Golfing Memories

Watching the final round of the 75th Masters caused a cascade of memories. They started as Charl Schwartzel, a young man from South Africa, won going away with an amazing string of birdies on the last four holes at Augusta. No one, they said, had ever done that before.

It was “50 years to the day,” as the commentators also kept saying, since another South African named Gary Player became the first “International” (read “foreign”) winner of this most American of golf tournaments. I remember that half century old eventt as well, and it immediately made Gary my favorite player (pun intended).

At 150 pounds, Player often had the word “little” stuck in front of his name, but his superb conditioning carried him far. He swung from the toes to match length with the best and often as not beat them with a delicate touch around the greens. He won nine majors, completing a grand slam with a U. S. Open victory in 1965 at Bellerive.

The Augusta commentators also made mention that it was 25 years ago that Jack Nicklaus won his last green jacket at the age of 46. That too was a memorable broadcast, with Jack and son Jackie, on his daddy’s bag, striding confidently to victory. Who can forget that snake he sank on the par three 16th? Given the prematurely fading star of Tiger Woods, Nicklaus likely will remain the greatest golfer ever. He, too, has been my favorite.

My first favorite golfer, though, was Sam Snead. He came to town in 1945 to play in the Tulsa Open, along with Ben Hogan and other famous names. My father, a steady weekend player who had taught me the game, saw this as the perfect present for my 15th birthday and took me to the tournament. It was played September 13-16 at either the Tulsa or Southern Hills country clubs. I know my birthday was, and is, the 15th but neither my memory nor google’s is any help at recalling the exact venue.

But I do remember two crushing drives. One was by Lawson Little, who flew the ball over the fairway on a dogleg left par four deep into a stand of black jack oaks where tee balls had never gone before. The other was by Snead.

Slamming Sammy was hitting third off the tee in the threesome on a straight away par five. The first two drives were impressively long and straight. Snead swung, as always, with the rhythmic grace of a ballet dancer, the most natural swing the game has ever seen. His ball soared 50 – 60 yards beyond those of his competitors. He flashed a casual grin at the applauding crowd, which included an awe struck teenager, and went on to win that tournament and 81 others on the PGA Tour, more than any other golfer.

It was 32 years later that I found the chance to repay Dad the favor of that birthday. The U.S. Open was to be played that June, 1977, in Tulsa at Southern Hills. I bought two tickets and flew home for the occasion. That I was 47, and Dad 75, didn’t make Mom’s cooking any less delicious. (“Don’t call me ‘Mom.’ I’m your Mother ” “Okay, ‘Mother,’ if you don’t call me ‘Brucie ’”).

Southern Hills, a splendid 75 year-old par 70 venue, needs an appropriate introduction. It has been rated 15th in the country by Golf Digest. Designed and built by Perry Maxwell in 1935-36, it sits, appropriately, south of town, on rolling acreage donated by Oilman Waite Phillips. Maxwell designed some 70 courses in a long career that included a partnership with Allister MacKenzie and design maintenance at Augusta National. Southern Hills has hosted three U. S. Opens and four PGA tournaments among a total of 15 major events.

I personally met its plush hilly contours as a caddy. I often carried a heavy leather bag full of clubs on each slim shoulder the full 18 holes of a hot summer’s day for a buck fifty for the first bag and a whole dollar for the second. Later, as a second tier member of the Central High golf team, I got to play there for free–the only way I could ever have afforded it.

Fittingly enough, Sam Snead, now 65, was also at Southern Hills that June, still contending with that same fluid swing, although he was now putting “side-saddle.” Dad and I caught up with him from our green-side stadium seats on the 12th hole, which needs its own introduction before the tale can be properly told.

Number 12 is tough. A 464 yard dog leg left, it turns quickly down hill to a tight green heavily sloped and tiered left to right and front to back. The fairway is tree lined on both sides. The perfect tee shot is a late breaking draw.

But it is commonplace to drive through the fairway and find trouble in the trees on the right. We watched as Arnold Palmer and Bruce Lietzke both did just that. Sam drove down the middle and a lot closer to the hole but even he was looking at a tricky five iron shot.

