How I Played the Game

by Byron Nelson

  Since that day, I’ve given more “talks” than I could count, and now people tell me what a good job I do. But if it hadn’t been for Mr. Giles, I don’t know that I’d ever have gotten started.

  Another story about Mr. Giles concerns his golf, not mine. He was the most consistent 83–85 shooter I ever saw. He just never varied hardly at all above 85 or below 83. He had a good short game, and he was pretty good with his irons, but never could hit a wood very well—especially off the tee. He’d hit this little old pecky slice about 150 yards down the fairway every time. Just never could play his woods very well at all.

  Well, he’d watched me play for quite a few months at Reading, and one day he told me, “Byron, if I could drive like you, I’d eat your lunch.” I just looked at him and smiled a little and said, “You think so, Mr. Giles?” He said, “I sure could. If I had your drives, I’d just beat you all to pieces!”

  I thought about it for a few days, then I called him. “Mr. Giles, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day, and I’ve got a game worked out for us. We’ll each hit our drives, then we’ll switch balls, and play to the hole.” You could feel him smiling into the phone. He said, “I can’t get there quick enough!”

  So he got a couple of his buddies and we played. But he didn’t know he was playing right into my hands, because my long irons were about the best part of my game right then. I have to admit that playing his drives, I was on parts of the golf course I’d never seen before, and my score went up a few strokes. But his score didn’t come down quite enough, so I beat him.

  He couldn’t believe it. We played that way two more times, and he never got below 77, while I never went above 75. After the third match, he’d had enough, and he told me, “If I’d been a betting man, I’d have bet a thousand dollars that I could beat you using your drives!” And $1000 then was a lot of money, so I was glad he didn’t bet it. He was a good sport about it, though.

  The biggest surprise about Reading was the number of row houses. Being from the wide-open spaces out West, I was used to freestanding homes, so it was a little difficult, getting used to living that close to our neighbors. We rented a corner row house from a family named Corbitt. John Corbitt was the local Studebaker dealer, and he and his family moved out, come June, to their summer home on the Schuylkill River, where it was much cooler.

  Since we’d arrived the first of April, we lived in the Berkshire Hotel until May 1. While we were living in the hotel, waiting for the Corbitts to move to their summer home, Mrs. Giles practically adopted us, realizing it was difficult for both of us, and especially for Louise. Then, after we moved into the Corbitts’ home, Mr. Giles kept us in fresh cut flowers the entire time we were there. One of the best things about living in the Corbitts’ home was that years before, they had befriended a young Polish Catholic girl, Josephine Brynairski, who lived there and did the cooking and housekeeping. Her room was on the third floor, and Louise and Josephine became very good friends during our time in Reading. Josephine also had a job as a waitress in a fine restaurant in Reading, so her cooking was very good, too.

  The Corbitts would move back to town in mid-September, but we didn’t leave for Texarkana till a little bit later. So back we’d go to the Berkshire Hotel for a few more weeks. On the first floor of the hotel were the offices of the Reading Auto Club, of which Mr. Giles was president, in addition to his floral business. So I got to see quite a bit of him during our hotel stays.

  At Reading I got to teach players at all levels. One family, the Lutzes, was especially interesting. Mr. Lutz owned one of the leading mortuaries in Reading and had three young children—a son, Buddy, ten years old and two daughters, twelve and fifteen. Mr. Lutz was a pretty fair businessman golfer who loved to play and wanted his children to play too. He came to me one day and said, “If you can teach them to play, Byron, I’ll buy each of them a set of clubs plus pay for all their lessons.” That was certainly a good incentive for me to work hard with those children.

