The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Page 6

  The weight of public expectations had been great from the time Jones began national competition as a fourteen year old, and it grew heavier and heavier with every passing year. With every triumph, the public expected more. And Jones somehow felt obligated to satisfy them.

  It is impossible to imagine the pressure he must have felt in 1930 as he conquered what great sportswriters George Trevor, Grantland Rice, and O.B. Keeler called the “Impregnable Quadrilateral.” Yet Jones never wavered and never surrendered to the distractions of the media as his quest for golf’s Holy Grail unfolded. When he closed out Eugene V. Homans 8 & 7 to capture the 1930 U.S. Amateur title at Merion Cricket Club for the fourth and final leg of the Grand Slam, Jones completed a year of championship golf unequaled to this day.

  Admittedly, there are some who consider Ben Hogan’s championship season of 1953 to be a comparable achievement. That was the year Hogan won the Masters, the U.S. Open, and the British Open, and missed the PGA only because it partially conflicted with the British Open. Still, to most golf historians, Jones’s victories in the four major championships of his day, all in one year, rank as the ultimate achievement in golf.

  At any rate, once Jones had won his Grand Slam, he had no compelling reason to continue to endure the pressures of competition. For Jones, winning the four majors was probably the emotional equivalent of Byron Nelson buying his ranch. The motivation was gone. He had beaten everyone, and he had beaten them often. There was nothing more to prove, and he certainly did not need to endure the intense pressures of competition in order to make a living.

  Like Nelson, Jones only made token appearances in competition after his retirement. As the host, he felt obliged to play in the first several Masters tournaments, but the competitive edge of his game was gone, and his performance was, by his standards at least, mediocre.

  I could imagine, then, that Jones was having great fun following his young protégé. At last, he could enjoy golf competition without the ulcers.

  This was also a time when golf hustling was at its peak. Sending Stedman out to play “money matches” did not take a stroke of genius. All across the country, hustlers like Titanic Thompson were a traveling act. They went from town to town, taking on the local hero at each stop and living off their winnings.

  In those days, before Nike and multimillion-dollar equipment contracts, the most a really good player might receive from endorsements was free balls, a new set of clubs, and a little cash each year. Any player who wanted to earn real money outside of tournaments was forced to hustle. That was the reality.

  By and large, the only players who chose golf as a profession in that era were those who had no other career options. While golf was played at some colleges, varsity golfers usually graduated to careers in law, medicine, or business, not professional golf. The money just wasn’t there.

  For Beau Stedman, however, there was no alternative. The only way for him to compete was to hustle. And he had a wonderful friend who was in a position to help him meet—and beat—the best.

  The only question was who was next.

  12

  I DIDN’T HAVE TO wait long for the answer. And it was a doozy, to borrow a phrase from that era.

  Francis Ouimet was a 20-year-old caddy living with his mother across the street from The Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts when he stunned the world by winning the 1913 U.S. Open there. And he did so by defeating two heralded British champions, Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, in an 18-hole playoff after the three were tied at the end of regulation play.

  U.S. Open history has its share of upset winners, such as Jack Fleck beating Ben Hogan in a playoff to win the 1955 Open at Olympic or Orville Moody winning the 1969 Open at Champions for his only tournament victory as a professional until he found a long putter while playing on the Senior Tour. But no underdog champion has been more celebrated in golf history than Ouimet.

  As evidence of the prowess of Vardon and Ray at the time, the dates of the 1913 Open were changed to accommodate their schedules so that they could compete in the championship. Ray was the current British Open champion; Vardon had won five British Open crowns. In contrast, Ouimet, an amateur, had failed in each of the past three years even to qualify for the U.S. Amateur. The only tournament win of any consequence on his golf résumé was the Massachusetts Amateur, which he won a couple of months before the Open at Brookline.

  Still, to get to Vardon and Ray, Ouimet had to post a tying score that was better than all other American hopefuls, including a much more prominent young golfer his age named Walter Hagen. Even then, no one seriously expected Ouimet to bear up against the skill and experience of Vardon and Ray in the heat of a playoff.

  In the end, however, it was the veterans who faded away while the caddy from across the street refused to yield. At the end of play on that soggy afternoon so long ago, Ouimet had beaten the two favorites by five and six strokes to become the U.S. Open champion. As he was being hoisted onto the shoulders of an admiring crowd, Ouimet turned to his most ardent fan and said calmly, “Thank you, mother. I’ll be home soon.” He was then literally and figuratively swept away into the annals of golf history.

  In reading about all of this, I was becoming as avid about golf history as Cheatwood. The books described Ouimet’s victory that day as the event that wrested the crown of golf supremacy from Great Britain for America. It was certainly a watershed for Ouimet personally; he followed his stunning Open victory by winning the U.S. and French Amateur championships the next year.

  Like Jones, Ouimet remained a lifelong amateur. He maintained his game at an extremely high level for many years, playing on every Walker Cup team from 1921 to 1936 (including five teams on which Jones was a teammate), and he won his second U.S. Amateur in 1931.

