than in Hogan.”

  Oh, Hogan indeed played; his performance at the 1950 Los Angeles Open would have been the story of the year on the Tour were it not for his later heroics on a grander stage. The four practice rounds that he played totaled three shots less than Mangrum’s winning score a year earlier, though he brought along a chair for resting between holes. “It’s all a question of my legs,” he said after a practice round. “They’ve been tiring in the latter parts of rounds.” Among those who played practice rounds with Hogan was Cary Middlecoff, the defending U.S. Open champion. “He pinned our ears back,” reported Middlecoff, the former dentist who gave up his practice to play professional golf. At one point, Hogan told his playing partners that his legs hurt like hell and then deposited his next shot twenty feet from the pin.

  Hogan opened with a 2-over-par 73 that left him five shots behind leader Ed Furgol. As per his fears, his play withered along with his legs on the back nine. Hogan also appeared unusually distracted by things that previously didn’t affect him, like noises from a construction crew working on a home site above the seventh green. But he then incredibly fired off three consecutive rounds of 69 on Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday (with Sunday’s play rained out) and no longer seemed impacted by potential agitations such as an amateur photographer facing down his putting line. Hogan tied for first place at 4-under 280 with Sam Snead, who required a 15-foot birdie putt on his seventy-second hole to force the playoff. An exhausted Hogan obviously didn’t welcome the prospect of another grueling eighteen holes. “I’m awfully tired,” he told reporters. “I wish I didn’t have to play tomorrow.”

  Hogan didn’t have to play tomorrow. More rain washed out the Wednesday playoff and, with the popular Bing Crosby Pro-Am scheduled to start up the coast on Friday, the decision was made to re-schedule the L.A. playoff until after the Crosby event. Hogan played at the three-round Pebble Beach tournament, where he was the defending champion. He didn’t experience the same success that he enjoyed at Riviera. His best round there was “only” a par-72—still remarkable given what had happened to him in the previous year—and finished in a tie for nineteenth place. Byron Nelson, playing in a Tour event for the first time since the previous May, shot 4-over 148 for two rounds and withdrew.

  Snead was among four players who tied for first at the Crosby—missing an eight-foot putt that would have claimed the championship—and tournament officials didn’t bother with a playoff; all four were declared winners. Hogan was glad to be leaving chilly northern California, but the forecast on Monday called for showers in Los Angeles on Wednesday. The rain held off, but the combatants were greeted at Riviera by low fog. The proceedings began with a dismal omen for Hogan when his initial tee shot went hooking out of bounds. Snead led by two shots after two holes and maintained that edge through the front nine. He did the same coming home, holding even par while Hogan shot 2-over to win 72 to 76. “I was lousy,” Hogan growled afterward. Snead countered: “He was terrific. He’s the same old Hogan. He scares you to death.” There was an awkward episode on no. 13 when Snead became impatient with the amount of time that Hogan was taking on putts and walked off the green while Hogan was putting. Years later, Snead told the Los Angeles Times that he thought Hogan purposely took that much time, trying to drain his opponent’s momentum. For those in Dallas–Fort Worth who wished to watch a delayed telecast of the playoff, WBAP-TV provided that opportunity the following Sunday night—sponsored by Royal Hogan’s office supply store.

  Hogan skipped the Long Beach tournament but played in Phoenix, where organizers renamed the 1950 event the Ben Hogan Open; following a first-round 65, he faded and finished in a tie for twentieth place. Hogan didn’t make another start for almost two months, appearing in the non-Tour Seminole Pro-Am in Palm Beach, Florida, in mid-March. He was working out of a hole opening with a 79 and could manage only a tie for twenty-fourth place. Then it was on to a triumphant return to Augusta. Incredibly, Hogan stood only two shots out of the lead heading to the final round. But he closed with a 4-over 76 leaving him in fourth place, five shots behind three-time Masters winner Demaret.

  If there was any animosity between Hogan and Snead given the events of the Los Angeles Open, it didn’t prevent Hogan from showing up for Snead’s Greenbriar Open a few weeks later. The event featured only twenty-five players, and Hogan shot a 21-under 259 to beat the host pro by ten shots. Hogan’s plan had been to follow the West Virginia stop with a trip to the Western Open, but he decided against that. Next up would be another emotional experience—as if any appearance at this stage wouldn’t be—returning to Marvin Leonard’s course. It appeared the Colonial National Invitational Tournament couldn’t be played without Bantam Ben; the 1949 event that was scheduled while Hogan was convalescing was cancelled because of flooding. At Hogan’s homecoming in May 1950, Snead gained a measure of revenge by winning on Hogan’s home layout. Hogan was hardly a disappointment, though, placing third. The following day, he caught a train for Philadelphia to play in two weeks in the U.S. Open at Merion Golf Club, where he would be required to play thirty-six holes in a single day for the first time in his return.

