A Golfer's Life (24 page)

I used to joke that Ron and Cheech really ran the United States government, because for many years, Ron, a slow-talking Carolinian with a deadpan wit, was in charge of the navy’s computer operations at the Pentagon while Cheech served as an assistant inspector general for the U.S. Army. That didn’t cut much mustard with the Secret Service, I’m afraid, when we joined the queue of sleek black limousines and rolled up to the entrance portico of the White House in Ron’s beloved 1964 Buick Wildcat, a bit of a rambling wreck that had seen better days. The stares we got from the Secret Service and the press photographers were pretty amusing—as if they were watching Ma and Pa Kettle arrive for the big night out on the town.

If Ron was bothered by their reaction to his heap, he didn’t let it show. “Nixon invited us tonight, too, you know,” Ron drawled at us as we prepared to step out into the glamorous setting and all those popping flashbulbs. “But I told him to go to hell.”

If I’m smiling in any photos of that night, it’s probably due to Ron’s disarming remark. I still laugh when I recall that the Secret Service made sure that Ron and Cheech safely left the White House property.

State dinners are fun, but not half as much fun as playing golf with a man who loves the amateur game almost as much as I do.

Such a man is George Herbert Walker Bush, whose grandfather founded the Walker Cup matches in 1922. During the Bush years in office, Winnie and I were fortunate to be
invited to the White House several times (the experience, by the way, never became any less nerve-racking for me) for state dinners. President Bush and I played many times at a host of places, including his club in Houston or at Kenne-bunkport in Maine, Burning Tree, Pebble Beach, and once at the Tournament Players Club at Avenel—the place where I had back-to-back holes in one on the same hole on consecutive days in 1986. What you’ve heard about George Bush the golfer is true: he plays fast and takes no prisoners.

But like President Eisenhower, he
will
take a putt if you give it to him. Whether his ball was two inches or four feet from the cup, if you said, “That’s good, Mr. President” to President Eisenhower, he wouldn’t hesitate to slap the ball and pick it up, ready to move on. I never saw any president who hated to part with a buck more than Dwight D. Eisenhower did.

Unless, maybe, it’s George Bush.

I feel comfortable calling him by his first name, I suppose, because we are close in age and he and his wife Barbara are so comfortable to be with and so warmly down-to-earth they make you feel as though you’ve known them forever.

Anyway, he will also take a gimme, and the flattering similarities between him and President Eisenhower, in my view, go far deeper than their golf games. In terms of personal values and the way he looks at the world and treats other people, George Bush reminds me more and more of President Eisenhower. He has the same easy grace, keen mind, and unpretentious charm. He is also driven by a deep sense of honor, a strong New England sense of frugality, and has in his wife Barbara, in the shared view of Winnie and me, the greatest former first lady in the history of the presidency for a spouse.

If he worked on it, he could be a far better than average player in golf. He has a once limber athletic baseball swing and can knock down putts like you wouldn’t believe when he’s playing at a pace slightly less than warp speed. But with
President Bush, I’ve come to realize after many enjoyable rounds, it isn’t the scores he’s after—it’s the pleasure of the round’s companionship that matters most to him.

For the grandson of the founder of the world’s most important amateur team golf event, the Walker Cup, I think that’s probably entirely fitting, and as it ought to be. I couldn’t agree with him more.

As I write this, the current White House occupant, Bill Clinton, might like nothing better than to simply slip off and play a round of golf somewhere. It would probably do him a world of good, too.

Clinton is a nice man and fine golf partner. Without question, he’s the best ball-striker of any president I’ve known. The first time we played together was several years ago in the summer of 1993 when I was invited to the White House to receive a National Sports Award as one of the so-called Great Ones along with Wilma Rudolph, Muhammad Ali, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Ted Williams, and representing Arthur Ashe, his widow, Jeanne.

President Clinton nearly brought tears to my eyes when he remarked at the presentation that one reason he wanted to be president was for the “perks”—and that presenting the award to Arnold Palmer was one of the biggest perks of his career.

