Hogan's Great One-Iron Shot
On June 10, 1950, Ben Hogan struggled up the fairway of the 18th hole at the Merion Golf Club in Pennsylvania.
It was not really the 18th hole. It was the 36th hole of the day, for that was the way the U. S. Open was structured at that time--18 holes on Friday, 18 more on Saturday, then a grueling 36 holes on Sunday.
Grueling for any golfer, but especially for Hogan. Beneath his golf slacks, he was swathed in bandages from waist to ankles. Every step brought pain, and beneath the pain there was desperate fatigue.
Several times during this round, Hogan had said he didn't think he'd be able to finish. But he kept doggedly on, even as his three-shot lead disappeared. Now he was tied with two other golfers, Tom Fazio and Lloyd Mangrum, and he needed a par on this final hole of the day to force a playoff.
He not only struggled, he staggered up the fairway. Many observers described it that way. His pained legs kept giving way and a couple of times it seemed that he was about to fall, but he managed to catch himself and keep on going.
Finally, he reached his ball. The 18th at Merion is a long par four, and Hogan needed more than 200 yards on his second shot to hit the small, well-trapped green.
He asked his caddie for the one-iron. The toughest shot in the bag. So tough, in fact, that it's rarely in the bag. Most golfers don't even bother to carry a one-iron because it's such a difficult club to make a good shot with.
But Hogan liked the one-iron. He could hit it well, probably better than any other golfer who ever lived.
He sized up the shot, somehow steadied himself on those unsteady legs, and for a few seconds he willed the pain away as he struck the ball.
The sound from the gallery told the story. There was a collective gasp at the sweet sound of a clubhead hitting the ball perfectly and the ball's responsive takeoff, followed by the kind of long drawn-out "Ahhhhhh" that's usually reserved for fireworks, and then a round of applause as the shot settled neatly on the green, well within two-putt range.
Hogan made his par and forced the Monday playoff, which was anti-climactic. Well rested and refreshed, with only 18 holes to face, Hogan won easily, shooting a 69 to Mangrum's 73 and Fazio's 75.
The incredible victory marked the rebirth of Hogan's career, and the real beginning of his legend.
Heroism by Accident
By the end of 1948, Hogan was already recognized as a very, very good golfer. He had won 35 tournaments in a little more than four years, including the 1948 Open and two PGA titles, in 1946 and 1948.
Then, in February of 1949, Hogan and his wife, Valerie, were driving home from a tournament when a bus suddenly loomed out of the darkness, headed directly for their car. Hogan hit the brakes, spun the steering wheel, and threw himself in front of Valerie, probably saving her life while almost losing his own.
He suffered a double fracture of the pelvis, a broken collarbone, and a broken ankle. During surgery to piece his pelvis back together, blood clots nearly killed him and they continued to threaten his life for several months afterward.
Hogan had to learn how to walk all over again. He also had to re-learn his swing, adjusting for the pain and instability from his damaged hips and the legs, beset by circulation problems.
In his first tournament back, just eleven months after the accident, Hogan tied Sam Snead for first place in the Los Angeles Open, but he couldn't fight through the pain in the 18-hole playoff, and Snead won.
Then came the dramatic victory at Merion. Many followers of golf and many sportswriters hadn't taken to Hogan because of his cold, mechanical approach to the game. He played very well and he won a lot, they recognized that, but there was no drama, no excitement, in his steady, methodical victories.
After the accident, though, Hogan became a public hero. He was the underdog, battling long odds, not really against other golfers, but against the chronic pain and fatigue that were the aftermath of his terrible accident. Now there was drama in virtually every shot he hit, from the mere fact that he was hitting it.
The pain and fatigue severely limited Hogan's playing schedule, but when he did play he was clearly the best of his time. To call an athlete consistent is often to damn with faint praise because it means that the athlete rarely does anything very interesting, either good or bad.
Brilliant Consistency
Hogan was consistent, but his was the consistency of brilliance. He still stands third on the all-time list with 63 tournament victories, and he may well have won a higher percentage of the tournaments he entered than anyone else.
In 1953, for example, he entered only six tournaments. He won five of them, including the Masters, the U. S. Open, and the British Open. He might have become the only golfer in history to win the Grand Slam in a single year, but he couldn't enter the fourth major event, the PGA tournament, because his legs were so bad that week that he literally couldn't stand up, let alone walk the course.
Hogan also stands fourth all-time with nine victories in major tournaments, and he's one of only four golfers ever to win all four majors.
There's a story there, too. Hogan had never played in the British Open because his service during World War II had soured him on ocean travel. But his good friend, Byron Nelson, persuaded him that he should sail to Scotland for the 1953 British Open, since a victory would put him on the elite list.
Hogan sailed over and won the tournament. It was the only time he ever played there. Yet he made an ever-lasting impression on the Scots during that brief visit.
The Scots, who virtually invented the game, could appreciate the way he played, the single-minded approach that had turned off many Americans.
While American sportswriters had called Hogan the "mechanical man," the Scots called him, in admiration, the "Wee Ice Mon." And, while Americans had come to value him as the perpetual underdog, the Scots saw a player in perfect control of his game and himself, a golfer who was not fighting through or against pain but, rather, ignoring it when he had to because of his total concentration on the shot and how it had to be struck, where it had to go.
The Scots knew, and know, how the game is 'sposed to be played. So did Hogan. Perhaps better than anyone before him, or since.
Just a couple of years ago, a golfer from Texas on a tour of the British Isles was playing a round in Scotland. His caddie asked him where he was from.
"Fort Worth, Texas," the golfer proudly replied.
The 19-year-old caddie, who had been born 24 years after Hogan's victory in his only visit to Scotland, nodded cannily. "Aye," he said, "that's Mr. Hogan's home."