  Ouimet resided in the Boston area for the rest of his life, working as an investment broker and executive for the Boston Bruins, the Boston Braves, and the USGA. In 1951, he became the first American Captain of the Royal & Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews—considered by some to be the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a golfer. Not surprisingly, when the USGA established the Bob Jones Award for distinguished sportsmanship in golf in 1955, it named Francis Ouimet as the first recipient.

  So it made sense that Jones would call upon his longtime amateur friend to play Stedman. There was a letter in the file from Jones to Ouimet that told me how it had been arranged.

  June 27, 1932

  My dear Francis,

  It was so good visiting with you on the telephone. You are very gracious to agree to play a match with my young friend. He will be thrilled to meet and compete against the Amateur champion.

  As I told you when we spoke, Michael Graham is a marvelous young player. You will enjoy your golf with him. I believe he has the stuff to be a champion, but he played as a professional briefly when he was younger and forfeited his amateur status. He no longer has the desire to follow the professional tour around the country and is content to play the game for fun. (I believe he will, however, agree to a friendly wager on the match.)

  I regret that I cannot accept your kind invitation to join you. It would be good to visit with Stella and see your daughters again. Mary would enjoy the trip, too.

  Unfortunately, I have to be out West making those golf movies. They insist on putting actors in with me. I only hope I don’t end up looking foolish.

  Give my best to everyone.

  As ever,

  Bob

  I gleaned from various other notes in the file that Jones even went so far as to arrange for Stedman’s travel to Boston. There was a train schedule in the file and a copy of a letter enclosing a check for the fare to a local agent for a ticket in the name of Michael Graham. There was also a note from Stedman, with its customarily poor spelling, thanking Jones. Other notes indicated that the two unlikely allies had discussed the arrangements on the telephone several times.

  It was evident that the bond between Stedman and his benefactor was growing stronger. Sitting in my cubicle, I tri
ed to understand the complex dynamics of a relationship that appeared to penetrate barriers of social class, education, and logic. Moreover, it had extended Jones to the very limits of his own ethical bounds, not to mention those of his profession. For what he perceived to be a greater good, Jones had first deceived the authorities and now his own friends.

  Being a lawyer, Jones was no doubt familiar with the often-quoted observation by Oliver Wendell Holmes that the life of the law was not logic but experience. Circumstances often transcended rules. There was something about Stedman’s circumstances that in Jones’s estimation justified his behavior. He did much the same thing with Clifford Roberts. I couldn’t help but think that Jones was showing what is now more fashionably called “unconditional love.”

  It didn’t take me long to find out how the match went. As I turned another page in the file, there in front of me was a letter from Ouimet to Jones. It was dated July 15, 1932.

  Dear Bob,

  It was indeed a pleasure hosting your friend Michael. He was a perfect gentlemen the entire time he was here, and we enjoyed having him in our home, although he appeared overly impressed by it and seemed to find it difficult to relax.

  I am afraid the weather was not very cooperative when it came to our golf. I did not think it fair for him to see the course for the first time in our match, so we arranged to play a practice round the day before. We were having quite a heat wave at the time, and even our caddies found the going difficult.

  Youth being what it is, I believe your young friend found the conditions more tolerable than I did. Please do not think I am making excuses; I do not believe our match would have gone any differently without the heat.

  Michael is every bit as talented as you said. It is a shame that he cannot play in our amateur championships, for he appears to have an ideal competitive temperament. He is very steady on the course and talks very little, as if he prefers to speak with his golf clubs. In fact, he did very little talking during our entire trip and seems to be uncommonly shy.

  As you know, our course here is quite long, especially our par fours. Michael’s extraordinary length was a great advantage to him, and I found it unnerving to be outdriven by nearly half a football field. I did my best to keep up, however, and was pleased to get around in 73. Still, it was no match for Michael’s 70. (In truth, he should have broken 70, but he missed two relatively short putts on the last three holes when the outcome of the match was no longer in doubt. I suspect he was throwing off a bit so as not to embarrass me.)

  I would be happy to take up the issue of restoring Michael’s amateur status at our next Executive Committee meeting if you wish. As you know, this is becoming quite an issue these days. Much of it depends on how long Michael played professionally. He seemed reluctant to talk about it. If you think he would be interested, however, let me know.

  Our best to Mary.

  Sincerely,

  Francis

  In his reply, Jones was brief. He thanked Ouimet for his generosity in hosting young “Michael.” As for restoring his amateur status, Jones vaguely indicated that his young friend was not inclined to do so at this time because he lacked the means to join a club and play the amateur circuit. He then wrote, “Michael will certainly be flattered by your offer, and I believe it will encourage him at some future time to apply for a return to amateur competition.”

  Ouimet’s letter must have reminded Jones of the high risk of discovery associated with Stedman’s quest. And the betting man in Jones had to know that the odds were against them. For whatever reason, however, Jones seemed determined to help his friend and beat the odds.

  13

  AT THIS POINT I began to wonder how Stedman’s opponents were being selected. There did not seem to be any particular pattern involved. Still, I found myself conducting an imaginary roll call of the prominent players of the era and wondering who might be next.

  The next match apparently didn’t occur for quite some time, until mid-1933. There was nothing in the papers I was reviewing to explain the delay, but persuading world-famous golfers to find a spot in their schedules to play someone they had never heard of was probably a daunting challenge even for Jones.

