Unplayable Lies: (The Only Golf Book You'll Ever Need)

by Dan Jenkins

  The Tiger Slam

  When Tiger Woods won the 2001 Masters after winning the last three majors of 2000, writers wrenched muscles trying to figure out what to call it. Bobby Jones had achieved the Impregnable Quadrilateral in 1930, but what was this? It had occurred over two calendar years, but it was still a slam of some kind—wasn’t it?

  Efforts ranged from the Phi Granda Slamma to Four for the Road to the Fiscal Slam to the Bum Slam to the Thai Slamma Granda to the Mulligan Slam to the Woods Wins Quartet. None of them stuck.

  Everybody’s Top Tweet

  When Europe whipped the United States for the eighth time out of the past ten competitions, I couldn’t stop myself from tweeting:

  This will be quite the celebration for the Europeans when they all get back home to Florida.

  Another Voice Heard From

  When a young Tour player named David Ogrin disagreed with my prose once too often, he wrote my editor to complain about it, describing me as “a hostile voice from a preceding generation.”

  I was swollen with pride.

  ATTACK OF THE SNIPPETS

  LIKE ANY PROWLER through golf history, I’ve come across snippets and stats that lodged in the brain and found a home. Mainly they come in handy for boring dinner companions. For instance, I’ve been known to interrupt the entrée by leaning into the table and saying, “You probably don’t know this, but Hale Irwin won a Triple Crown. He won his first U.S. Open at Winged Foot wearing eyeglasses, his second Open at Inverness with braces on his teeth, and his third Open at Medinah in contacts.”

  Other snippets of more than casual interest—to me at least:

  Arnold Palmer never won another major after he stopped smoking.

  Ben Hogan’s first name was William. Billy Hogan could never have won a Doral, much less a major. Welterweight Willie Hogan? Hardly.

  John was Byron Nelson’s first name. John Nelson for the House of Representatives, not golf.

  Bobby Jones’s middle name was Tyre. Could Tyre Jones have won a Grand Slam? Maybe in NASCAR.

  Only two players have won the same major six times. Jack Nicklaus in the Masters, Harry Vardon in the British Open.

  Walter Hagen is the only player to win the same major four years in a row. The PGA from 1924 through 1927.

  Only three players have won the same major three years in a row. Ben Hogan in the U.S. Opens of ’48, ’50, ’51. He was forced to miss ’49—the car crash—remember? Willie Anderson in the U.S. Opens of 1903, 1904, 1905. Peter Thomson in the British Opens of ’54, ’55, ’56. Ralph Guldahl in the Western Opens of ’36, ’37, ’38.

  Julius Boros is still the oldest player to win a major. He was forty-eight in the ’68 PGA at Pecan Valley in San Antonio.

  The PGA Championship has been played in nine different months. All but January, March, and April. Yes, even twice in December, once in February.

  Only five amateurs have won a U.S. Open—Francis Ouimet, Jerry Travers, Chick Evans, Bobby Jones, and Johnny Goodman.

  Only five players have won all four modern majors—Gene Sarazen, Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Tiger Woods. But Jack did it four times.

  Lawson Little won the U.S. Amateur and British Amateur in 1934, and did it again in 1935. The press never came up with anything better to call it than the “Double Little Slam.”

  When Lawson Little turned pro he became part of a Spalding exhibition stable that included Harry Cooper, Horton Smith, and Jimmy Thomson. They traveled together by train and did clinics and staged matches with one another before a Tour event would get under way. Jimmy Demaret named them “The Trained Seals.”

  Greatest feat by a geezer: Tom Watson, age fifty-nine, missed a putt on the seventy-second green, then lost the four-hole playoff for the 2009 British Open at Turnberry to Stewart Cink.

  Second greatest feat by a geezer: Sam Snead at the age of sixty-two tied for third at the 1974 PGA at Tanglewood, only three back of the winner, Lee Trevino.

  Third greatest feat by a geezer: Sam Snead again. At sixty years of age he tied for fourth in the 1972 PGA at Oakland Hills, which was won by Gary Player.

  Fourth greatest feat by a geezer: Ben Hogan was fifty-five when he finished third in the 1967 Colonial National Invitation, three back of winner Dave Stockton.

