Plane crashes, fights, saviors: Three Mid-Century Ryder Cup Maniacs
Bill Mark
If you've never heard the story of Skip Alexander, you may want to sit down. A son of Durham, NC, he lived what could be considered a charmed life by the standards of mid-20th-century America: He had a successful dad, grew up a natural athlete, served in the Pacific theater in World War Two, returned with his life, and made his career on the early PGA Tour, winning three times. It all changed one day in 1950, when his final round in Kansas City, delayed by weather, forced him to miss his flight home. A fellow veteran on the scene stepped in with a timely offer—civil air patrol could take him on a military flight to Louisville, where he could catch a flight home. Alexander was one of four men on that flight, and by the time it made an emergency landing outside Evansville, IN, he would be the only one to survive. But not without paying a steep price. The story of how he came back to golf, and the Ryder Cup, is one of unbelievable resilience that even Ben Hogan, in his recovery from a near-fatal car crash, cannot quite match.
Skip Alexander at the Prince George Golf and Country Club
Bettmann
Eric Brown was called "the fiery Scot," and existed in that shadow zone of professional golf called post-war Britain. While the professional game was being dominated by Americans (and the odd South African and Australian), the UK was recovering from a devastating fight against the Nazis, and just coming back to a pastime that was all but abandoned due to necessity during the war. Brown belonged to that lost generation of great golfers, and though he never won a major (making double bogey on the 72nd hole to lose his greatest shot at the Open), he etched his name in Ryder Cup history as a player and captain, leading his team to two incredible "victories" 12 years apart. His incredible passion and competitive streak, along with an abrasive personality, meant that wherever he went, conflict and animosity seemed to follow, and it was that singular force of nature that made these upsets possible in an era otherwise marked by a string of American routs.
Eric Brown plays out of a bunker at the 18th during a Ryder Cup match at Lindrick Golf Club in 1957
Keystone
When the war ended, the Ryder Cup was all but dead, and the only way to save it was for someone with an unshakeable vision and the deep pockets to shock it back to life. The fact that the man who emerged was a grocery executive in his late 50s from Portland, OR, is one of the more ridiculous but fortuitous twists in the history of the event. Robert Hudson's salvation act truly came out of left field, and everything that we associate with the event today—the millions of dollars, the hundreds of thousands of fans, all the hype—exists because he refused to let it die.
These three men, Ryder Cup maniacs in their own different ways, have been all but forgotten 70+ years later, but represent a brilliant slice of history from an era that is too easily ignored. On this week's Local Knowledge podcast, we look at their remarkable lives and the impact they had on golf's greatest team event. Listen below, or wherever you get your podcasts.
