In my time as a columnist for newspapers and magazines, I occasionally rubbed readers the wrong way. Some readers would find pen and paper, envelope and stamp. They would write me letters of advice, more than one telling me where to go. They were not letters that I kept as reminders of good times past.
On a shelf within reach as I write, placed alongside a lovely portrait of my wife, I keep a book that I did in league with my pal, Tom Callahan. We alternated chapters, Tom starting our adventure in Northern Ireland, me following with a chapter on Iceland, and so forth until we had spent all of Golf Digest’s money on a 37,319-mile journey that created “Around the World in 18 Holes.” (Shameless plug.)
For some time now, that book also has served as a safe-deposit box for two letters that I have valued. They were written on real paper and arrived sealed in real envelopes.
The first of those letters was post-marked April 29, 1986, from Fort Worth, Texas. Delivery cost 22 cents. On the back side of the envelope, this:
BEN HOGAN
P.O. Box 11276
Fort Worth, Texas 76110
I did not rush to open the letter. Years before, I had written about Hogan in April of 1967. I was a kid, 25 years old, fresh off covering the Bloomington-Normal City Tournament for The Pantagraph in Bloomington and suddenly sent to the Masters, there walking across land that had been an indigo plantation before Bobby Jones made it a cathedral.
Many years later, I would write, “You stood under the trees by the clubhouse. A little sign was tacked to each tree, identifying it. Good. You wanted to put it in your story so the folks back home would know you knew what kind of trees they had at Augusta National…”
In ’67, I checked in at the press center and asked where Red Smith sat. They showed me. I asked about the practice range because I wanted to see Ben Hogan.
“To see Hogan practice, you arose at dawn. You knew he was little, but not that little. Only his hands seemed the stuff of legend, carved from rough rock. Every shot with every stick flew two yards left of the target and then fell those yards right, a fade two decades in the making, the ball dropping in the caddy’s shadow.”
On Saturday, Hogan birdied the first four holes on the back nine. He came to the 18th needing to make a 25-foot downhiller for a fifth birdie.
He was 54 years old and the yips had owned him for a long time. “You wanted him to make the putt. You wanted it for him. One last putt, a man telling us what he had been. And then, with the cathedral gone silent, Hogan stood over that long putt. Standing. Standing. And then, somehow, he made the thing. Made it for his 30, his 66.”
He was four shots off the lead. He said, “There’s a lot of fellas that have got to fall dead for me to win, but I don’t mind telling you I’ll play just as hard as I’ve ever played in my life.”
“Hogan sat on a padded bench in the clubhouse. His back was to a sunlit window with lacy curtains. He was balding, gray at the fringe. His face was a Texas rancher’s shaped by wind across flat land and sun without rain. But the sunlight this day came through the lace curtain, golden and soft, and Hogan’s face was an angel’s under a halo.”
All those words inside quotation marks are words I wrote in a column dated April 10, 1986. I did not make the trip to that Masters because my son’s wedding was that weekend. Still, it was the Masters, and I wanted to write something. So, I filled one day’s space with those words about my first time.
Then, late in April of ’86, this happened …
What pleasant memories you gave me when a friend of mine sent me a copy of the article you wrote which appeared in your newspaper on Thursday, April 10, 1986, titled ‘A Masters memory.’
It was a very nice article, and I appreciate your remembering and including me in it.
With best wishes, I am
Sincerely
Ben
I told my wife, Cheryl, about the letter from Ben Hogan. She said, “Who’s he?”
I explained. “It’s like getting a letter from God.”
Earlier here, I cited “two letters.” The second came at the sender’s cost of 44 cents. It was postmarked April 23, 2010. On the back flap of the envelope there was no name, only this address:
11780 U.S. Highway #1, Suite 500,
North Palm Beach, Florida 33408.
At the top of the enclosed letter, this …
Jack Nicklaus
I knew what this was about, probably. The PGA of America had given me a Lifetime Achievement Award, and I had made a speech mentioning Jack. In his letter, he wrote:
I heard that your acceptance speech… was one of the evening’s highlights, and among the stories you told was that amid your amazing streak of Masters, the only one you missed was 1986. The reason, you said, was that you put family first and were attending your son’s wedding that day.
I told everyone at the dinner in 2010 that on Sunday, April 13, 1986, I had no idea what was happening in Augusta. But as I walked into the house after the wedding reception, I turned on the television. The evening news came on. The first report was not about war or peace. It was more important than that to any golf writer. The absolute first words I heard were…
“Jack Nicklaus today shot a 65 to win …”
And I said, “Oh, sh….”
I had not known he was even in contention. I read all about it later. How he had told his son, Steve, that a 66 might get him in a playoff, a 65 might win it. And how he was five shots off the lead going to the back nine. And how he shot 30 on the back nine – as Hogan had done on a Saturday in 1967 – for the 65 that gave him his sixth Masters title and 18th major.
Well, I can certainly appreciate your putting family first. Barbara and I find ourselves scheduling everything around all the grandkids’ athletic events these days… and I wouldn’t have it any other way! If, however, you ever need me to fill in the blanks on 1986, I am happy to do so. ☺
Congratulations again on this nice honor,SincerelyJack
A postscript … After that 1986 Masters, I made a deal with my son, Jeff. “Next time you get married,” I said, “don’t do it in April.” Good son, he married for a second time in December.
