How I Played the Game

by Byron Nelson

  * We played stymies into the late forties. You see, we weren’t allowed to mark, lift, clean, and replace the ball on the greens then like we all do today. So in match play, if the other player’s ball was in your way, that was just bad luck. You played around it or pitched over it or whatever you could do to get in or near the hole. A lot of luck was involved, naturally, because you didn’t think about trying to stymie your opponent when you were pitching from sixty yards off the green or more. But that was the reason scorecards then were exactly six inches long and had an arrow pointing in both directions at the bottom. If your ball was quite close to your opponent’s, you placed the scorecard between yours and his, and if it touched both of them, one of you had to mark the ball. Otherwise, it was a stymie. You didn’t think about laying someone a stymie when you were well off the green, but if you had to play over someone’s ball, you’d try to.

  SEVEN

  1945 and

  the Streak

  PEOPLE HAVE ASKED ME A LOT OF QUESTIONS ABOUT 1945. What happened? How did you come to play so well? How bad was the pressure? and so forth. There were several reasons for my good play that year. Mainly—and this seems unconnected to my golf, but it’s not—I had thought for quite some time that I wanted to have a ranch someday. It had been my dream for years, really. And since Louise and I had grown up and lived through the Depression, we didn’t want to borrow any money to buy a ranch. We wanted to pay cash for it. Actually, Louise didn’t really like the idea of a ranch at all, because I didn’t know very much about ranching, and she was afraid we couldn’t make a go of it. But it was my dream, and she knew I’d done well in everything else I’d tried, so she decided to go along with me as long as we didn’t have to borrow any money. That meant I had to make enough from my golf, and 1944 was the first year that I made enough to think I could make my dream of a ranch come true within a few years. All I had to do was continue to play well enough to keep winning or at least finishing in the top ten.

  The second reason I did so well in ’45 had a lot to do with something I did in ’44, when I won nearly $38,000, played in twenty-one of twenty-three tournaments, won eight, and averaged 69.67 per round. During that year, I kept a record of my rounds and whether I played badly or what club I used, also whether I chipped badly, drove bad, putted terrible, or whatever. When I got through with the year, I went back over that book—which I don’t have anymore, though I wish I did—like a businessman taking inventory.

  I found two things that were repeated too often during the year, and they were “poor chipping” and “careless shot.” The word “careless” was written in there quite a few times, which often was due to poor concentration. Or sometimes I would have a short putt and walk up to it and just kind of slap at it and miss it. So I made up my mind, like a New Year’s resolution, that for all of 1945 I would try very hard to avoid a careless shot.

  One other thing I should mention. My game had gotten so good and so dependable that there were times when I actually would get bored playing. I’d hit it in the fairway, on the green, make birdie or par, and go to the next hole. The press even said it was monotonous to watch me. I’d tell them, “It may be monotonous, but I sure eat regular.” But having the extra incentive of buying a ranch one day made things a lot more interesting. Each drive, each iron, each chip, each putt was aimed at the goal of getting that ranch. And each win meant another cow, another acre, another ten acres, another part of the down payment.

  Finally, I had one other incentive. I wanted to establish some records that would stand for a long time. I wanted to have the lowest scoring average—lower than when I’d won the Vardon Trophy in ’39, when it was 71.02. And though I’d won eight tournaments in ’44, I knew that the way some of these boys played, that number wouldn’t stand up very long. I also wanted the record for the lowest score for an entire tournament. At that time, the record was 264, held by Craig Wood and a few others. I also wanted to be the leading money winner again. So you see, I had a whole collection of goals I wanted to reach, and every good shot I hit supported all of them. I guess I was fortunate to have so many goals, because to focus on just one, like a tournament scoring record, probably wouldn’t have worked for me. But the ranch was my number-one, overriding dream, and that was what kept me going even in tournaments where I didn’t play particularly well or finish where I wanted to.

