Bobby Jones on Golf

by Robert Tyre Jones

  8 FADING AND DRAWING

  George Trevor wrote quite interestingly of an observation he attributes to Henry Cotton, the brilliant English professional concerning what he claims to be the essential difference between British and American golfing methods. The distinction pointed out by Cotton was that British golfers favor the outside-in swinging arc over the American inside-out, and hence play every shot with a fade as against the Yankee draw. I suppose, if there is one fundamental difference between the styles of play prevalent in the two countries, Cotton has correctly pointed it out.

  Yet I do not think that the difference is more than one of preference. Certainly, the top-rank players of either country are able to fade or draw at will and with almost equally good control in either case. When Cotton states his rule, he cannot mean that the ability to play either shot is lacking on either side; he can mean only that in play off the tee and in approaching a green faced squarely to the player when no advantage is to be gained by coming on from either side, the British will choose the left-to-right shot and the American the right-to-left. In this I agree.

  I suppose the influence of Vardon and Taylor can be seen in this. But Vardon was an upright swinger, and for an upright swinger, the left-to-right shot is the more natural and, therefore, the easier. About the time when I was coming along, soon after Vardon had made his second visit to this country, the fading shot gained great, if short-lived, popularity because it was said to be more easily controlled. It was admitted to be shorter off the tee, but it was said to bring up more quickly after hitting the ground and, therefore, less likely to roll into trouble from fairway or green.

  In America, on the other hand, we learned our early golf from the Scots, who were more or less flat swingers, and they did not teach us to swing like Vardon. The influence of the master, when it began to be felt later, could do little more than induce our later generation to effect a sort of compromise.

  I think that Cotton is right in saying that the Yankee draw is a more effective method of hitting a golf ball. The tail end hook, which is not really a hook, but a curl, almost always adds a good many yards to the drive, and it is, for me at any rate, far more satisfactory in playing a long boring iron shot to the green. Further, a familiarity with its use does more than anything else to overcome one of the most troublesome things in golf—a hard crosswind off the left side of the fairway.

  9 SHANKING

  Although shanking is not the most universal of golfing mistakes, it certainly has the most demoralizing effect upon those who may be addicted to it; and, once victimized, it seems that the greater the determination with which one tries to avoid it, the more will one foster the habit. Because the fear of shanking, by contracting the swing, induces shanking, the evil is cumulative, living upon itself. It is for this reason that I advise golfers who have never shanked to read no farther here. Shanking is a thing to cure, but not something to think about preventing.

  Because it is a part of the justification for my existence that I do such things, although I have never shanked a shot in my life, I have given a good deal of thought to the possible causes and cures. So I was especially pleased to learn that a simple suggestion of mine, relayed to one of the finest woman golfers in the South, and intelligently applied by her, enabled her to stop her shanking, and to regain her confidence almost immediately. Unfortunately, everyone will not be able to effect a cure so readily, but that is not the fault of the remedy.

  Shanking usually appears first in the shorter shots, where the common tendency is toward wooden wrists; but wherever it appears, the cause is the same, either failing to cock the wrists during the backswing, or failing to retain the cock long enough coming down. The players most likely to shank are those who employ short backswings in which there is a minimum of hand and wrist movement. When swinging the club in this way, upon arriving at the point where the blow must be delivered, the player feels the lack of this means of adding speed to the club head. He tries to make up for it by an effort in the shoulders and arms, and immediately shoves the socket of the club toward the ball. The cure, of course, is to assure a full cocking of the wrists during the backswing and to retain the greater part of this angle during the first half of the downswing.

  It would be difficult to find a golfer more despairing than one who has run into a fit of shanking. A shanked iron shot is, of course, utterly ruinous; and the fear of producing such a result with every swing brings about a tension in the very muscles that ought to be relaxed and active. Becoming afraid to trust himself to swing the club freely, the poor victim squeezes it hard with his hands, and so makes more likely the occurrence of the dire result he is trying to avoid.

  I have seen a player good enough to win a state championship once, and reach the final on another occasion, shank ten iron shots in one round of that final. I once saw, unbelievable though it may be, a competitor in an Open championship shank two putts in a round of the tournament. I am told that J. H. Taylor, the great English professional, once gave up golf for over a year because he could not stop shanking. All of which goes to show that a great part of the evil is in the mind. It is a most difficult thing to stop once it has taken a good hold. But the player who uses his hands and wrists properly and actively need have little worry.

  CHAPTER TEN

  1 RECOVERY SHOTS

  2 THE MENTAL SIDE OF BUNKERS

  3 TECHNIQUES OUT OF SAND

  4 OUT OF THE ROUGH

  5 DOWNHILL AND UPHILL LIES

  6 AGAINST THE WIND

  7 PUSH SHOTS

  8 RELIEVING TENSION

  9 FOR LEFT-HANDERS

  10 THE INFLUENCE OF GOLF COURSE DESIGN

  Bunker Play

  CHAPTER TEN

  1 RECOVERY SHOTS

  The average golfer has always to fight tension; never may he feel entirely comfortable, or enjoy a complete confidence in his ability to make the shot required. This feeling of uncertainty makes him tighten up; and even after he has schooled himself to obtain a measure of relaxation in playing the accustomed strokes, he finds it hard not to become unduly alarmed when an unusual or difficult situation confronts him.