Back then a creek ran through the trees on the left and fed two small lakes near the green, one at front left and the other at its right. The creek trickled from pond to pond in front of the green. Deep green-side bunkers were in the mix. A half moon thicket of scrubby trees and brush capped its back side while a ribbon of first cut rough surrounded the green like a halo.

Palmer has been quoted as calling the 12th one of the most challenging par fours on the tour. Possibly he came to that conclusion on this day. His long iron second shot came out hot and low, bounced once on the green and skipped deep into the back woods.

“Dad, he’s in jail ” I exclaimed, and my father and all around us nodded. Palmer, we concluded, was looking at bogy or worse. Lietzke did a little better. He almost held the green and ended up on a bare patch of fringe sixty feet up and away from the cup. To get there the ball would have to roll on a wide downhill curve. Then Snead floated a perfect shot twenty feet below the pin.

Did I mention that the greens were fast? Of course all U.S.Open greens are slick. But Southern Hills’ bent grass surfaces were in jeopardy on this steaming Oklahoma afternoon. While the three golfers strode down the fairway the grounds crew was hosing down No 12 to keep its close cut blades from turning into lumpy brown dust. The USGA had decreed this remedy for most greens after every set of approach shots had been hit to keep the greens alive and consistent.

Arnie came out of the woods and disappeared back into them several times with different clubs before he settled on . . . his putter He had to half straddle a small sapling, which was fortunately growing away from his ball, and somehow keep his feet back from the path of his stroke.  He had to thread the ball through a narrow line of trees, traversing some 20 feet of forest duff and still more feet of half inch apron to reach the green. The hole was 40 feet further from there.

He hit what looked to be a splendid save: the ball came out quickly, slowed through the thick grass and trickled onto the green  Palmer walked out again grinning broadly while the ball kept trickling . . . and trickling . . . and trickling until it fell into the hole – and we nearly fell off the stadium. For a relatively small crowd we managed a very big roar, turning heads all over the back nine.

Lietzke, a superb putter, had learned a lot from watching Palmer’s roll, though his line was considerably different. He started his ball way too slowly we thought and sent it on a trajectory at first slightly away from the hole, but when it caught the downhill slope it turned sharply right, slowed nearly to a stop . . . and then began its own slow wobbly trickle. “We started a chant: “Go, go, go ” You can conjugate that verb and guess the outcome: Go, went . . . gone!  Down the throat, in the hole.

“Sidesaddle Sam” lined up his put while the crowd was still cheering this second miracle.. His age-decreed style was his own invention. He faced the hole, both feet aiming at it, his left hand atop the putter to act as the pivot point and his right hand positioned down and back of the shaft to guide the club. Only Sam Snead could both make this novel stroke look graceful and make it work..

As we held our breath a half smile played about his face. Twenty feet uphill, six inches left to right at the hole. Piece of cake! The ball rattled into the cup with authority and the world was perfect.

Much later the significance of the pairing that day came to me. Snead, the living legend, playing with Palmer, the veteran king, playing with Lietzke, the young prince. Three generations, three puts, three birdies. Still, none of the three won the tournament. Hubert Green did that. But they gave old No.12 quite a beating.

As we left the grounds at the end of the day we spoke briefly with an acquaintance, mentioning that we had camped most of the day at the 12th hole. “What was all the cheering about over there?” he wondered. I said, “It’s a long story and you won’t believe it if we told you.” He said of course he would; however few have, and you might not. But it happened just that way.

I also got to see the golfer that became my final favorite. I still miss Lee Trevino. During a practice round the Merry Mex and Chi Chi Rodriguez kept Jerry Pate in a hysterical state of helpless laughter. No telling how much money they took him for when they pressed.

But Lee didn’t have too good a tournament. On the last hole one day he caught the cavernous left front bunker, climbed in, hit a nothing shot, and wearily climbed out, saying, “Now, that’s a great bunker . . . for the kind of bunker it is.” I wanted to say, “Lee, that was a great shot . . . for the kind of shot it was,” but I didn’t because I didn’t think of it until just now.











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