  Actually, I had played so well in ’44 that it gave a great boost to my confidence, and it would have been unusual for me not to have done the same the next year. So I started off very positively in ’45. In January I was second at the L.A. Open by one shot; that just gave me more determination to try and win it next year. At the start of the tournament, Bing Crosby—who by now I considered a good friend—was there on the first tee. I asked him, “You going to go with me some?” And he said, “I’m going to follow you till I feel you’ve made a bad shot.” He was with me the whole first round when I shot 71, which was par, and he showed up again on the first tee the next day. On the 11th hole, I hit a drive and a 6-iron to the green, but pushed the ball to the right, and it landed short in the bunker. I happened to look around then and saw Bing leaving, waving his hand and saying, “I’ll be seeing you!”

  The next week I won the Phoenix Open by two, then was second—again by one shot—at both the Tucson and Texas Opens. My second win of the year was by four shots in the Corpus Christi Open in early February, where I also tied the low tournament scoring record of 264. While it was nice to have played so well and tied Craig and the others, I couldn’t help but feel it would be even nicer to set a new record, so that remained one of my goals. Then I won my third tournament of ’45 the next week at the New Orleans Open, this time by five shots in an 18-hole playoff with Harold McSpaden. Actually, Jug had a chance to beat me. In the last round, he had to birdie the 18th to win, but he hit a bad drive and we ended up tied. By the way, a lot of people don’t know this, but McSpaden set a record that year himself—he finished second thirteen times.

  I dropped back to second the next week, losing at Gulfport, Mississippi, by one shot in a sudden death playoff—one of the few times sudden death had been used on the tour at that point. I had tied with Sam Snead, who was just back on the tour. (Both he and Ben Hogan were released from the military early in the year and played quite a few tournaments. Hogan played in at least eighteen, and Snead twenty-six.) The playoff was to begin on the first hole, which had a creek running across the fairway at just about driver range. All through the tournament, we’d all been laying up in front of the creek with 3-woods. Well, I didn’t realize that my adrenalin was up, and I hit that 3-wood absolutely perfect and it rolled into the creek. When Snead saw my ball go in, he put his 3-wood back in his bag and laid up with a 1-iron. I made bogey to his par and that was that.

  I slacked off a little more the next week at Pensacola, finishing second to Snead by seven shots, though I played pretty well, shooting 69-69-71-65. Then at Jacksonville I played just plain terrible—for me—and tied for sixth, nine shots back, mostly because of a bad third round of 72, which was par there. Well, that must have gotten me a little steamed up, because it was the next week that I got started on what everyone today calls my streak, though of course I didn’t have any idea at the time it was going to happen or keep my name alive in golf for so long.

  It began with the Miami International Four-Ball the second week of March. I was paired with McSpaden again in what had never been a good tournament for either one of us. But it must have been our turn, because we finally did win. We beat Willie Klein and Neil Christman 6 and 5, Hogan and Ed Dudley 4 and 3, Henry Picard and Johnny Revolta 3 and 2. Then to finish it off, we walloped Sammy Byrd and Denny Shute 8 and 6. Harold and I were 21 up in our four matches, so we weren’t exactly squeaking by.

  Next was the Charlotte Open at Myers Park a week later. Snead and I had tied after 72 holes. This time it meant an 18-hole playoff, and on the 18th hole of that playoff, a long par 3, Sam was leading me one stroke. He put a 1-iron just on the front
edge of the green, which was two-tiered and quite long. So he was a long way from the hole. Now, I was getting a little tired of having Sam beat me, and I thought, “There’s a chance he just might three-putt from there.” So I reversed what had happened at Gulfport. I changed from a 1-iron to a 3-wood and knocked the ball onto the upper level of the green about twenty feet from the hole. Sure enough, Sam three-putted and I parred, so we were tied and went into another 18-hole playoff the next day. This time I really concentrated and played better than Sam, shooting a 69 to his 73; I knocked in a thirty-foot putt for a birdie 2 on the final hole. That gave me a lot of confidence and made me feel my game was in tiptop shape. I was driving very well and putting even better than I had the year before. From there on, I just kept going and playing well and it seemed everything was going my way.

