Television evangelists disgust me. All of them except Billy Graham. I see the expensive haircuts and three-piece suits and imagine those poor old widows reaching for their purses, and it's all I can do to stop from coming out of my chair and going right through the TV screen.
By 1957 my playing sort of tailed off, so I decided to take a club-pro job in California. The year I spent behind that counter was the longest year of my life. Treating every member as your boss was one thing, but taking orders from the members' kids was too much for Old Dad. They drove me right back to playing, which was a good thing, because I won the U.S. Open the following June.
My temper was nothing compared to that of J.B., my older brother. When we were teenagers, we pooled our money and bought a set of hickory-shafted irons. One day he had a bad hole, and I watched him go to the side of the green and shatter every one of those clubs against a tree. It made me cry. But I was afraid to say anything to him for fear he'd punch me in the nose.
When I was a kid and poor, I never had shoes that fit. The first date I ever had, I borrowed a pair of my older brother's shoes. They were a size 9 ½ my foot was a size 10. They hurt my feet so bad I forgot to kiss the girl good night. Later on I played in tournaments wearing shoes I borrowed from the pro at home. Shoes were always a problem, so when I could finally afford them, I went overboard. At one point I owned 70 pairs of shoes. I can't help but take good care of them. I walk around in them like a cat for fear of wearing them out. The pair I have on right now is 30 years old, but they look new, don't they?
Tour players today must sleep in their hats and shirts. How else could they get that dumpy and wrinkled?
When Bobby Jones won the 1929 U.S. Open in a playoff, the guy he beat was Al Espinosa. It so happens that Al Espinosa shaped the course of my life. When I was 13, he showed up at Shreveport [La.] Country Club wearing wingtip golf shoes and the biggest golf bag I've ever seen before or since. Espinosa carried 30 clubs, and me caddieing for him was like that scene in "Caddyshack" where the little kid tries to carry Rodney Dangerfield's bag. I could barely lift the damned thing. But between the way he dressed and carried himself and those wingtip shoes, I thought he was the biggest man in the world. That was when I decided to be a golf player.
Before I turned pro, I made a living playing the amateur circuit around Shreveport. As the best player in town I was able to sell the first-place merchandise prize before the tournament even started. And I'd already have the cash spent before I teed off, which meant I'd have to win to avoid getting in big trouble with the guy who'd bought the prize. That was pressure, boy. But most of the time Old Dad came through.
For a long time I had an endorsement contract with a scotch importer. The company reimbursed me for what I drank, and paid me extra besides. It's tough to stay off the sauce when they're paying you to drink it. It's a wonder I didn't become a full-fledged alcoholic.
I never drank so much to where it was a serious problem, but I was drinking more than was good for me. It was my dermatologist, of all people, who convinced me to ease off. I went to see him about my nose, which had gotten big and red. He told me it was because of the scotch. For years after that, I used my nose as an alcohol regulator. It's been in good shape for a long time now.
Mary Lou and I have stayed married for 45 years because we fight fair and try not to go to bed mad at each other.
I keep hearing that Ben Hogan was a bad putter. I must have missed something, because he was one of the best fast-green putters ever. How else did he win four U.S. Opens? Give him a surface where he didn't have to hit the ball hard, and he could roll that little jessie like nobody I ever saw.
Never break your driver and putter in the same round.
- Text Size:
- Small Text
- Medium Text
- Large Text