  Now Buddy was a total beginner, but he caught on quickly, and his twelve-year-old sister was coming along pretty well, too. I started her with just a 7-iron and graduated on up, and she was getting the ball airborne all right. But the older girl, I never could get her to progress at all. This went on for quite a while, as the children were taking a lot of lessons because it was summer and they were all out of school. Well, Mr. Lutz came out one day and asked, “How are my children doing, Byron?” I told him, “Mr. Lutz, Buddy and your younger girl are doing quite well, but I haven’t made any progress at all with your older daughter, and I feel ashamed.” He smiled at me and said, “Do you want me to tell you what the problem is?” I said, “I sure do, because maybe I can correct it.” He answered, “No, I don’t think you can because it’s your blue eyes—that’s all she ever talks about!” I was amazed, because I’d had no idea anything like that was going on in that young girl’s mind while I was trying to teach her how to play golf. So that was the end of that, but I did sell two sets of clubs, anyway, and in all the teaching I’ve done, that was the only time anything like that ever happened.

  Obviously, when it came to women, I still had a lot to learn, and my next lesson in this area came from Ann Metzger, a lady in her mid-forties who was married to a dentist at the club, Dr. Paul Metzger. I had been working with Mrs. Metzger a little while and making some progress, but not getting her to do the things I really wanted her to do. I felt bad about it because she was nice and her husband was a pretty good player. Mrs. Metzger was a rather buxom lady, and one day she saw Louise and told her, “Louise, I’ve been taking a lot of lessons from your husband, and we’re not getting very far. I wish you’d explain to him how we women are made, because I get in my own way and that’s why I can’t swing the way he wants me to!” So Louise gave me the message, and the next time I saw Mrs. Metzger I said, “I’m going to change my procedure today. From now on I want you to stick your back end out further, bend over a little more, and take your arms out a little further away from your body.” She looked at me and said, “Louise must have talked to you,” and I said, “Yes, she did.” Fortunately, I was able to help her a lot after we’d gotten around the anatomy question, so to speak.

  As the only pro, I was more restricted on how many tournaments I could play in, as well as not having as much time to practice and play at the club. I only had one boy in the shop to clean clubs on weekends. Fortunately, I didn’t need to do much teaching on weekends, because that’s when most of the men played. Also, we had “doctors’ day” on Wednesdays. I remember Dr. Mike Penta, who was such an avid golfer that he took lessons from me twice a week—at sunrise. And there was Dr. Metzger and his wife, Ann. They were both good golfers. She followed me in all the local tournaments I played in, and walked down the fairway with the other folks in the gallery. When I’d get a little tense, she’d get up alongside me and just say, “Smile.” That’s all. And of course, when you smile, it relaxes the muscles in your face, and somehow it would help me relax with my game and play better, too.

  My second win that first year at Reading was the International Match Play Championship in Boston at Belmont Springs that fall. Actually, though the Masters was considered more important and the Belmont Match Play doesn’t exist anymore, I won quite a bit more money for that—$3000, according to my records. After qualifying with 141, I played John Levinson; he was a left-hander, but quite good. That match had kind of a strange ending. I was one down going to eighteen, and I hit a long drive down onto a gravel road that crossed the fairway. A spectator picked up my ball and threw it backwards several yards onto the fairway. The rule was that you could get relief from the gravel and drop back, but the official naturally and correctly ruled that I had to drop it myself, which I did. I ended up making par, while Levinson bogeyed. I then eagled the first extra hole to win the match 1 up. That seemed to help my game all of a sudden come together, and I went on to beat Frank Walsh 1 up, Lloyd Mangrum 2 up, Charlie Lacey 5 and 4, Harry Cooper 5 and 4, and Henry Picard 5
and 4 in the final. I remember it was one of the few times Dad Shofner ever got to come and see me play, and he became interested in watching Ralph Guldahl, who was known for being a slow player. Mr. Shofner told me later that it took Ralph five full minutes to play a shot. Anyway, I was very happy to win with Dad Shofner there, because by now, he knew for sure he hadn’t made a mistake loaning me that money in Texarkana.

  The funny thing about the whole tournament was that I hadn’t planned on playing in it at all. Harold McSpaden, who was the pro at Winchester in Boston, had called and begged me to come; he even let Louise and me stay with him and Eva. I hadn’t been playing very well and was awfully busy at the club, but I decided to go anyway. Like I’ve said before, you just never know. . . .

