In the following excerpt from the opening chapter of “The Unconquerable Game,” released this month, Ely Callaway recounts events that led to the founding of Callaway Golf. A note to the reader: Because Ely made his final written contribution to the book in June 2001, a few weeks before he died, the editors decided to set the book in that precise moment in time and have taken care to preserve Ely’s language, voice and phrasing.
The story of Callaway Golf began nearly two decades ago, in the summer of 1982, and my chance encounter with a most peculiar golf club. That morning was pretty hot, as I recall, about as hot as it gets in Palm Springs, California. I was at the brand new Vintage Club in Indian Wells, walking through a trailer that served as the temporary pro shop. I was getting ready to go out and play some golf by myself. A few months before this, I had sold my winery, Callaway Vineyard & Winery, to whiskey giant Hiram Walker. Here I was, without a job, feeling too young to be retired, and looking for something new. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I was about to find out.
Strolling through the shop, an unusual wedge on display caught my eye. It had a beautiful hickory shaft that looked at least as old as I did – and I was old enough to have cheered for Bobby Jones when he'd won the Grand Slam 52 years earlier in 1930. I remember thinking, “What in the world is that?” The clerk behind the makeshift counter assured me this “Hickory Stick” was new merchandise and not the bygone variety. Intrigued, I paid the $100 price, about double the going rate for a normal wedge, and headed out toward my golf cart.
I was wearing my usual straw hat, polyester slacks, knit shirt, and white golf shoes – the uniform of the corporate retiree. My cart was number three in the queue, the one with the bag full of MacGregor Muirfield irons strapped to the back. Muirfields were designed and promoted by Jack Nicklaus. The Golden Bear himself owned 20 percent of MacGregor, and the 80 percent owner, Clark Johnson, was a pioneer resident at The Vintage and a golfing buddy of mine. Johnson had gotten Nicklaus to send me the Muirfields as a gift. They were good enough to use, but not good enough to rave about, so I never did.
I slid the Hickory Stick into the middle of the Muirfields with their shiny steel shafts and metal heads. It stuck out like a blowgun in a reunion of rifle barrels. Other golfers were available for twosomes, threesomes, or foursomes, but since testing a new club can drive other players nuts, I decided to play the round solo. The starter gave me the thumbs up, and I headed for the first tee on these lush 18 holes that had sprouted in the California desert. It was a magnificent layout. The sand traps were indigenous, while the grass, palm trees, and color-coordinated flower beds were imported. A second golf course was under construction, along with several clusters of expensive houses and condos. My fourth wife, Cindy, and I had moved into one of the condos on the edge of a manufactured lake along the tenth hole of Course 1.
I had been coming to Palm Springs to golf since the 1950s, when it was already a playground for the rich and famous, though not nearly the golf resort mecca we might think of today. The Vintage was only five minutes from Eldorado Country Club, where I’d been an early member since it opened in ’57, playing with former presidents Dwight Eisenhower and Gerald Ford and assorted captains of industry (with a few lieutenants thrown in). The Vintage was trying to attract a similar clientele, but not so exclusive that they’d exclude me. I was attracted to its two golf courses and the fact that Cindy and I could split time between our condo here and the one we’d bought at Bear Creek, another golf community 75 miles to the northwest.
Bear Creek was our summer home, and The Vintage was our winter home, the way some people have a winter home in Florida and a summer home on Cape Cod. After one career in the textile business and another in the wine business, I had arrived at age 62 with money in the bank and a Rolls-Royce in the garage, and plenty of time to improve on my game.
With the Eisenhower Mountains in front of me and the sprinkler heads popping up like groundhogs all around the 6042-yard par 72 course, I started to play my round without warming up on the range. On the first hole, a 346-yard par 4, I hit my five iron twice – first off the tee and again for my approach shot – and reached the green in regulation. On the 348-yard second hole, I pulled out a wood for the first time – a 3-wood – and then hit my 7-iron from the fairway, reaching the green in two again. But on the 400-yard, par 4, number-one-stroke third hole, my approach shot landed 50 yards from the flag in the fairway to the right – the perfect chance for the Hickory Stick to show what it could do.
I removed it from among the Muirfields, addressed the ball, and took a whack. It was heavier than the normal wedge and easy to control – at least, I thought so after the ball landed a foot from the cup. There was something clunky and reassuring about it, like an old toaster or a radio with tubes. When was the last time I had gotten this same feeling from a golf club? It must have been in the 1920s, when I was in grade school.
I shot two over par, an average score for me, but throughout the round, the Hickory Stick kept me close to the flag. I decided to discard the Muirfield wedge in favor of this one. By noon I was leaving The Vintage, passing through the receiving line of royal palms, waving at the guard at the security checkpoint that rivaled the CIA’s. With the Hickory Stick in my bag and my bag in the trunk of the Rolls-Royce, I drove back to our summer home, where Cindy had finished a chipping lesson. “You’ve got to try this new club,’ I said.
A week later, the phone rang. It was Paula Longstreet, a real estate agent at The Vintage.
“I hear you’re playing with a Hickory Stick,” she said after we exchanged pleasantries. “Do you like it?”
“Who’d you hear that from?” I asked her.
“Kyle Burton.” Burton was the pro at The Vintage.
“I bought it last week and used it once. It’s a nice club. Has a solid feel. Is this a consumer survey?”
“Not really,” said Paula. “But would you like to meet the guys who make it?”
“Why should I?”
“They sure want to meet you.”
“What for?”
“They're looking for investors.”
It turned out Burton had spied me with the club and told Paula. Paula had passed the news along to the manufacturers, who were friends of hers. This sighting of the ex-winery owner with cash to burn swinging a Hickory Stick aroused their interest.
“Richard Parente will be getting in touch with you,” Paula said. “Is that okay? He’s the head of the company."
“Okay,” I said, but not very enthusiastically.
Before the receiver had cooled, I got another call. Parente was on the line. He talked in a gravelly voice, at a fast pace. He invited me to visit “the headquarters of Hickory Stick, USA in Temecula.”
Temecula, of all places. The winery I had just sold was located there, only 66 miles away. The Bear Creek complex where I had just bought a condo was on the outskirts of Temecula. I’d lived and worked in this remote California cow town for 11 years. When I first got there, it had a population of 275. The shopping district had five stores and one traffic light. Up to now, I was sure I knew everybody in the business, from the barber to the horseshoer. That Parente was in Temecula and I’d never heard of him or Hickory Stick, USA was not the kind of news a prospective investor wants to hear. But I was curious.