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

by Dan Jenkins

  • Walter Hagen wins his fifth PGA Championship, and fourth in a row, at Cedar Crest in Dallas in 1927. An awed teenager in the gallery named Byron Nelson chooses golf as his favorite sport over baseball.

  • John McDermott becomes the first American to win the U.S. Open in 1911 at Chicago Golf. Helps promote the growth of the game.

  • The PGA Tour is organized in 1929 after years of bouncing around and passing the hat.

  • TV slowly works up to covering all 18 holes of the majors.

  • Mickey Wright swings a golf club like most guys would like to.

  Three-hole Loop to Get Even

  • Pine Valley happens. Founded in 1913, it evolves into the world’s greatest golf course. Still is.

  • Golf discovers the unmatched beauty of the Monterey Peninsula after World War One. Begets Pebble Beach and Cypress Point.

  • The slipover shirt goes to golf in the early forties, sentencing all dress shirts and neckties to Henry Picard’s closet.

  TOP GURU

  I LOOK AT BUTCH Harmon, I see his dad. I listen to Butch Harmon, I hear his dad. Claude Harmon was my friend and the smartest man I ever knew about the golf swing. No wonder that Butch learned enough from his father to incorporate the wisdom into his own teachings and consistently find himself voted the number-one golf instructor west of Vladivostok, north of the Falklands, and due south of David Leadbetter.

  It’s impossible to talk about Butch—Claude Harmon Jr.—without talking about his dad, the 1948 Masters champion, the last club pro to win a major. Claude Harmon didn’t tell golf stories, he told opinions. He had plenty of them, and most of them were on-target. Nobody understood this better than Butch.

  I used to seek out a seat at a table next to Claude in the Augusta National clubhouse every spring during the Masters to soak up his tales and opinions, often told with a sweep of his hand.

  We had Ben Hogan in common as a friend and idol.

  Claude would say, “Ben Hogan would rather let a black widow spider crawl inside his shirt than hit a hook.” Then he would add, “It’s not the hook that kills you, it’s the fear of hitting it.”

  Today you might guess it came from Claude if you hear Butch say, “You don’t practice a golf swing, you practice golf shots. If you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time.”

  I once asked Butch if I could tell him a story about his dad that he might not have heard.

  Butch grinned. “You start it, I’ll finish it.”

  I can still hear Claude saying, “If a man tells me he knew President Eisenhower, I would ask him how President Eisenhower liked his steaks cooked. I know how Ike liked his steaks cooked—with a layer of salt on both sides. And he liked a sliced onion sandwich on light bread with mustard. Good for the heart. I knew Ike. I taught Ike.”

  Claude also taught Kennedy, Nixon, and Ford, not to overlook Howard Hughes, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Henry Ford, the Duke of Windsor, and King Hassan II of Morocco.

  Doing a magazine piece, I was once with Claude on one of his trips to Morocco. I wasn’t permitted to dine or socialize with the king, but I followed him as he played golf on a course inside the walls of one of his palaces. King Hassan II might have been Claude’s toughest golf pupil.

  In the city of Fez one evening as we dined on barbecued goat, Claude said, with a sweep of the hand, “It’s not easy to explain to His Majesty that the golf club doesn’t know he’s a king.”

  Butch can drop the names of some of his own important students, past and present. To name four: Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, Greg Norman, and Ernie Els.

  Tiger won his first eight pro majors with Butch Harmon. Butch didn’t try to do anything with Tiger’s swing. He mainly spoke to him about course management and how to conduct himself around the people he would be dealing with.

  How much to tip locker room attendants, hotel housekeepers, restaurant help, anyone who does him a favor. All that, along with how to activate his credit cards.

  Butch explained to Tiger that he should make an attempt to be cordial and cooperative with the press. IMG, the agency that originally signed Tiger, evidently told him something else in that regard.

  Butch hasn’t needed to instruct Phil Mickelson on any form of generosity.

  Phil has always been popular with the fans and press, and, as those in the know can attest to, he’s a notorious big tipper. There’s a host of locker room guys, hotel maids, waiters, waitresses, and maître d’s who will testify to his generosity.