  Of course, it wasn’t going as well for some of the other players, and it was common knowledge that some of them were unhappy that McSpaden and I were winning so many of the tournaments and so much money. During the Charlotte Open, in fact, Willie Goggin, one of the older pros, suggested that the PGA redistribute prize money in the tournaments so that there would be more money available for players who finished farther down the list. I could see his point, but I have to admit I sort of liked things the way they were.

  The next tournament was the Greensboro Open, which the press would one day call “Snead’s Alley,” after he won it a record eight times. Sam had a wonderful following, and there were times that if it looked as if his ball was going over the green, the gallery would just stand there and let it drop right in the middle of them, which often made the ball end up closer—though sometimes his lie might not be as good where the grass was all trampled. However, I felt real good that week, and managed to win by eight shots to go three in a row. That particular year the tournament was played completely at Starmount, which was nice for the players, because the other course, Sedgefield, was clear across town, so it saved us all a lot of driving.

  The following week we were at the Durham Open playing the Hope Valley course, which was a very good one. We played two rounds the last day, and the 18th hole was a slightly uphill par 3 of about 210 yards. In the morning round, I used a 1-iron, put the ball four feet from the pin, and made birdie. In the afternoon, I started out one shot behind but shot 65 to win by 5. Toney Penna finished five strokes behind me at 270. The icing on the cake was when I reached 18, got out my 1-iron and made another birdie.

  Talking about that tournament reminds me that in 1990, the 45th anniversary of my streak, I was greatly honored by a party at Durham. My good friend Buddy Langley, then head of GTE Southwest, got together with the folks at Hope Valley, who in turn contacted the other nine clubs still in existence (Tam O’Shanter was gone, unfortunately—it had been sold and made into a development), and invited them all to come and celebrate. They had a beautiful plaque made to commemorate the event and installed it at the 18th tee. There was a little scramble tournament and a party that night, and everyone had a very pleasant day. I’m always amazed that people think so much even today of what I did so long ago. I guess it’s a good thing they do, or I might think I dreamed it all up.

  By now, having won four tournaments in a row and tying the record set by Johnny Farrell, I of course wanted to break that record, too. My concentration had gotten so good that I was in sort of a trance much of the time. That’s about the only way I can really explain it. When I did hit a bad shot, I never thought anything about it, just went ahead and played the next one and it never bothered me or upset my ability to focus. I wasn’t hooking at all, just had a good, normal flight to the ball that landed it softly on the greens. I was swinging just enough from the inside, and the ball flew straight until its velocity slowed to a certain point and it would fall slightly to the left, though I could go right if I needed to.

  Next in line was Atlanta, a par-69 course, where I finally broke the scoring record with a 263. But I could have done better. The last hole was a long par 3, and I put my tee shot on the green, tried too hard to make birdie, and three-putted. That’s a funny thing about golf—even when we play well, we know there are shots we missed. I remember that even Al Geiberger, when he shot his 59, said he missed a couple of short putts or he would have had a 57. Still, I had also broken the record of four consecutive wins and I won pretty decisively—by nine shots—so I didn’t feel like I should complain very much.

  After I’d won the fifth tournament in a row, someone from the company that made Wheaties approached me about doing an ad for their cereal, which was of course known as the “Breakfast of Champions.” I never had an agent so I just talked to them myself and they put my picture and some statistics about me on the box and paid me $200 plus a case of Wheaties a month for six months. I had to give most of the cereal away; because although I liked Wheaties fine, you can only eat so much of it. I don’t know if any of those boxes are still around—I sure don’t have any, and back then, people didn’t collect or save such things like they do now. Even during my streak, for instance, I signed very few autographs, though you might find that hard to believe.

  To add a little to my story, a few years back I went to WFAA’s studio in Dallas to talk with Bryant Gumbel on the morning news show. We chatted a bit about my record and the Nelson Classic, then Bryant asked if I had done any commercials in those days. I told him about the Wheaties ad and he said, “Pete Rose just signed a contract with Wheaties for $800,000.” Well, we both had a good laugh. But considering where Pete Rose is today, I think I was better off with my $200.