  Fifth-greatest feat by a geezer: Harry Vardon was fifty when he tied for second in the 1920 U.S. Open at Inverness, one stroke behind the winner, Ted Ray.

  Sam Snead never won a U.S. Open. Arnold Palmer and Tom Watson never won a PGA. Byron Nelson never won a British Open. Lee Trevino never won a Masters. How thoughtless of them.

  Craig Wood was the first player to become a runner-up in all four majors. He lost the ’33 British Open to Denny Shute in a playoff, lost the ’34 PGA final to Paul Runyan, lost the ’35 Masters to Gene Sarazen in a playoff, and lost the ’39 U.S. Open to Byron Nelson in a playoff.

  Only four other players have been a runner-up in all four majors: Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Tom Watson, and Greg Norman. Jack, incidentally, did it four times. Phil Mickelson would be in there except for the Masters. He’s never been a runner-up there. He just has five thirds.

  Sam Byrd is the only athlete to play in a World Series baseball game and the Masters golf tournament. He spent six seasons with the New York Yankees and two with the Cincinnati Reds in the early thirties. He took up golf in ’37 and won six times on the Tour, finished third in the ’41 Masters, and was runner-up to Byron Nelson in the ’45 PGA Championship.

  Most difficult major championship venue to reach from a civilized American city: Whistling Straits in Wisconsin on the shores of Lake Michigan if you start from Milwaukee. Runner-up: the Ocean course on Kiawah Island, South Carolina, if you start from Charleston. Nothing else is remotely in contention.

  Horton Smith, “the Joplin Ghost,” won the Masters on two different courses. His first win was in 1934, when the back nine was the front nine. His second win came in 1936 after the nines had been reversed. He also won the North and South Open on two different courses. Pinehurst No. 2 had sand greens when he won it in ’29 and Bermuda when he won it again in ’37.

  Golf’s ten oldest tournaments are (and were): British Open (1860), British Amateur (1885), U.S. Open (1895), U.S. Amateur (1895), Western Open (1899), North and South Open (1902), News of the World Match Play (1903), Canadian Open (1904), Metropolitan Open (1905), French Open (1906), PGA Championship (1916).

  Favorite AP description of touring pros: “Dr. Gil Morgan, the non-practicing optometrist”… “Methodical Dr. Cary Middlecoff, the former dentist”… “Colorful Jimmy Demaret, golf’s goodwill ambassador”… “Purple Heart veteran Lloyd Mangrum, the mustached magician of the fairways …”

  In case you missed the item, when Rory McIlroy won both the British Open and PGA in 2014, he became only the fourth player to have won four pro majors by the age of twenty-five. Nice company he joined: Bobby Jones, Jack Nicklaus, Tiger Woods.

  And this just in. Gene Sarazen was born Eugenio Saraceni. If he hadn’t changed his name and taken up golf, he could have been mayor of New York City.

  SENIOR GOLF

  NO ONE WAS more stunned than I when news arrived that the PGA Senior Tour—excuse me, the Champions Tour—was going to make a vigorous stab at improving its public relations. It announced that it would allow, if not encourage, fans to engage in conversations and even ask questions of the competitors during a tournament round.

  I seriously doubt that the players were consulted on this decision. The last time I was around them, they seemed to be as grumpy today as they were on the regular Tour.

  Upon being distracted in the midst of a round, I can hear them dredging up one of their familiar complaints: “This is my office. Would I bust into your place of business without an appointment?”

  If I ever lost my way and wandered onto their Tour again, I would ask these questions:

  Which hip is it you’re going to have done?

  Didn’t you score better when you smoked?

&n
bsp; What’s the longest you’ve ever kept a courtesy car?

  Is that a nine-wood?

  Are those deck shoes better for your gout?

  Do you guys ever play courses longer than 6,200 yards?

  Doesn’t it hurt to swing like that?

  Didn’t your first wife throw your clothes out in the front yard?

  Does your caddie keep enough Demerol in the bag?

  Isn’t it lonely out on the course?

  Do you have a favorite Motel 6 on the Tour?

  How much do you miss the free shirts, slacks, and sweaters?

  What’s it like in Snoqualmie, Washington, these days?

  Whataburger or Jack in the Box?

  How did you vote on wives inside the ropes?