  When Butch was a kid running around trying to learn the game, Claude was the “head coach at Harmon Tech,” officially known as Winged Foot Golf Club. If you wanted to play a medley of Claude’s hits, the assistants who passed through “Harmon Tech” in those years included Jackie Burke, Dave Marr, Mike Souchak, Dick Mayer, Rod Funseth, and Al Mengert.

  Butch was exposed to that, as were his three brothers—Craig, the head pro for over forty years now at Oak Hill in Rochester, New York; Billy, who is now the director of golf at Toscana Country Club in Palm Springs; and Dick, the longtime pro at River Oaks in Houston who shockingly passed away a few years ago.

  Winged Foot was special back then. It had a dazzling membership. Some of the best known were Tommy Armour; Fred Corcoran, who once ran the PGA Tour and was the agent for Sam Snead and Ted Williams; Dick Chapman, who won both the U.S. Amateur and British Amateur; Frank Gifford, the football hero and TV broadcaster; and finally Craig Wood, the 1941 U.S. Open and Masters champion who became a member after he retired as Winged Foot’s head pro. Claude had been Wood’s assistant and was put in line by Craig to become his successor.

  Butch would argue that Winged Foot was the greatest club in America back then, a true sportsman’s haven. But times have changed. Butch has observed a new breed of member now. The guy who goes from Choate to Yale to the first tee at Winged Foot West.

  Golf’s top instructor enjoys explaining how Claude tried to curb Butch’s anger on the golf course when he was a young man.

  After watching a youthful Butch throw a tantrum after shooting a 79 one day, Claude said to Butch, “I can see Arnold Palmer getting mad, but what have you got to be mad about? You’re no good, anyhow.”

  Somehow I can hear Butch passing that along to someone whose game he’s trying to help. It’s in his DNA.

  A CURE FOR BETRAYALS

  HAVING HURLED MY share of seven-irons at benches and tree trunks when they sabotaged me in moments of financial crisis, I can tell you that nothing was better for the soul after a financially disappointing round than relaxing in bars, taverns, and hangouts.

  In the confines of these sociable places I could have a Junior and water, maybe four, and dwell on what must have caused the day’s tragedies to occur.

  Why on my downswing at the 5th did I wonder if I’d put food down for the dog before I left the house?

  Why when I stood over a putt at the 12th green was I still letting it bother me that my old school had named a new building on campus after a Marxist Commie Socialist pig?

  Why, since there was water behind the green at the 9th, did I wonder if I had too much club on my takeaway?

  Why, since there was water in front of the green at the 15th, was I thinking that my car needed an oil change?

  Why, inasmuch as I feared my hook might return on the 18th tee, was I thinking that I had only one cigarette left in the pack, and I knew the machine in the clubhouse was broken?

  I should have learned years earlier that golf is 90 percent mental once you know how to grip the club.

  I should have learned it back when Spec Sims, the best gambler I ever knew, told me what had happened to him in a big-money match he gave away when he was one up with one to play.

  Spec said when he stood over the two-footer for the win on 18, a win that would see a nice amount of whip-out make its way into his pocket, he realized as he stroked the putt that he hadn’t been focusing on making it—he’d been thinking about Rita Hayworth in the movies.

  He said it was the best golf lesson h
e ever learned the hard way.

  Spec said, “You have to step on a man’s throat, then you can think about Rita Hayworth when you get to the bar.”

  I used to enjoy the humor I’d find in the watering holes I’d frequent after a round. I enjoyed listening to the talk-big guys. I’d hear:

  “People up East who like that TV show Dallas don’t know the nearest cowboy hat to Dallas is thirty miles west in Fort Worth.”

  “We don’t need A-rab oil. We got all the dinosaurs and whales we need right here in Texas.”

  “I’ll worry about people freezing from no heat up in New York City when I see an offshore drilling rig sittin’ next to the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Baby doll, I believe you can switch me to a glass of red. Wine don’t count, does it?”

