I can’t recall just how old I was when I became interested in golf. My best guess is my early teens. I think this was the first time that important golf matches were televised. It is a sad commentary that I learned how to swing a golf club by watching television. What is even sadder is that I have never had a lesson in my life (and my current game shows it). My dad played golf but was not what I would term an avid golfer in those years. I don’t think he had the leisure time for the game and he certainly didn’t have the inclination to spend his hard-earned cash on the sport. He may have played once a month or so on a Saturday afternoon (usually with either dealership co-workers or customers). Dad never encouraged me to play but I think he was pleased when I picked the game up on my own. I suppose that he realized golf was an expensive sport and we didn’t have the money it took to play very often. He probably figured I’d be able to play about as often as he did.
I began by using my dad’s clubs in the back yard. He had a Wilson Blue Ridge set that consisted of persimmon driver, 3 and 5 woods, 3, 5, 7, 9 irons, wedge and putter. The woods had a red finish and were very attractive. I don’t know where Dad got the old white canvas bag and fold up pull cart but I doubt he bought them new. Like any kid I wanted my own clubs. (These days most parents take their youngsters down to the local sporting goods store and buy them a new set. Some may go to the extra expense of having a set made for their child – envisioning the next Tiger Woods I suppose.) In those days it was up to me to cobble together a set from any source available. My Uncle Wid had a few clubs and an old beat up bag in his basement he gave to me. I’m not sure where they came from but there were a 5 and 7 iron as well as a putter. I recall the grips were very strange and felt rough in my hands. Dad had an old hickory-shafted 3 iron that a brother of his step-mother had given him. Dad wasn’t real fond of his step-mother but he seemed to have a lot of respect for her brother. I wish I could remember his name. I know he lived in Ashville, NC. Every time Dad mentioned that 3 iron he would say, “That club was owned by one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever known.” (I still have this club in the attic.)
The balls I used were ones that Dad discarded. Because he was so frugal that meant a ball had to be in pretty bad shape for him to quit playing it. The college students used to hit balls around the campus in different locations and sometimes I’d find one of the balls they left behind. In those days golf ball covers were so soft that they cut easily when miss hit with an iron. We used to call the half-moon-shaped cut “a smile”. Most of the balls I had were smiling back at me. One I had was is such bad shape that my brother said it looked like a dirty marshmallow.
I didn’t have any woods but that was probably a good thing. I practiced hitting wiffle balls with irons in the back yard until the time came when I actually went to a golf course. I wish I could remember at least something about that first course experience but I don’t. I’m sure it was at Ronland, the local 9-hole Slippery Rock course which is now called “Shamrock”. It was a goat path in those days (and hasn’t improved a lot over the years) but it was cheap. It may have been with my friend and close neighbor, Danny Birnley. He was a good golfer. His dad was a greens keeper at a golf course near Butler. Some years they would spend the winters living in Florida while his dad worked a course there. Danny taught me a fair amount about golf etiquette on the course. Things like not dragging your feet on the green so your spikes (I wore tennis shoes) didn’t scratch the grass. Others were not to walk in the path of your opponent’s ball; when you tend the flag don’t let it flap in the wind; don’t ground your club in a hazard (like a sand trap); the person who won the previous hole tees off first (as does the person who is furthest from the hole); replace your divot on the fairway and fix your ball mark on the green (I rarely left a ball mark). Dad would later teach me more golf etiquette, as well as some important social etiquette that just happened to be applicable on the golf course as well.
The older I got, the more embarrassed I became of my poor set (if you could call it that) set of clubs. I began to save my lawn mowing earnings to see if I could purchase at least a new bag. This was before the days when garage and yard sales were popular. Today you can probably pick up a used set of clubs for $10-15 at such a venue. In those days I looked around for a deal anytime we went shopping. In Butler there was a department store called Troutman’s and in the basement they had a small sporting goods department. On one excursion I found a golf bag that was the last of its kind so it was less than half price. It was red plaid with black trim. Although it was really cheaply made (especially by today’s standards) I thought it was great. I was tickled that I had a new bag but it made my meager clubs look even worse. My next quest was to obtain a set of woods. On another trip to Butler I found that Troutman’s had some woods on sale. They were dirt cheap and I didn’t find out why until much later. They were autographed by someone I had never heard of named Jackie Pung. The set I purchased included driver, 3 and 5 woods. They had a shiny black finish and cheap green rubber grips. I was fortunate that nobody else I ever played with had heard of Mr. Pung. I’m not sure when it was that I leaned Mr. Pung was actually Mrs. Pung. I had been using women’s woods all this time! Jackie Pung was a 235-pound Hawaiian who won the 1957 US Women’s Open, only to be disqualified because she made a mistake on her scorecard (but not one that impacted on her winning score). It seems everyone in attendance felt so bad that they took up a collection of $3,000 for her. The winner’s prize was $1,800 so she made out pretty well.
I guess these cheap ladies woods fit in pretty well with my odd assortment of other clubs and my red plaid bag. In total, my equipment matched my talent level. When I was a little older Dad got a new set of irons and he gave me his Wilson 3, 5, 7, and 9 irons. In combination with my other new stuff I was no longer embarrassed by my clubs. My game was now the most embarrassing part of golf for me.
Once again I cannot recall how I came to get on the Slippery Rock High School golf team. I think I may have had a conversation about golf with the team’s coach, Ray Webster. He had been my seventh grade math teacher and I always liked him. There were no tryouts for the team. I expressed an interested and I was on the team with just four other guys (I guess that’s why there were no tryouts). Dave Thomas (not the Wendy’s hamburger magnet) was our best player and I was always impressed with his long drives. The second echelon of the team consisted of everyone but me – Kirk Jansce, Bob Allison, and Bruce Hovis. I was number five of five. We played our matches and practiced at Lake Arthur Country Club. Number 14 started off over a large lake. You needed to hit the ball at least 150 yards to carry the water and there was no way around it. I could hit the ball 200 yards in those days – unfortunately that was 100 yards straight ahead and another 100 yards to the right. I had a slice that has been described alternately as either a banana or a rainbow. After several practice rounds that never included a shot over the number 14 lake I gave up. I never made it to an actual match.
Perhaps that set the tone for the remainder of my golfing career. I have always shied away from competition. When I was older my good friend, Pat Docherty, would suggest we play for dime skins (the most one could lose in 18 holes was $1.80) but I would refuse. I love to play in a scramble because it is a team event where I feel I can contribute at least once in awhile.
Thereafter I pretty much stuck to playing with my dad and his buddies if they needed a fourth. I rarely played in college and after we had children I didn’t have either the time of money to play often. This pretty much sums up my golfing life until our boys were grown and Lynn took up the game. That’s another chapter.
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