  I guess you leave off the stool softeners during a tournament, right?

  Can you name another profession where you get a mulligan in life?

  Do you carry extra batteries for the hearing aids?

  I said, “DO YOU CARRY EXTRA BATTERIES FOR THE HEARING AIDS?”

  Look, I know what it’s like to be a senior. I’m still looking for the glass of iced tea I put down somewhere when the doorbell rang last week.

  And I guess I’d still be playing golf too if I could hit it from the front porch past the sidewalk.

  TRUE FICTION

  ASK ME IF I’ve read one of those advice columns for teen girls in the newspapers, and I’ll say, “Yeah, all the time, don’t I look like I have an eating disorder? Don’t I look like I need help finding the mall?” Hey—it’s the millennium, and I think I’ve pretty much figured out how to deal with my iPhone.

  Still, I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to cover the Emily Turner Clambake at Rancho Trusto Fundo. It was the year’s first major. Emily Turner, in case you don’t know, is the woman who influences the lives of so many young girls in her syndicated column, “Babbling with Emily,” and on her popular daytime TV show by the same name.

  For instance, if a teen babe wants to know where to buy a pair of cheap chandelier earrings, she asks Emily. If a teen babe wants to know what Lady Gaga is really like, she asks Emily. Emily knows a lot of things about life, and over the past five years she’s become a hurricane force in golf.

  Rancho Trusto Fundo Country Club is carved out of the melted cheese, chili con carne, and chopped taco salad of a California area only an hour from La Jolla. It’s the most difficult course that Jack Nicklaus, Tom Fazio, Pete Dye, and Ben Crenshaw ever collaborated on—even tougher than Piranha Nibbles, the layout they designed along the banks of the Amazon in a part of the Brazilian jungle that can be reached only by paddleboat.

  Rancho Trusto Fundo weaves through a residential area where all the homes look like two Merions and three Winged Foots attached to the Baltusrol clubhouse. You could say the hills are alive with the sound of money, not to write a Broadway musical about it.

  But it’s sort of a fun place, I learned. When you’re not playing golf, you can relax on the clubhouse terrace and watch the daily swarms of illegal immigrants come romping happily over the terrain in their quaint regional costumes.

  I found Emily Turner to be a trim, bouncy little thing. She was rather attractive for someone between the ages of sixty-five and eighty-four, depending on which side of her recent facelift you were standing on. I tracked her down in a clubhouse bar when I arrived. The Shank-Ri-La Lounge.

  I explained how I was looking forward to covering women’s golf. All my life I’d covered the PGA Tour for Rampant Instruction, the largest-selling golf monthly. But I’d finally grown tired of trying to get quotes out of a billionaire college dropout who didn’t know how to do anything but hit a golf ball and would be hard-pressed to find another line of work outside a Walgreens.

  The last straw was on the Masters veranda a year ago when I wanted to interview Sluggo Simpson, but he said he couldn’t speak to me without obtaining the approval of his agent, Kaiser Wilhelm.

  That was when I said before walking away, “Tell you what. Instead of trying to contact your agent, I think I’ll call a brain surgeon and see if I can have your name cut out of my mind.”

  I told Emily I was now writing for Divots Galore, the golf weekly that kept fans informed about golf throughout the world. The magazine was devoted to golf literature and presenting full-page ads of chicks and guys in thong underwear.

  I asked Emily how she happened to become interested in golf in the first place.

  She said, “You could say it started with Bing Crosby. He was such a wonderful person, and I loved his songs. Straight down the middle … ba ba ba boom. And Dinah was an influence. My friend Dinah Shore. Hidy, y’all.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “All seven of my husbands played golf. They played in the old Crosby every year. I would go with them. Phil Harris was such fun.”

  “The Monterey Peninsula is scenic,” I said.

  “It’s a charming part of the state, particularly if you like abalone.”

  “Did you say all seven of your husbands played golf?”

  “Every waking moment, sweetie.”

  Emily revealed that her seventh and last husband, Flash Vandertip, was the person who encouraged her to start the women’s Clambake. The tournament ran smoothly at first, but two years ago it broke up her marriage. Flash Vandertip fell in love with the winner, the sixteen-year-old Katie Koonce. Their age difference presented a problem, but his large private jet that was equipped with two bedrooms, a fireplace, and a putting green had won her over. They traveled to tournaments, or otherwise simply flew around the world and looked down at things. But Flash suddenly died last February. His heart exploded on the plane while Katie was looking at a golf instruction video and he was thumbing through a Victoria’s Secret catalog.