  Also, I was medalist in the PGA Championship qualifying at Pittsburgh Field Club, which back then was played at the end of May. I was determined to qualify, because I’d missed by one stroke the year before. Then I kept going—beat Leo Diegel, Craig Wood, and Johnny Farrell before losing in the quarterfinals to Ky Laffoon, all of which netted me $200. The course had very high, very dense rough. I drove the ball straight most of the time, but when I got in that rough, I used a small-headed wood called a cleek, with extra lead in the head, to play out. I’d bought it specifically because of the rough there, and most of the other players had one like it.

  It was a 36-hole qualifier—eighteen in the morning, eighteen in the afternoon. The course was interesting. You drove off the first tee into a valley, then played the entire course in that valley till the 18th. The fairway going up to the 18th green was so steep, there was a rope tow for the players to use, and by the time we’d played thirty-six holes, we weren’t too embarrassed to use it, either. The photo that was taken of me for being the medalist in that qualifier is a good one, if I do say so, and it’s when we still were wearing shirts and ties to play. I often wonder what it would be like for the boys today, playing in those kinds of clothes and conditions.

  To back up a bit, it wasn’t too long after the Masters that I learned I had been chosen for the Ryder Cup team. Boy howdy, was I excited. I’d never even been outside the United States before. I didn’t think it was possible that the dream I’d had just two years before at Ridgewood could be coming true already. The PGA of America picked the team then, and they didn’t keep any long-term, detailed records like they do now. They didn’t pick anyone who wasn’t playing well, naturally. But of course, if you won a major, that did have some effect on their decision, and so I was selected.

  There were a few on our team who’d never played in a Ryder Cup before—myself, Snead, Ed Dudley. So we were inexperienced to some degree, and we also knew that the Americans had never beaten the British on their own soil before. But Walter Hagen would be our captain—that really was a thrill.

  First, though, I had to see what I could do in the National Championship—what everyone now calls the U.S. Open. I did much better than in ’35 and ’36—finished tied for seventeenth, according to my black book, and won $50. The tournament was at Oakland Hills in Birmingham, Michigan, a very tough course. Naturally, I wasn’t thrilled with my performance, but I already had my mind on the trip to England.

  Toward the end of June, Louise and I rode to New York with Mr. and Mrs. Giles, and met all the other fellows and their wives there. The PGA threw a big party for us before we left on the USS Manhattan the next day, June 24. I was kind of worried about the crossing, because I was a poor sailor. I’d only been out on a small boat on a lake once or twice in my life and it disagreed with me. Even swinging on a porch swing could make me queasy. So I wasn’t looking forward to this part of the trip.

  But as it happened, the ocean was smooth as a millpond the entire six days out. The captain himself, a veteran of twenty years’ sailing, said he’d never seen it that calm. That made me feel quite a bit better, having that ocean trip go so well. The trip back was another story.

  When we arrived in England, we were met by the British contingent—the Royal and Ancient representatives. Our accommodations were comfortable but not luxurious, adequate for the team and their wives, six of whom went along.

  There’s nothing as exciting in golf as playing for your country. In the first matches, we played a Scotch foursome, alternating shots. One player would drive on the odd holes, the other on the evens. Hagen had paired Ed Dudley and me against Henry Cotton and Alf Padgham, the reigning British Open champion. Hagen came to me before the match and said, “Byron, you’ve got a lot of steam, a lot of get-up-and-go. And Dudley needs someone to push him. So I’m going to put you two together. You can get him fired up.”

  We were unknowns in England, so the headline in the paper the next morning said, HAGEN FEEDS LAMBS TO THE BUTCHER. Well, we did get steamed up over that. I drove against Cotton all day, and on the par threes, I put my ball inside his every time, and we ended up winning the match. The next day, the headline read THE LAMBS BIT THE BUTCHER. It was a great thrill to win, especially against a player like Cotton.