  In the days leading up to the National Open, Snead acknowledged to the Richmond News Leader that Hogan was on his mind— either that or he was writing another chapter of gamesmanship. “The man who wins it will have to beat me,” Snead said. “I’m not playing sensationally, but I’m playing well. I actually think Hogan is the man who might make some trouble. He’s the man I’ve got to beat.” During Hogan’s practice rounds at Merion, he made the decision to replace his usual 7-iron with a 1-iron after determining there were no 7-iron shots on the historic East Course. Like it was at Riviera, the issue of Hogan’s durability seemed to be the most popular topic of pre-tournament repartee. Gene Sarazen, the 1934 Open winner, was forthright if not polite in his assessment: “If they were going to play it without walking—just hitting the shots—I would pick Ben without hesitation. But, unfortunately, he will have to walk.”

  For at least a day, events pushed the story of the historic Hogan comeback to the back pages. Lee Mackey, Jr., a 26-year-old from Birmingham, Alabama, with no professional wins, broke both the course record and the National Open one-round mark in Thursday’s first round by one-putting ten holes and firing a 6-under-par 64. Hogan opened with a 2-over-par 72, recovering from a rickety start shooting 39 on the front nine. When reporters sought an explanation from Mackey for his implausible taming of Merion, he replied, “I guess I just got lucky.” Alas, he failed to pack luck into his bag the next day; he stumbled through an 11-over 81 that took him out of contention. Hogan’s second-day score of 1-under 69 was shot with a mid-morning tee time that enabled him to miss the most scorching portion of a Philadelphia day that reached a humid 95 degrees, though he did experience some cramping at the no. 12 hole. His overall 1-over 141 placed him only two shots behind leader “Dutch” Harrison in fifth place.

  For Saturday’s 36-hole finale viewed by a National Open record 12,500 spectators, Hogan was paired with Middlecoff going off at
9:30 a.m. and 2 p.m. As would be the case for the rest of Hogan’s career, early starting times were problematic because the hours of preparation required for getting his legs ready for competition. He completed the morning round in 2-over 72, putting him two behind Mangrum and one behind Harrison. On the twelfth hole of the afternoon round, owning a threestroke advantage, Hogan suffered through more than cramping this time around; he grimaced after striking his tee shot and began to stagger, grabbing onto a friend to prevent himself from falling and went on to bogey the hole. Years later, Hogan told the Star-Telegram that his legs had turned to stone and he wasn’t certain he could finish. For the balance of the round, Hogan’s putts were extracted from the cups by either his caddie or Middlecoff ’s. And then after playing the thirteenth, according to separate interviews that Hogan gave years later, the pain was so great he was resigned to the fact that he couldn’t finish—only to have his caddie insist on meeting him at the no. 14 tee box.

  Suffering bogeys on nos. 15 and 17 because of putting issues, Hogan trudged to the par-4, 458-yard eighteenth having lost a three-shot lead over six holes. He needed a par to force a three-way playoff with Mangrum and George Fazio, the latter a hometown boy whose two Tour triumphs consisted of the 1946 Canadian Open and the ’47 Crosby. After a tee shot that nestled in the middle of the fairway more than 200 yards from the pin, he called upon the 1-iron that he’d subbed into his bag just before play began. His approach, captured in the renowned photograph shot by Hy Peskin for Life, carried the treacherous rough lurking right of the fairway and in front of the green and landed just short of the green but carried up onto the putting surface about forty feet from the flag stick. His first putt rolled four feet past the hole; he quickly struck the return putt to earn his par for the hole—a 4-over 74 for the round—and another day’s play. (Hogan told long-time golf writer Charles Price that he struck the putt hastily because his legs hurt so much he was eager to end the round and get off his feet. On the way back to his hotel afterward, Hogan became sick to his stomach.) In the chaos of excitement in the aftermath of the drama, the club that Hogan used to reach the eighteenth green—years later, debate raged over whether it was his 1-iron or 2-iron—was absconded from his golf bag. If it wasn’t the 1-iron, the granite marker placed in the fairway to honor the achievement is in error.

  Valerie Hogan feared her husband couldn’t endure another eighteen holes that Sunday. Wasn’t she pleasantly surprised, as she recalled for Dave Anderson, when Ben awoke that morning and exclaimed, “Isn’t it a nice day?” In the lobby of the Barclay Hotel, reporters diligently checked on Hogan’s condition—and some all but rooted him on as he and Valerie left for the 30-minute drive to Merion. Hogan’s day would ordinarily have started much earlier with a morning tee time for the playoff, but state blue laws prohibited starting before 1 p.m. In the three-way battle, Hogan took his first lead on the par-4 seventh when his approach landed only four feet from the pin and he converted the birdie putt. He gave back the stroke with a bogey on the eighth hole, and Hogan and Mangrum stood even following nine holes. Hogan was back on top through twelve holes, his even-par round providing him a one-shot lead over both of his competitors. When Fazio and Mangrum each bogeyed the par-4 fourteenth, Hogan enjoyed a two-stroke cushion with four holes to play. Mangrum managed to birdie no. 15 to get back within one.