  Emily finished her highball and said I had to excuse her—she had a column to dash off about a horribly overweight actress who never—ever—should have agreed to appear on Dancing with the Stars.

  I spent the rest of Wednesday looking over the golf course, all 7,800 yards of it from the back tees, or what the members call the “portfolios,” and then studying up on women’s golf. The Clambake program told me all I needed to know about the contestants.

  The LPGA’s five majors last year were all won by lurkers. Lang Lo Li captured the Clambake, Li Lang Lo took the iPod Invitational, Mi See Too ran away with the Mall Rat Classic, Oh No Ho scooped the Whataburger LPGA, and the Frosted Flakes U.S. Women’s Open went to Su Yu Fong.

  This year’s Clambake was drawing its strongest field to date. The sixty invited players, who would do battle over 36 holes of stroke play, came from thirty-two states and six different countries, and among them had won 1,569 tournaments, counting junior amateurs.

  Another statistical breakdown showed that sixteen of them were named Paula, sixteen were named Michelle, six were named Lolita, and the other twenty-two were South Korean.

  When I looked around the pressroom I was surprised to find so many other writers on hand. Men and women were there to report for Teen Vogue, Chick, Parent Zap, Hottie, Back Talk, Me!, and Greed. Then there was the lady from the New York Times in a blue blazer, white blouse, khaki skirt, and Boston Red Sox cap. Not to overlook the AP guy in his cargo shorts, sneakers, and sombrero, with his iPad, chair seat, binoculars, and backpack of fresh fruit and bottles of natural spring water.

  Emily arranged for a cart in the pro shop that allowed me to drive around as I watched the ponytails challenge Rancho Trusto Fundo in the first round of the Clambake. The lady from the Times and the AP guy were offered carts but refused the courtesy. They said golf carts didn’t exist in O. B. Keeler’s day when he covered Alexa Stirling, so why should they use one?

  I stuck with the feature twosome, going the full 18 with Paula Jean Wagner and Michelle Janine Fox. Paula Jean, the fetching sixteen-year-old phenom, shot a four-under 68. Michelle Janine Fox, the other fetching sixteen-year-old phenom, finished two strokes back with a 70.

  Paula Jean Wagner’s success since the age of six
had turned her mother into a terrified mute and her father into a limping invalid from holding down five jobs at once to pay for his daughter’s private schools and golf academies. Michelle Janine Fox had been a childhood dynamo herself, winning more than two hundred tournaments since the age of seven. She had been found innocent of beating her mother to death with the 120-pound scrapbook her mother kept on Michelle Janine’s career. A bushy-haired stranger uncovered by IMG, her agency, was eventually charged with the crime.

  Michelle came to the pressroom first. Emily Turner pushed a slender, frightened-looking girl with a stutter out of the way and conducted the interview herself. The slender, frightened-looking girl with a stutter, I learned, was Becky Tracy, Emily’s PR officer, travel agent, and shopper.

  Emily said, “Michelle, would you care to make a general statement about your round before we go through your card?”

  “No,” Michelle Janine said.

  “No? No, what?” said Emily.

  “I hate my round.”

  Michelle Janine stared off into the distance, tight-lipped.

  “But you shot a wonderful 70,” Emily said, smiling.

  “I took a dirt nap,” Michelle Janine said.

  “You took a ‘dirt nap’? What in the world is that?”

  “It’s a dirt nap; what do you think it is?”

  Emily said, “You’re saying ‘dirt nap,’ like somebody would lie down in the dirt and go to sleep?”

  Michelle Janine said, “I played like a dead man, dumbo.”

  Emily started to say something, but Michelle said: “I gotta go,” and left the pressroom.

  I found out later that she had gone to the game room in the clubhouse and sat in a large plastic bubble and fired an AK-47 at a video screen where swarms of crazed Jihadists were rushing toward her.

  When Paula Jean, the Clambake leader, entered the pressroom, I saw a more mature-looking teenager than I’d watched on the golf course. Curvy. Tan. Blond.