How I Played the Game

by Byron Nelson

  The judge was a large man, about 6′1″, big but not fat. He was about a medium golfer, what you’d call a “businessman golfer.” He told me I was a “pretty good ballhawk,” so I guess I’d improved some from that first time I caddied.

  My mother was about to have another baby along about this time, and my parents asked me if I wanted to help name it. I thought a lot of Judge Wade by then, so I asked if it was a boy, could one of his names be “Wade,” so that’s why he’s now Charles Wade Nelson. I really did quite a bit to help raise him—fed him, changed him, took care of him in church, and so forth. He was a naturally good child; he never got mad at me but one time. I don’t remember why he was angry, but I remember he was trying to hit me. I was 6′2″ by then, so I just put my hand on his head and held him away from me, and he swung at the air until he got tired.

  I caddied for some other members, too, including a woman named May Whitney, who was a pretty good golfer and a good friend of the club pro, Ted Longworth. I also caddied for a woman named Hetty Green—not the millionaire from New York, just Hetty Green from Fort Worth, Texas. Mrs. Green was nice to caddie for, and helped me out quite a bit in my amateur career, in a way.

  During my amateur years, I sold Mrs. Green nearly all my trophies and prizes, to get enough money to go to my next tournament. Years later—in fact, after I’d left the tour—I contacted her and told her I’d like to buy some of them back. I wasn’t interested in the golf bags and such, just the silver trophies for their sentimental value.

  Well, she said she wanted to keep them a while longer, and wouldn’t sell any of them right then. She said she’d leave them to me in her will. I was kind of disappointed, but they were rightfully hers, so I didn’t have a whole lot to say about it. Some time later, I learned that she had died, a widow with no children, but I never was able to discover anything about a will or such, so I never have gotten any of those back.

  By the spring of 1927, I’d started working for Ted in the pro shop, putting in new shafts, cleaning the clubs, and so forth. We didn’t have chrome in those days, so the irons would rust badly, and we had to use a buffing wheel to shine them up halfway decent. The stuff we used to shine them would come off that buffing wheel as black dust, and it would get on my face and hands till they were practically coal black. I’d always have to make sure I washed up good before I ever went back outside.

  I got good enough at working on clubs that Ted asked me to help him make the irons he was going to use to play in the U.S. Open at Oakmont that year. He’d already qualified, so we got right to work on those clubs. He’d select the hickory shafts out of this barrel of shafts we had, making sure each one was good and straight and strong. Then I’d work down the end of the shaft so it would just fit good and tight in the hosel of the clubhead. I’d drive the shaft in with a maul, and put a metal pin or nail in through a small hole on the side of the hosel to hold it in place. He took those clubs with him to Oakmont and played pretty well, finished about fifteenth or so, I think. I felt real proud of him, and happy I’d been able to help with his clubs.

  My first real thrill in golf happened that same summer. It was when they held the PGA Championship in Dallas at Cedar Crest Country Club. Ted took me with him, and I was pretty excited because I wanted to follow Walter Hagen, who was paired against Al Espinosa in the semifinals. I stuck real close to him—in those days they didn’t have gallery ropes, so I was right beside him the entire match. It was late in the afternoon on the back nine, and the players were facing into the western sun. On one particular hole, Hagen was squinting to see where to hit his approach shot. He kept putting his hand up over his eyes, and I said, “Would you like to borrow my cap?” He looked at me, looked at my school baseball cap, and said “Yes.” Then he took my cap and sat it on his head, just enough to block the sun from his eyes. Of course, he never wore a cap or hat while playing, and he did play to the gallery quite a bit, so I’m certain he was just being kind, but it gave me a good feeling anyway. After he played the shot—the ball landed about eight feet from the hole—he gave my cap back. He sank the putt and tied Espinosa, then won the match in one extra hole. The next day he beat Joe Turnesa to win his fifth PGA Championship. You’d think I would have kept that cap all this time, but I haven’t. I’ve never kept clubs or balls I won tournaments with or anything like that. Just not sentimental that way, I guess.