  Then came the infamous turn of events at no. 16. With Mangrum preparing to putt, he unwittingly committed a rules violation when he addressed his ball, then picked it up to blow a bug off it. He was assessed a two-stroke penalty; prior to 1960, U.S.G.A. rules allowed players to mark and pick up their ball on the green only when the ball interfered with another player. Mangrum later stated he was initially unaware of the ruling, thinking he’d putted for a par. It was only in the tee area on no. 17 that U.S.G.A. official Ike Grainger explained to him what happened. Hogan was ahead by three shots with two holes to play but played like a man needing to shoot a birdie. Which he did on no. 17, thanks to a 50-foot uphill putt. On no. 18, missing the club that he used for his second shot on Saturday afternoon, Hogan played a 5-iron—and sent the ball over the green. His chip back came to rest seven feet from the cup, and a one-putt gave him a 1-under 69 to Mangrum’s 73 and Fazio’s 75. The crowd around the green was prepared to hoist the victorious Hogan on their shoulders but was halted by the local constabulary. Hogan admitted to reporters that winning the 1950 Open topped even his first Open victory in Los Angeles two years earlier: “This was my biggest thrill. And I’m awfully glad that those two strokes Lloyd lost on the sixteenth green penalty didn’t make the difference.” One of the wags later mentioned something about retirement. “Retire?” Hogan replied with a laugh. “I love golf, and I’ll never quit it competitively.”

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  THE STORY OF THE 18 HOLES AT AUGUSTA NATIONAL

  TRIPP BOWDEN

  During my sophomore year of high school, my golf game stalls. I get no better, I get no worse. I’m breaking 80 more often than not, but throwing way too many 84s into the mix.

  I don’t know much about life on the PGA Tour, but I know it doesn’t include many rounds in the 80s.

  Freddie’s voice is in my head: Two things that don’t last, man: dogs that chase cars and pros that putt for pars.

  But as he does for everything, Freddie has an answer for my golf game. His name is Mike Shannon, the former Augusta National assistant who gave me my first real golf lesson. A player in his own right, Shannon can also count as a claim to fame a certain college roommate who won the Masters on his first try— Frank Urban Zoeller. You know him as Fuzzy.

  The summer of ’81 finds me in the sleepy little town of Tupelo, Mississippi. Elvis was born here, and looking around I see little has changed since he first donned the blue suede shoes. I don’t really want to go (who wants to go to Tupelo?), but Freddie insists.

  “If you ever hope to realize your potential, Mike is the man. Can’t nobody lay your cards on the table like him. Not big as a minute but can knock the ball into next week. Trained under a cat named Harvey Penick, who just so happened to teach the game to a couple young bucks named Ben and Tom. Last names Crenshaw and Kite. Mike knows his stuff. Listen to him, okay?”

  Do I ever.

  Mike Shannon is a big believer in practice, but not just any practice. Mike calls it perfect practice, the theory being that when you’re faced with a similar situation on the golf course, you expect to be successful.

  I like this theory. But not at first.

  With the Mississippi sun beating down like a boxer, I spend my summer on a baked-out putting green, rolling three-footers until I can make fifty in a row. Miss one and start over, even if it’s number forty-nine.

  Grass dies under my feet until I get it right.

  Three-footers are just the beginning. Make ten putts in a row from five feet. Two in a row from ten. Hole a twenty-footer before you can move on to the next level. Dig down into the bunker, the sun’s reflection like a fun house mirror. No escaping until you’ve holed one out. Might be on the first swing, might not be until sunset.

  Might not be at all.

  Matters not. Only thing that does is getting back into that sweltering pit at 7:00 AM the next day, hitting bunker shot after bunker shot until one finally disappears.

  It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but by week’s end there is no denying perfect practice works perfectly. My putting and sand play are now the best parts of my game, the last to leave when the others fly south for the winter.

  The night before my flight back to Augusta, I call Freddie with fingers so swollen I can hardly punch the numbers. The line rings twice, then a third time before Freddie answers. I’d rather tell him in person, but I know I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t tell him now.

  “Hey, Freddie. It’s Tripp.”

  “Hey, man. What’s shakin’? You learning a lot, ain’tcha? Things about the game you never knew existed, I bet. Told you Mike knew his stuff.”

  “Mike’s great,” I sa
y, and I go on to tell Freddie all about perfect practice, not knowing he’s heard it all before.

  Freddie lets me talk.

  “You sitting down?” I ask.

  “I am now.”

  “I shot 74 today! Best round ever. I hit 14 greens. Can you believe it?”

  “That’s great, man. How many birdies?”

  “Four,” I say. “Three on the back nine. One I made after my second shot bounced off a tree and onto the green. It almost rolled in for an eagle!” I’m so excited I can hardly breathe. “I mean, what are the odds of that happening?”

  There’s a short pause on the other end.

  “Apparently, they’re pretty good,” says Freddie, laughing. “Come see me when you get home, all right, man?”

  I tell him I will, of course I will. Then I do something I should’ve done long ago.

  “Freddie?”

  “Yeah, man?”

  “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Mike. And fly safe, all right?”

  I promise I will and we say our goodbyes. I hang up the phone and stare at fingers so swollen I can’t close my hand. I have calluses on my calluses, the sun’s fist print on my face. Every muscle in my body aches and I could sleep standing up if given half a chance.