  This applies with particular force to recovery work—from bunkers and long grass—and it is responsible in great part for the unwarrantable losses suffered from one bad shot. I think it is safe to say that the man who scores between 95 and 100 usually loses about ten strokes per round because of his failure to recover as well as he ought to, even in proportion to his limited ability. Tension, uncertainty, and fear take from him a heavier toll than they have any right to exact.

  The tightening-up process as the player enters a bunker or long grass shortens his backswing considerably; usually, too, he feels the need of exerting some extra force in order to get the ball out. Thus he produces a short, hurried, ill-timed stroke that fails because of its inaccuracy. Brilliant recoveries to the edge of the hole are not for this man, but, under the conditions met in nine cases out of ten, there is no reason why a moderately successful recovery should not be within the reach of anyone. Most failures from bunkers, or rough, result from topping, and this is so because tension has upset the stroke.

  I have said before that too much ambition is a bad thing to have in a bunker; the same holds true when playing from long grass. It is always difficult to resist the temptation to attempt to make up immediately for any mistake. When there is a long shot to be made, the average person will invariably try his luck with a club that he knows is unsafe. The one idea in playing from rough is to be certain of getting the ball up quickly enough to escape the grass. If this will not reach the green, it will be better to be a few yards short than to be still in the rough.

  That a ball played from long grass will roll an abnormal distance, unless the turf be sodden, is a fact not often enough accounted for. Playing on fast ground, I have seen distances made with a five-iron or four-iron out of rough that would have required a two-iron or one-iron if played in a normal way from the fairway—and the shot could be played with assur
ance that it would clear the grass.

  2 THE MENTAL SIDE OF BUNKERS

  To be out of practice is good for one’s golf game in no particular, but the greatest difference is always noted in the play around the greens. Often, after a long layoff, a considerable improvement may be wrought in the playing of the long shots, requiring complete relaxation and very little delicacy; but as the play comes closer to the hole, and the need for touch and delicate control become more exacting, the one who has not been in intimate contact with his clubs for a great while will surely suffer. There is a great difference between the accuracy required to place a full iron shot on a fair-sized green and that needed to guide a ten-foot putt into the cup.

  At Winged Foot in 1929, what troubled me most was the bunker play around the greens. On every course, the weight and fineness of the sand is likely to be different, and, since almost every shot from sand is played according to the character of the surface upon which the ball rests, the niceties of bunker play vary for almost every course. In other words, although the fundamentals of the stroke remain the same, the success of the shot depends entirely upon the exactness with which the resistance of the sand is estimated.

  Almost everyone had trouble that year with Winged Foot’s bunkers. I saw very few who were at all certain of themselves in the light, fluffy sand. One of these was Harry Cooper, and Harry did what no one else troubled to do—he spent ten minutes each day before his round playing shots from the big bunker in front of the eighteenth green of the club’s other course; when he went out to play, his practice made it easy for him to figure exactly how much sand to take behind the ball, in order to reach the desired distance. The rest of us would have done well to follow Harry’s example.

  It is almost impossible to exaggerate the disturbing effect upon one’s entire game that can be produced by uncertainty concerning one’s ability to recover well from bunkers around the green. The great value of a hazard is not that it catches a shot that has been missed, but that it forces a miss upon the timid player; its psychological worth is greater than its penal value. How much greater is this mental effect when the player knows that he has not the ability to recover if he makes a mistake. Every player knows this feeling; he also knows how comforting it is to feel that he can always blast from a trap to within reasonable putting distance of the hole. In the latter state of mind, he may hit his second shots firmly, with no gripping fear of what may happen; he feels that he may take a risk with an even chance of getting his four, even if the second shot should find a bunker.

  3 TECHNIQUES OUT OF SAND

  I have always considered that Freddie McLeod, who won the National Open Championship in 1908, was one of the most spectacular bunker players who ever lived; but Freddie and I have for years carried on a good-natured argument concerning the soundness of the shot he habitually employs. I have been willing to admit that Freddie can do wonders with it, but he has not agreed that in the hands of the average golfer it might prove a source of danger to the lives of his companions as well as to his score.

  Playing from a clean lie in sand near the green, Freddie lays his niblick well off and takes a good, healthy swing. His club takes a mere feather of sand under the ball, so that the shot comes up with a terrific amount of spin; usually the ball drops past the hole and comes back toward it, often stopping very close indeed.

  But when the average player finds his ball in a bunker, his chief aim should be to get it out in one stroke. He cannot expect to fulfill the exacting requirements of the shot as Freddie McLeod plays it. Instead of taking a feather of sand beneath the ball, he wants to be certain, first, of getting his club sufficiently under the ball to get it up, and second, of hitting hard enough to get it out of the bunker.

  Laying the face of the club well off provides valuable insurance. In this way, it is possible to hit harder with the knowledge that taking too little sand will be less likely to send the ball over the green; but because the full blast produces a steep pitch, it is nevertheless a lob without spin, and it will roll. The heavy cushion of sand between the ball and the face of the club removes any possibility of backspin.