  That Christmas they had the Caddie Championship again, but this time it was just nine holes, not eighteen. By sinking a long putt on the last hole I tied with a small, dark-complected boy named Ben Hogan. Par was 37, and we both shot 40. The members decided since it wasn’t dark and the weather was good, we would go another nine holes. The members caddied for us. My caddie was Judge Wade; I don’t recall who caddied for Ben. There were even a few folks in the gallery. Since I didn’t yet have a full set of clubs, I borrowed Judge Wade’s. I was fortunate and won by one shot, so that was the first time I played against Ben and beat him. I was fourteen then, and Ben would turn fourteen the following August. They gave us each a golf club—mine was a 5-iron, and he got a 2-iron. Well, I already had a five, and he already had a two, so we traded clubs. The club also gave us junior playing privileges, which meant we could practice at the club and play at certain times when the members weren’t on the course. That really helped me develop my game a lot faster.

  I had met Ben before, of course, but hadn’t really gotten to know him. He lived across town and went to a different school, and I didn’t see him except at Glen Garden. Though he was short, he had big hands and arms for his size. He was quiet, serious, and mostly kept to himself. The first time I was really aware of him was Christmas the year before, when the members put on a little boxing match for entertainment. Ben liked to box, and so did another caddie we called Joe Boy. They boxed for about fifteen minutes, I guess, but nobody got knocked down or hurt. I was just watching, because I never did like to box or fight. When the members decided it was over, they all gave Ben and Joe Boy a big hand.

  I don’t recall that Ben and I ever even caddied together. If we did, I hadn’t gotten to know him yet, because I sure don’t remember it. But that wasn’t unusual, because on a weekend there might be at least forty or fifty caddies around, and since we were pretty busy when we were on the course, we didn’t get to know everyone. I know for sure that when I was caddying, I was too busy to talk much, and when I wasn’t caddying, I was in school, at home doing chores, or working on my game.

  I kept at it, practicing whenever I could, especially my short game. I’d practice at home, pitching balls off the rug onto the bed and getting them to just stop dead. I’ve had several people tell me they’ve tried this little trick, and it’s not as easy as it sounds. Fortunately, I never broke anything in the room when I did it.

  There was a practice area at Glen Garden where we could hit balls to one end and then go hit them back. Sometimes, we’d get up a game where the one who hit the shortest shots had to go gather up all the balls and bring them back. I did see Ben out on the practice range quite a lot, even then. Being as short as he was, he had to go get those balls quite often. Well, of course he didn’t like that, and he found that if he turned his left hand over on the club and gave himself what we call a strong grip, he could hook the ball and make it roll quite a way on that hard, dry ground. So he didn’t have to go chase balls much after that.

  I’ve heard it said a number of times that Ben started out playing left-handed. I don’t really know about whether he might have tried playing with a left-handed club sometime, but I never saw him play left-handed, and when we traded our 2- and 5-irons, neither one was left-handed. So I don’t know how that story got started, but in all the time I knew Ben, from when we were both about thirteen, I never saw him play that way.

  Several of the caddies got to be quite good players. One of them, Ned Baugh, was better than Ben at that time, but he didn’t progress as much, because he didn’t work on his game as much as Ben or I did. I did run into Ned a little later on, though,
at one of my first real amateur tournaments. It was the next spring, when I started to play in local amateur events around town, whatever ones I could get to. The first one I won was in March of 1928, at a course called Katy Lake, south of Fort Worth. There was a full field, it was match play, and in the finals, I was up against Ned, who by this time had another job and was a year or so older than me. I was really nervous, but I just barely beat him. Katy Lake was a short course, but not particularly easy. It’s no longer there, but I still have the little silver trophy to prove I won.

  Shortly after that Katy Lake victory, I got the worst shellacking I ever had, from another Texan named Ralph Guldahl. Most people don’t realize it, but Ralph was from Dallas, where he caddied at Bob-o-link, which is gone now. The same people owned Katy Lake and Bob-o-link, and decided to have a caddie match between the two clubs. We drew straws, and I got picked to play against Ralph, 36 holes at each club, with the first 36 at Bob-o-link, the second at Katy Lake. Ralph was a much more experienced player than I, and after the two rounds at his club, I was 12 down. The next day, we went to Katy Lake, and after the first eighteen, I was down 6 more, so we didn’t ever play the last eighteen. Years later, I beat Ralph in three tournaments that I can recall real well, but I never did make up for that awful drubbing he gave me.