When we played that time—and later again at the Hope tournament with Gerald Ford and George Bush—I was pleased to discover in Clinton a golfer who really loves the game and will get after the ball with great concentration and heart. He’s got a big swing that can send the ball a long way, and a surprisingly gentle touch around the greens.

I’m happy to report that he also has a deft sense of humor, which is definitely what you need if you plan to stay sane while playing golf or, I suspect, serving as president.

Once, we found ourselves alone together back on a tee in a chute of trees. I watched as President Clinton teed it up,
addressed his ball, and then took a mighty swing that sent a screaming fade hopelessly into the woods. I suggested he reload and try another shot. He smiled at me sheepishly.

“Hell, Arnie, I’m glad those reporters aren’t back here to see that,” he quipped good-naturedly, already re-teeing his ball. “They’d have me drifting to the right!”

P
laying golf with presidents is merely one of many job perks the game of golf has presented me over the past four decades, and I’m proud to say that each of these men made me feel as if the contributions I’ve made to the game, whatever they may be, begin and end with inspiring young people—or at least the young at heart—to take up the game.

If that’s true, it’s perhaps because, almost from the beginning of our relationship at Augusta and later elsewhere, President Eisenhower constantly conveyed to me his deep concern about the welfare and lives of America’s young people. It was a theme he returned to at every turn.

The old general who had sent men who were scarcely more than boys onto Normandy’s beaches in defense of liberty was determined to make me aware of the valuable service I could perform as a role model to thousands of young people. In a tumultuous period of time that would soon begin to devalue such traditional notions, President Eisenhower believed fervently in the power of heroes to transform lives—and he spared no opportunity to remind me that I had the rare opportunity to be such a hero. If that’s true, as we used to say on the streets back in Youngstown, it took one to know one.

Now approaching the age he was when we first met, I find myself thinking a lot these days about what a tremendous influence Dwight David Eisenhower had on my life. Like millions of Americans, I really liked Ike, though I would never
have dared call him that. You wouldn’t be off the mark to say I even loved him like a second father.

So it’s no surprise that I was deeply thrilled and moved almost beyond words to be invited to address a joint session of Congress on the 100th anniversary of his birth, March 27, 1990.

Winnie and Doc fretted for days about what I should say in my speech, and Doc even thoughtfully worked up a beautiful tribute speech for me to read. They knew far too well how I hated reading from prepared texts, though, and in the end I simply took Doc’s prepared notes, added some of my own, and jotted down a few highlights I wanted to touch upon. Amusingly, shortly before I was called to the podium on the floor of the House, I was asked by congressional aides for a copy of my speech—so Congress could read along and copies could be given to the press.

I blushed a bit and explained that I really didn’t have much to give them and, in fact, didn’t really know what I was going to say—until I said it. I don’t know if that rattled them or not, but it probably proves why I would ultimately have been a terrible politician. At any rate, I gave the speech, spoke from the heart about a man I loved like a second father, and I guess it was pretty good after all. Congress gave me—or should I say President Eisenhower—a standing ovation, and I had to wipe away a few tears.

The last time Winnie and I saw the president was Valentine’s Day, 1969. We arrived at Walter Reed Hospital about ten-thirty that morning and were taken to the VIP floor, where we were offered coffee and heart-shaped cookies.

Mamie wasn’t there—she was attending a scheduled Heart Association luncheon, ever the good foot soldier—but we had spoken to her earlier. She explained to us that Valentine’s Day was the anniversary of their engagement, the day President
Eisenhower presented her his West Point ring. She reminded us, unnecessarily, with emotion tinging her voice, that she was still his valentine.

We found President Eisenhower sitting up in bed, thinner but pink-faced and smiling, glasses on and a history book in hand. The second he saw us coming, he put aside the book. He seized Winnie and gave her a hearty smooch on the cheek, while reaching out to grab my hand and squeeze it vigorously. The man still had a field general’s grip.

“Gosh, it’s
great
to see you kids,” he said to us, clearly excited that we’d come. “Sit down and talk to me.”