  A great many players, adept in recovering from bunkers, employ what I call a modified or controlled blast. The backswing is on the long side, but the club is merely floated into the sand behind the ball; the cushion of sand is relatively light, and the shot comes up with some backspin. It is not so risky as McLeod’s shot, but nevertheless requires a nice judgment of sand and club head speed to be brought off with consistent success. That this and other shots can be useful does not alter the fact that the full blast is the safest way of getting a ball out of a bunker.

  Fred McLeod used to play another shot I admired. One day when we were playing a practice round at St. Anne’s, he found his ball lying in a heel mark in a bunker some fifty or sixty yards from the green. Anyone else, I think, would have tried to hit sharply down upon the back of the ball with a lofted club. But Freddie played an outright blast with a five-iron. The wall of the bunker was not high; his ball came out with plenty of run and finished neatly on the green.

  To be really expert in recovering from any kind of trouble, including bunkers, a player must possess a certain amount of ingenuity in addition to a highly developed sense of club control. Many of the shots made from such places are not golf shots at all, but are acts of club manipulation possibly never tried before. The player who can handle his tools and has a spark of inspiration can often do wonders.

  Long ago Tommy Armour asked me which I considered to have been the greatest shot I ever played. “When it meant something,” he added. It did not take me long to nominate the iron shot from the bunker on the seventeenth hole at St. Anne’s that enabled me to nose out Al Watrous in the British Open of 1926. The shot was about 175 yards across a number of other bunkers and dunes. I had a clean lie in the sand, and the shot was hardly more difficult than any blind second of the same length; but I did get a thrill out of it because it would have made such a lot of difference if the blade of my iron had taken the smallest speck of sand before it struck the ball.

  “I rather expected you to name that one,” said Tommy. “You know, I asked Hagen the same question, and he also named a bunker shot, out of the cross bunker on the fifteenth at Sandwich.” I remember the bunker perfectly, having been in it a number of times, and the shot almost as well, although I did not see it.

  When Hagen put his second in that bunker in the last round, he needed a five there, and three pars to finish, to beat the lowest total already in, and, apparently, to win the championship. He found his ball lying cleanly in the middle of the bunker, with the pin perhaps thirty yards away, about in the middle of the green. But the bunker is a formidable one; it is not so very large nor so awfully deep, but the front bank overhangs so that a ball close underneath it is scarcely playable.

  The option for Hagen here was to play a safe blast, get his five, and still have to play the last three holes in par, or to take a desperate chance in the hope of getting a four, thus providing a marginal stroke that might well be needed on the finishing holes. He studied the shot with the utmost care, changed clubs at least twice, and ended by playing the most perfect chip imaginable; the ball stopped a foot from the hole, and he finished in par to win.

  It was a big gamble, which for a less capable and confident player would have been suicidal; had his club even nicked the sand behind the ball, it was probable that the next shot would have been played from underneath the overhanging ledge, in which case a six would have been difficult to get. Hagen thought of this, but he felt that he could bring off the shot, and that the stroke, if gained, would be worth the risk. The knowledge that he probably had a stroke in hand would certainly make the last three pars a lot easier. As it turned out, he actually needed the four, for George Duncan, finishing late with a splendid round, had only to have a four, which he just failed to get, on the last hole to tie.

  The short shots off clean sand, like Hagen’s, are the most treacherous in golf. The long one
s, like mine, are not so bad, for then the main thing is to strike a descending blow, as you would from the fairway—and if you take it heavy, you are hitting hard enough to get out of the bunker anyway. But the delicate stroke, if it fails, fails completely, and what is more, usually puts the ball against the face of the bunker, in a really difficult spot. So the failure may cost two or three strokes instead of one.

  The average golfer should hope that he may never get a clean lie in a bunker around the green, for surely the temptation will prove too great for him. Let him always find his ball just a little bit down into the sand so that necessity, rather than his own strength of character, may cause him to take a lofted club and blast his way out.

  4 OUT OF THE ROUGH

  The average golfer, when he finds himself with a close lie, or with his ball lying deep in heavy grass, and a shot of 150 yards or so to a closely guarded green, is at a loss concerning the shot to play. The first thing that crosses his mind is that he must lose some length because of the lie of the ball, since it is not sitting high where he can hit it squarely. With this thought, and with the idea of compensating for this loss, he will select for the shot a stronger club than he would use if the ball were lying well.

  Ordinarily, it is dangerous for a player of whatever ability to force an iron to its ultimate limit, but the situation I have described is one where such a thing is necessary. There are a number of reasons for this, all of which should be understood by the player who hopes to work out from troubles where the shots he learns on the practice tee have to be varied a little, or supplemented with a bit of ingenuity.

  When the ball is lying in heavy grass, or in a small hole or depression, it becomes necessary to swing the club in a sharply descending arc—literally to dig the ball out of the haven it has found. This necessity takes loft off the club—hooding or closing the face until a five-iron becomes effectively a four-iron, and a four as strong as a three from a normal lie.