  We caddies couldn’t play or practice on our course during the evenings, but late in the evenings, I would go down to the third green, which was out of sight of the clubhouse. That’s where I’d practice pitching and chipping. I’d do it till I couldn’t see the hole any more, then I’d spread my handkerchief over the hole and keep at it.

  I thought nobody at the club could see me, but I’d forgotten about Mr. Kidd, the club manager. We all called him “Captain Kidd.” He lived in a little apartment on the third floor of the clubhouse, and one evening, he saw me down there on the third hole. Naturally, I got called on the carpet the next day, and Mr. Akey told me if I’d promise him I wouldn’t do it any more, he wouldn’t expel me. The punishment for practicing on the course was one week’s expulsion. I felt I had to be honest, so I told him he’d have to expel me, because I couldn’t promise never to do it again. I took my punishment—and then I made sure nobody could see me the next time I went down to practice.

  Glen Garden’s golf course was the only one I’d ever seen at that time, and I never thought there was anything unusual about it. But on the back nine, the holes ran like this: par four, par four, par five, par five, par three, par three, par four, par three, par three. There were two pairs of par threes on the last five holes, which was pretty unusual.

  Of those par threes, the seventeenth hole was the only one that was easy. Fourteen and fifteen were both over 200 yards long, and the 15th was a 213-yard blind shot to an uphill green. You couldn’t even see the flag from the tee. I realized later that having four par threes on the back nine was unique, but I played there again a few years ago, and it’s still exactly the same.

  With all that—caddying, playing golf, and school—I still had quite a lot to do at home. We had over a hundred white leghorn chickens, and it was my job to sell the eggs. I sold quite a few to the chef at Glen Garden. We also grew vegetables—black-eyed peas, corn, green peas—and we’d take all our produce and eggs to the neighborhood grocery stores to sell.

  I guess it was about this time that I completed my first woodworking project. I used to carry the eggs and vegetables to market in a little wagon, and I remember I built wooden rails for the wagon so it could hold more. I also had some other ways of making an extra few dollars, like selling magazines and other things door to door. One of the magazines was Liberty, and one of the products I sold was called Hand-Slick, which took greasy dirt off your hands and worked very well. We had a cow, which I milked, and when my brother Charles developed an allergy not only to my mother’s milk but to cow’s milk, we bought a goat, and that fixed him right up. So I had a cow and a goat to milk. I sure didn’t have to wonder what to do with my spare time.

  Of all the things I had to do, I enjoyed school the least. I didn’t mind English and some of the other subjects, including regular math, but geometry really confused me. And as I become more and more interested in golf, I became less and less interested in school.

  In that day and time, it wasn’t as important as it is now for people to have very much formal education. Very few people went on to college, and it was possible to do pretty well for yourself with just a high school diploma, if you were smart enough and willing to work hard.

  My history teacher, Miss Nina Terry, used to play golf occasionally. One time I was playing with her, and she told me, “Byron, if you don’t at least open your history book, I’m going to have to flunk you.” So that got me busy and I managed to pass history all right.

  Another teacher I liked very much was Miss Martel, who taught English. A few years ago, my wife Peggy and I were at a dinner at Fort Worth’s Colonial Country Club, and we found ourselves seated with Miss Martel. I hadn’t seen her for over sixty years, but she still remembered me. She told Peggy that I was “a good student,” which I thought was very kind of her, since I had hated school so much.

  I finally got to where I not only wasn’t doing my homework, I began to play hooky so I could go play golf. Well, of course the school called my parents, and finally, my father told me, “Son, you’ve got a choice—either go to school or go to work.” I’d always liked to work anyway, so I said I’d go to work, and that ended my formal education, when I was about halfway through the tenth grade.