So we did. We sat and talked as we always did, about this and that, politics and golf, Nixon and war, history and family, and invariably young people—particularly the campus unrest and drug culture that were beginning to spread like a cancer over American society. This really worried him. On a happier note, though, he talked fondly about his grandchildren and wanted to hear about my latest adventures on the Tour. He inquired about Peggy and Amy and wanted to know if I’d quit smoking
off
the golf course yet.

Far too soon, a nurse appeared and politely informed us it was time to leave. The president had pills to take and needed time to rest.

We stood. He kissed Winnie again and we once more clasped hands. Beaming at us as always, he assured us that the next time we saw him, which would be soon, it would be back home at his farm in Gettysburg.

With tears welling in my own eyes, I told Winnie on the way out that I hoped he was right. But it was the last time we saw D.D.E.

A
week after winning the 1960 Masters and playing my first round of golf with President Eisenhower,
Sports Illustrated
declared that an “authentic and unforgettable hero” had emerged in the pines at Augusta National, and
Life
weighed in with the verdict that I had replaced Hogan and Snead as the brightest star of the golf world.

What a wonderful moment it was for me, in some ways the fulfillment of my wildest childhood dreams. To have the press writing such breathtaking things about my exploits, to have people suddenly treating me as if I really was the best player of my generation—all I can say is, thank God I had Winnie and Pap and the folks back home to keep me humble. Even my Pap, though, was uncharacteristically moved to admit I’d done “pretty well” down in Augusta.

He knew better than anyone, though, that in my eyes the job was only partially done. My sights were set on the next big prize in golf, the United States Open Championship. The preeminent golf championship in the world was being contested that year at Cherry Hills in Denver, a course I knew a little bit about thanks to President Eisenhower, who happened to be a member there. President Eisenhower loved
the course and predicted that I would do pretty well there. After nearly winning the Houston Classic, I didn’t even worry too much about the mini-”slump” my game fell into during the month-long run-up to the Open. With reporters and photographers constantly underfoot both at Latrobe and on the road, I suppose the distractions of success took their toll on my ability to remain properly focused—a pattern that would increasingly become a problem for me in the coming years.

I played in my first Open championship at Oakmont in 1953, while still an amateur, firing 162 to miss the cut. I missed again in 1954 but finally finished the complete seventy-two holes at Olympic in 1955, the year Jack Fleck pulled off his miracle finish to beat Ben Hogan out of a record fifth Open trophy. I tied that year for twenty-first, so at least I was heading in the right direction. The next year, at Oak Hill, I was actually a threat for a while to Cary Middlecoff, before tapering off to seventh. After failing to make the cut at Inverness, I was never a factor at Southern Hills. The next year at Winged Foot, I finally made a decent run at the championship, but a weak finish, a 74, left me in fifth place.

But almost from the beginning, 1960 had a different feel about it. My confidence level had never been so high, my desire to go out and
play
the golf course so intense. Cherry Hills stretched 7,004 yards, but because of the added distance a ball would carry on a course that is located 5,280 feet above sea level, some believed Hogan’s twelve-year-old tournament record of 276 might be in jeopardy. If the plus side of the equation was that a ball flew anywhere from ten to fifteen yards farther in that thinner atmosphere, the downside was that the decreased oxygen supply could sap your strength in no time flat. As a result, Hogan himself developed headaches and carried his own canister of oxygen with a breathing apparatus, and the sponsoring USGA arranged for similar supplies of oxygen to be made available to players at special facilities
set up around the course. Something like forty players took advantage of these unusual arrangements.

Despite my surging confidence, I was in trouble from the opening swing, but breathing wasn’t my problem. During two practice rounds, I’d driven the first green, a downhill par 4 measuring just 318 yards on the card, and I made up my mind to go for the putting surface in every round. Unfortunately, I pushed my first tee shot and the ball bounced into a small stream, Little Dry Creek, as it was fittingly called. The USGA had arranged to have water pumped energetically through the ditch, however, and by the time I arrived on the scene, frowning at my poor fortune, the stream had swept my ball farther down the hill toward the green. I remember commenting in jest to Joe Dey, the USGA’s meticulous executive director and the rules official on the scene, that I would just “wait and follow my ball down the creek until it stops and take a drop there.”