  This takes me back to the days when a man could light a cigarette without finding himself surrounded by squad cars and fire trucks. In that day the citizenry drank Junior, Curtis, Jack, Crown, and Count Vod instead of Pellegrino.

  I was back in Fort Worth for the Colonial and having a drink in the clubhouse with an old friend when our attention was drawn to the stand-up bar where a gentleman had been taken hostage by a smokin’-hot showstopper.

  I estimated she’d just returned from a tristate crime spree of homewrecking.

  “I know him,” my friend said. “That’s not his wife.”

  “I’m shocked,” I said.

  My friend said, “It looks like he’s drinking himself invisible.”

  I said, “Yeah, he started out witty and charming and worked his way up.”

  Thus was born The Ten Stages of Drunkenness. They appeared in a novel I perpetrated, Baja Oklahoma. For these purposes I’ll cut the stages down to five:

  1. Witty and Charming

  2. Rich and Powerful

  3. Crank Up the Enola Gay

  4. Invisible

  5. Bulletproof

  The list turned out to be popular. It turned up on the walls of bars, taverns, and grillrooms from Chicago to Atlanta, from Boston to Miami, from Houston to L.A.

  I was flattered and would celebrate at P.J. Clarke’s in Manhattan.

  I’d sip my way to a final for the evening.

  I’d have a grand final.

  I’d have a grand majestic final.

  I’d have a getaway.

  I’d fake one more getaway.

  I’d finally have a nightgown and be out of there.

  And I survived.

  Now I drink root-beer floats.

  LETTER OF RESIGNATION

  The secretary of a golf club in New England has been dismissed for inappropriate behavior involving alcohol and sexual harassment.

  —NEWS ITEM

  Dear Board of Governors and Members,

  Surely all of you at Weeping Ruins Country Club know how painful it is for me to write this letter of resignation. I am dictating it to Nelda Reese, our dutiful secretary for lo these many years. Weeping Ruins has been my life for the past thirty years. I would bury myself in our deepest bunker for this club. That would be the one left of 16 green, of course.

  How well I remember my first round of golf at the Ruins. It was the day the water had receded on the back nine after Hurricane Tina, which, ironically, was the name of the first cart girl I married.

  I played the East course that day. This was before we took the 2nd, 3rd, and 7th from the North, the 5th from the South, and the 13th from the West, and integrated them into the East in an effort to host a U.S. Open.

  I’m proud to have led the fight to make those changes. Although the club has yet to attract the Open, I’m convinced the improvements have helped us continually draw a good field for the Weeper, our annual member-guest.

  As I think back on my first round that day, how could I forget who was in the foursome with me?

  Dr. Bob (Close ’em Up) Sloan was there. He was rightfully proud of the fact that he could remove six gallbladders in a single morning and never miss his afternoon tee time.

  There was Easy Ed Case, the prince of insurance. I think it’s fair to say most of us got a kick out of Easy Ed telling us about the fine print he kept coming up with.

  There was Knobby Thurber, four-time club champion, and a man I always thought was my friend until lately. Obviously he hasn’t gotten over me dropping a bottle of vodka on his left foot a month ago. I can see how the accident might have affected his stance, as he so vigorously complained at the board meeting. But you would think Knobby would have had some sympathy for me. It was the finest potato vodka they make in Poland.

  I want everyone to know I have apologized profusely to Rudy Conover, club president, for the joke I made about his wife. I mean, when she drowned in the pond left of 12. It was a reminder that you can never be too careful lining up a putt.

  Anyhow, I thought it was obvious humor when I said it shouldn’t have happened to an Exxon heiress, but at least Rudy had a good amount of the stock to remember her by.

  Excuse me a minute. The old potato appears to be beckoning. A couple of swigs ought to smooth things out.

  Now then. I want to explain in full about the incident with Cindy, the new cart girl. As you know, Cindy is the younger sister of Tammy, the second cart girl I married—the one who left me for our tennis pro, “Rex the Wagon Tongue.” I don’t recall his real name. I do recall they are no longer together. I hear he parks cars now at a hotel in Naples, Florida, and she is a ski instructor in Dubai.