  But after Atlanta in early April, pressure from the press and fans was starting to build. Up to that point, there had been only a couple of other players who had won four in a row, so when I passed four, the writers and fans started saying, “He’s got four, can he make it five?”, then “He’s got five, can he make it six?” One way I dealt with the pressure was to simply not play practice rounds, which kept me away from the press and the fans to some extent. That sounds foolish, but many times I played my best golf when I hadn’t even seen the course, just went out and played. I was blessed with wonderful sight for many years and was an excellent judge of distance, which was a great help on an unfamiliar course. I’d just look down the middle of the fairway and try to hit it there, and I wasn’t worried about getting into trouble because I didn’t know where the trouble was. But by this time, too, I was familiar with most of the courses on the tour anyway.

  Quite often, I’d play an exhibition at another town on the way to where the next tournament was and make $200–$300 for one round of golf, which was nice and helped a lot. That kept my game going well, besides helping me get closer to my goal of buying a ranch one day. That was another reason why I might not get to some tournaments until it was time to actually start playing.

  There was a two-month break on the tour at this time—I have no idea why, just that no one was holding a tournament. So Louise and I went back home, worked on my parents’ farm in Denton some, and visited her folks in Texarkana. That’s where I practiced, hitting a bucket of balls every day or so. I wasn’t working on anything in particular, just keeping my muscles limbered up.

  I also did a couple of exhibitions during this time, and even played in something called a “Challenge Match” against Snead. There was a lot of talk going around then because Sam and I were both playing so well. Some folks thought Sam was better, some thought I was, so they had this match to supposedly decide the thing once and for all. It was in Upper Montclair, New Jersey, and it was a 36-hole match, with the first 18 being medal play and the second 18 match play. Sam shot 69 and I had 70 the first day, but the second day I beat him 4 and 3, so they figured I won.

  But back to the streak. Next, in June, came the Montreal Open at Islesmere Golf Club in Montreal, where I finished 20 under par and won by 10 shots. Jug came in second with 278. I made just one bogey the entire tournament, on the par-3 14th hole in the last round, when I hit a 1-iron through the green and took three to get down. At that party in Durh
am in 1990, the nice folks from Islesmere gave me a beautiful silver tray that was engraved, “The greatest display of sub-par golf ever witnessed on a Canadian course.” That made me feel pretty good, even forty-five years later.

  Now I had won six in a row, and I was enjoying myself despite the pressure. The next week we were playing in the Philadelphia Inquirer Invitational. McSpaden lived there, and Louise and I were staying with him and Eva. We were both playing well, but starting the last round, McSpaden was leading by two shots. At that time, remember, they always didn’t pair according to who was leading going into the last round. They tried to spread the gallery out among the players. That was why very often the leader might be playing a couple of groups or more ahead of the ones going off last. That was true in this case, because McSpaden was leading the tournament starting the fourth round, but was several groups ahead of me.

  Now, Leo Diegel was a club pro who also lived in Philadelphia, and he had always liked me, called me “Kid,” in fact. He came out to see how I was doing that afternoon, and I was getting ready to drive on 13. He said, “How you doin’, kid?” And I said, “Well, I’ve got par in for 68.” And he said, “That’s not good enough.” I said, “Why isn’t it good enough?” He replied, “McSpaden just shot 66.” He was leading me two shots before we started, so standing there on the tee I said, “That means I have to birdie nearly every hole but one to beat him.” He laughed, and I did too, not thinking very much about it.

  But as it happened, I did birdie all but one hole on the way in, shot 63, and beat Jug by two. On the last hole, I’ll never forget it, I hit a driver and 6-iron and knocked the ball one foot from the hole, made my birdie, and Jug was right there watching me. He was so mad at me he called me every dirty name you can think of. When he accepted his check, he said, “You not only beat my brains out, but you eat all my food, too!” Still, he’d beat me in that playoff in ’44 at Phoenix, so I couldn’t really understand what he was so upset about. That 63 was the most unusual thing I did that whole year—knowing I had to birdie the last five holes to win, and being fortunate enough to be able to do it.