  So I had to live up to my word and go to work. I looked everywhere, but since it was 1928, jobs were scarce. I was already working at Glen Garden, not only in the shop, but also mowing the greens. They had a single-reel mower, and you walked while you mowed. I had to start right after daylight, and make sure I guided the mower properly, not overlap too much. I did this the first summer after I left school, and it gave me the opportunity to play a lot of golf. I mowed seventeen greens while another man did the 18th green and the putting clock.

  Fortunately, I had gotten to know quite a few of the members by then. Mr. Cecil Nottingham, who worked for the Fort Worth-Denver City railroad, told me that if an opening came up, he’d let me know, and pretty soon after that, he did. I started as a file clerk for Mr. Nottingham in the fall of 1928, and worked there most of 1929 as well. I enjoyed the work, which mostly was sorting waybills and filing them. Since Mr. Nottingham was a golfer, he understood my desire to work on my game, and if I had all my work done for the afternoon, he’d let me go play.

  But jobs then were not only hard to come by—they didn’t last very long. One day in the middle of the week Mr. Nottingham called me to his desk and told me, “Byron, I hate to tell you this. You’ve been a good employee, but things are tough and we have so many people. I’m going to have to lay you off.” So I was looking for work again.

  With or without a job, I kept playing golf whenever I could and working on my game. The following spring, 1930, I played in the Texas Open Pro-Am in San Antonio. In those days, pro-ams meant just one amateur (rather than four) and one pro per team. I was paired with the fine Scottish golfer, Bobby Cruickshank, who was a pro in New England.

  The tournament was at Breckenridge Park. I knew the course, and I could putt common bermuda greens real well. We both played well and we finished second, and I kind of expected that Bobby would thank me or compliment my game some way. After all, he’d won fifty or sixty dollars, and I had another silver cup. But all he said was, “Laddie, if ye don’t larn to grip the club right, ye’ll niver make a good player.”

  That took the wind out of my sails a bit, but I thought a lot about what he’d said, and asked Ted Longworth, the pro at Glen Garden. I had what they called a typical caddie swing, long and loose, with a strong right hand. Ted made a couple of suggestions, and I paid close attention, because he was a fine player and had been the Missouri state champion. I read some books on the swing and the grip, too, and after I got it figured out, I never had to chang
e it again. In fact, people have often said my grip was one of the best things about my game. I’ve never lost a club at the top of my swing as so many players do. Actually, I never changed or had any trouble with it at all until I cut the end of my middle finger off woodworking when I was seventy-six years old.

  I was soon playing a lot of local Monday morning pro-ams in Fort Worth with Jack Grout, who came to Glen Garden as assistant to his brother Dick. Dick Grout had recently replaced Ted. Ted had been a big promoter of golf at Glen Garden, encouraging the members to play more and to get involved in various tournaments, which he did himself. But in 1930, Ted left for the pro job at Texarkana Country Club, which had a bigger membership and a fine golf course, with lots of those tall East Texas pine trees.

  Jack Grout and I got to be good friends and remained that way the rest of his life. Back then, we played every week or so in the pro-ams. Remember, it was just one pro and one amateur, and there were no handicaps involved. Prize money wasn’t much, maybe $25 to the winner, but $25 went a long ways in the Depression. Of course, it was Jack who became Jack Nicklaus’s coach for so many years. The Grout brothers also had a sister who was Oklahoma State Ladies’ Amateur Champion, so they were a whole family of golfers.

  Jack was the best pro around, and I had become one of the best amateurs. We won those pro-ams so many times that the other pros got together and made a rule that a pro could only play with the same amateur once a month. So that gave the other boys a chance.

  As for work, I’d had to fill in with first one thing, then another. It was the summer of 1930 before I found another regular job. This time my boss was Mr. Lawson Heatherwick, who published Southwest Bankers magazine. I was just a flunky—I helped put copy together, answered the phone, and was the gofer. It tied me down more than the railroad job, but the hours were fairly short, and it was just a monthly publication. While any job was better than none, it had begun to worry me some that I hadn’t any background for running a business, or plans for a future of any kind. And between working, playing golf, and still doing my chores at home, I hadn’t any time for dating, either. I never had a date in my life, in fact, till I moved to Texarkana when I was twenty years old.