  Then I saw a name I quickly recognized: Gene Sarazen. The man golf writers nicknamed “The Squire.” He would be Stedman’s next opponent.

  I had heard enough about Sarazen to know that he was one of the greats of that era, but I wanted to know more. I hit the books again. It wasn’t hard to find an abundance of references securing his place in golf history.

  Born Eugenio Saraceni, he became Gene Sarazen when he left the caddie yard to become a professional at the age of 17. He felt his adopted name would be easier for sportswriters to spell and would look better in print.

  It wouldn’t be long before everyone knew how to spell Gene Sarazen’s name. Born within a year of Jones’s birth, Sarazen proclaimed his own greatness early in his career by winning the 1922 U.S. Open at Skokie Country Club, beating Jones by a stroke. He quickly showed that winning his first major was not a fluke by adding the PGA Championship in 1922 and 1923, defeating Emmett French and Walter Hagen in the finals. Ten years later, in 1932, Sarazen appended his second U.S. Open title to his résumé, winning at Fresh Meadow, and then won his first British Open crown that same year at Prince’s in England. In 1935, Sarazen won the second Masters tournament by tying Craig Wood in dramatic fashion in the fourth round with a double eagle at the par-five fifteenth hole (with Jones in the gallery) and then defeating an astonished Wood the following day in a 36-hole playoff.

  Upon capturing The Masters, Sarazen became the first member of one of the most exclusive clubs in all of golf: those players who have won all four of the events now recognized as golf’s major championships. Even today, some 65 years or so later, the list of members remains pitifully small; in addition to Sarazen, only Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, and Gary Player have ever been able to display trophies from The Masters, U.S. Open, British Open, and PGA Championship.

  Sarazen’s four-wood at the fifteenth hole in 1935 was as much responsible for elevating The Masters to its major championship status as any single stroke ever played at Augusta National. It is still celebrated whenever great golf shots are discussed.

  The Masters is alone among the four majors in giving its champions a lifetime invitation to the tournament. Many of its past winners compete well beyond the time when they have any serious chance of winning. Although Sarazen stopped playing in the tournament long ago, it became a Masters tradition for him, Sam Snead, and Byron Nelson to serve as honorary starters. They continued to do so through the 1999 Masters. Two months afterward, the Squire died at the age of 97.

  Somehow Jones persuaded Sarazen to play a round with Stedman. In a letter to Sarazen that read much like the earlier letter to Francis Ouimet, Jones promised Sarazen “a challenging match with a young player of great ability.” Interestingly, his letter also told Sarazen about the new course he was building in Augusta, Georgia. He described it as “a property with great potential, which I hope can become a winter retreat for all of us to relax and play golf in one another’s company.” Neither Jones nor Sarazen could possibly have foreseen the roles each would play in making this new course one of the two or three best golf venues in the world, much less that a simple invitational tournament hosted by the club would become a major golf championship on a par with the U.S. Open, the British Open, and the PGA.

  Jones’s letter to Sarazen was dated July 22, 1933. The match was scheduled for the following August 15. Once again, this would be a “money match,” and Stedman’s syndicate of “investors” was putting up $1,000. The format this time would be 18 holes at match play, meaning each hole would be a separate contest. The player who won the most holes would be the winner. Apparently Stedman’s stock was going up; his share of any winnings this time would be $250.

  I had learned a little about match play from watching the Ryder Cup and the U.S. Amateur on television. Of the two formats for golf, match play is older
and, in the eyes of many, a much more interesting way to play the game. In stroke play, each player is essentially competing against the golf course. As a consequence, the competitors ordinarily pay little heed to the progress of other players, at least not until perhaps late in the fourth and final round of the tournament. In match play, however, a player becomes very conscious of his opponent, for it doesn’t matter how well he plays against par or against the rest of the field. Only his opponent matters. If a player loses his match, he is eliminated from the competition.

  The papers I was reading did not disclose the reason Stedman and Sarazen agreed to compete at match play. But it wasn’t hard to see why. When two players compete head-to-head, match play is in the eyes of most golf enthusiasts a much better format. If a player meets with disaster on a particular hole, it may mean the end of him in stroke play, but all he has lost in match play is one hole, and he can recover by winning the next hole.

  Until 1958, the PGA Championship was conducted at match play. However, while individual match play is preferable for the competitors, it makes for poor television viewing. During stroke play tournaments, at least 60 players remain in the field after the cut, and a television producer can switch viewers quickly from one competitor to the next. Once an individual match play tournament reaches the finals, however, it becomes difficult for television commentators to fill the “dead air” between shots with only two players competing. The PGA changed the format of its championship from match play to 72 holes at stroke play in 1958, which happened to coincide perfectly with the rising success of the telecasts of the Masters tournaments.

  All four major championships now have the identical format. Some see that as progress. Others see the abandonment of match play as the loss of golf’s purest form of competition. In fact, those who prefer match play are fond of pointing out that par is an American invention. The Scots didn’t assign par for any hole because the number of strokes required to complete the hole on a particular day depended on the severity of the weather at the time.