  The weather for the matches was fine except for the last day, when it turned terrible. Cold, windy, drizzly. And pros weren’t as welcome at these clubs as they are now. We were just barely allowed in the locker room, and our wives weren’t allowed in the clubhouse at all. There they were, standing outside, freezing, all six of them huddled together, trying to stay out of the wind, when the mayor’s wife saw them. She had enough compassion to invite them all into the clubhouse, and because she was the mayor’s wife, no one could say no to her. Then she served them some 200-year-old port, and they warmed up quickly after that. They said later they’d never tasted anything as good as that port in all their lives.

  Fortunately, despite the bad weather, we held on to win, 8 to 4. It was the first time we’d ever defeated the British on their home ground. It made all of us feel proud, especially since we weren’t used to playing the type of golf courses they had at Southport and Ainsdale.

  The next week, we went north to Scotland for the British Open at Carnoustie. The gallery walked with us there, just like in the U.S., and in the first practice round, I was walking along with my driver under my arm, when a fellow accidentally tripped me. I landed crooked because of having the driver tucked under my arm, and hurt my back pretty bad. In fact, I didn’t think I’d be able to play at all. But the local people found me someone like a modern chiropractor, and he worked on me quite a while, using some strong liniment, and I was okay in a couple of days.

  Carnoustie was a very different course from what I’d seen before. In the driving areas, even if you were a long hitter, you’d have to go right or left to avoid the bunkers in the middle of nearly every fairway. The bunkers had high lips, too, but at least they were clearly visible from the tee. And there was this small creek, called a “burn,” that wandered through the course.

  Carnoustie used to be one of the seven courses in the rotation for the British Open, but some years ago they had to take it out, because there simply wasn’t room for all the people and the cars and so forth, golf had gotten so big. I understand they’re trying to do something about that now, because it’s a fine course and it would be good to see the Open played there again.

  It was normal Scottish weather, cold, windy, and damp. In the third round, it turned worse, but I shot a 71 and came from way back to third place, with Cotton in the lead. The final round I shot 74, finished fifth, and won $125. Our boat tickets came to $1020, plus I’d lost a month out of the summer in the shop with both the Ryder Cup and the British, so you can see why we didn’t play in the British Open much back then. The PGA did cover some of our expenses, but I lost $700–$800 out of my own pocket. For the same reasons, the British players weren’t able to play in our Open much, either.

  Those British galleries—they were much different from Americans. They really knew their golf, and they’d applaud only for a really marvelous shot. If you hit an iron or chipped up eight or ten feet from the hole, they wouldn’t make a sound. But a difficult pitch or a long iron to within a few
feet or inches, they’d really appreciate that.

  All in all, we had a very good time, and we were elated when we climbed back on that boat. It was a good thing, too, because the crossing coming home was bad. Most of the passengers stayed in bed nearly half the trip, it was so rough. And if we hadn’t won, it would hardly have been worth it.

  The food on our trip was also very different from what I was used to, and I’m afraid I can’t say it was very good. There was a lot of mutton and a lot of thick porridge. About the only things I liked were the tea and cookies.

  There was an even bigger party for us when we returned to New York, and though it had been a great experience to play in the Ryder Cup and the British Open, we were sure glad to get back to our home in Reading and return to a more normal life. I played very few other tournaments that summer, because I’d lost so much time out of my shop with the Ryder Cup trip.

  An interesting sidelight to my time in Reading was the change in how club members saw the club professional. Louise and I played bridge and went to parties at the homes of several of the members. This was kind of a transition time for club pros, because up till then they were considered more in the lower working class. But we had quite a busy social life in Reading, and made many good friends during our stay. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I’d won the Masters before I arrived and the Open a few months before I left.

  One of my more interesting experiences as a teacher at Reading was with a young lady named Betty Pfeil. Her mother made an appointment for me to give Betty a lesson, and before I ever met Betty or her mother, several people had told me that Betty had the makings of a good player if someone could teach her not to overswing.