  All I did while Cindy was pouring me a vodka rocks on the 11th fairweg … fairway … was ask if she had a valid placemat … passport. And I did suggest that she hadn’t seen Capri until she’d seen it with fleas … with me.

  I never laid a glove on Cindy, not that she would have allowed it after she watched me vomit on her sloose … shoes. And so, my friends, it is with a heavy heart that I tender this registration … resignation.

  But I want everyone to know I have been forgiven for all of my past flavors … failures … by my wife, Noreen … Nadine … whatever. I now leave you with fawn … fond memories of our club’s martini splashes … glasses.

  Yours booley … truly.

  Member #K-659

  SO LONG, PARD

  MY BUSINESS CARD reads “Personal Shrink to the Fragile Golfer.” It means what it says. I save lives.

  A question I often hear from a client goes along these lines: “How can I get rid of the annoying jerk in my Saturday foursome that I have grown to despise? I’m afraid he’s going to force me to commit a crime that’ll land me in prison, and I don’t want to go to prison. It would ruin my short game.”

  I have listened and learned that the annoying jerk may come in a variety of forms.

  He is the man who says, “I still play Balata. I like to work the ball.”

  His golf shirts fit too tight.

  He may favor orange shirts with green slacks, or pink shirts with yellow slacks, even though he’s not color-blind.

  He has been known to make twenty-two calls on his cell in nine holes.

  He’ll study a chip shot from four angles, then flub it.

  He nods at you like he knew what you were going to say after you said it.

  He occasionally will have you spend fifteen minutes looking for his second shot that’s lost, then he will realize he hasn’t hit it yet.

  He likes to talk about his one trip to Scotland and recite the poem he’s written about the Old Course.

  He orders the popcorn soup.

  He shows up with a new driver every two weeks, and says on the first tee, “Let the big dog eat.” The big dog usually dines out of bounds.

  He gains a minimum of one foot each time he marks his ball on the greens.

  He thinks Pine Valley is a California wine.

  Here are suggestions that may help you get rid of him:

  Lose his golf ball every chance you get. When he’s not looking, throw it over fences, into creeks, into bushes, on top of condos.

  Gather a bunch of eight-by-ten gloss photos of Liberace. Au
tograph them to him and circulate them freely among the members, saying they were found in his locker. They can be tucked inside menus in the Fairway Dining Room.

  Overwhelm him with swing tips. Tell him a new theory holds that the Vs should point to his left ear. Tell him the old idea of placing a newspaper under the right arm to keep the elbow close to the body when practicing the swing works better with the Oxford English Dictionary.

  Post nefarious notes on prominent walls in the clubhouse announcing that he is nine months delinquent on his bill.

  Circulate the rumor that his real family name is Keitel and he is the distant cousin of Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel. We all know what that name meant at the Nuremberg Trials.

  Insist on driving when the two of you share a golf cart so you can take dangerous curves at high speed.

  Walk abreast of him when crossing the bridge over the gorge at number 12 while keeping in mind that a gentle nudge can do the trick.

  Tell him you’ve discovered a club maker in Cairo who makes drivers that guarantee incredible distance. The clubhead is made of the crushed skulls of Egyptian pharaohs. Provide an address. Google Earth can help here.

  Casually mention that you saw his wife last week. She was strolling through the mall with a handsome, well-built young man in a muscle shirt and tight shorts.

  Over the years these suggestions seem to have achieved the most success. It’s why I get the big bucks.

  THIEVES

  MOST AMATEUR GOLFERS fall into two categories: those who cheat on their handicaps and those who don’t. Those who cheat hold to the belief that you can never have too many silver trays, silver bowls, and silver pitchers in one home. Those who don’t cheat have this fear that if they even consider the idea, God will steer them into freeway accidents that will leave them with incurable slices for the rest of their lives, if not, in fact, dead.

  But handicap thieves provide for interesting discussions. A group of us came together the other day in the men’s grill and talked about it.