A ghostwriter's ghost

The author's father shadowed Ben Hogan at the 1953 British Open

By BRYAN ANDREW
Contributing writer, GOLF MAGAZINE

When Dad died, it fell to me to sort through the papers and documents of his life. Dad's filing system was as uncomplicated as he had been, a haphazardly stuffed briefcase shoved in the back of the kitchen cupboard. In it were receipts, old bank books, canceled passports, and miscellaneous correspondence. There were also seven black-and-white glossies of golfers.

There was twinkle-eyed Welshman Dai Rees, grinning knowingly, and American Lloyd Mangrum, swinging away with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Argentina's Antonio Cerda, trousers tucked into his socks, watched slim countryman Roberto de Vicenzo drive off in baggy pants turned up above the ankles.

The photographs obviously had been taken at a tournament during the 1950s, but there was nothing to indicate the specific time or place. Then I came to the last picture, that of a square-jawed man whose head seemed slightly too large for his slim shoulders. He, too, was smiling, but his eyes captured the attention. They were the eyes of a man who would not cheat and who would not be cheated. Now I knew where and when the pictures had been taken. Carnoustie, Scotland. July 1953.

There is an inscription on this photograph, written in blue ink now so faded that to read it, you have to tilt the surface so the light hits the indentations made by the pen. It says, "To Harry Andrew with all good wishes and fondest regards. Golfingly, Ben Hogan."

I remembered the story behind the photo. When Hogan came to Carnoustie to play in his only British Open, he signed with the Scottish Sunday Express to write a series of articles describing his experiences and thoughts before and during the championship. Dad was assigned to ghostwrite the articles.

As I looked at the photo, my mind drifted back a couple of years to a kitchen reddened by the setting glow of a rare Glasgow sun. We were sitting around the table after dinner when Dad began to talk about his time with Hogan 40 years before.

Their first meeting came when the editor of the Express took Dad to Hogan's hotel room. "Ben," the editor announced, "this is Harry Andrew. He'll be writing the articles for you."

Hogan stayed in his chair, saying nothing. Behind him, a row of clubs leaned against the wall. He reached for one, and passed it to Dad.

"Just got myself a new set of clubs. What do you think of them?"

Dad, as golfers everywhere will do, gripped the club and gave it a few waggles.

"He'll do," said Hogan.

Dad spent the next three weeks with Hogan.

"Hogan came to Carnoustie for two reasons," Dad recalled, as we settled in our chairs to the background rattle of dishes in the sink. "One was that a buddy of his told him he would never be remembered as one of the truly great golfers unless he won outside the United States. The other reason was that he was offered a pile of money to play an exhibition the following week for the U.S. Air Force at a base outside Paris."

Hogan arrived in Carnoustie two weeks before the tournament to give himself time to adjust to the conditions and to the smaller British ball. He quickly discovered that he could not make his normal swing. He was accustomed to taking a long divot, but the firm turf at Carnoustie rattled his teeth when he tried it.

He had to teach himself to pick the ball off the turf, but the spectators around the Carnoustie practice area were disturbing him. After a couple of days, he told Dad, "Harry, I can't practice here because of the crowds. Could you find me someplace quiet?"

Dad grew up in Dundee, 11 miles away; he knew the territory. A couple of miles from Carnoustie is Panmure Golf Club, an out-of-the-way course in the village of Barry. Dad called the secretary at Panmure and asked if anyone would mind if Ben Hogan came over and used their practice ground. Would they mind?! They would not.

The Panmure members gave Hogan what he needed: peace to practice, accompanied only by his caddie. Dad joined them when the work demanded.

"I remember one day standing there watching him hit short irons," Dad said. "He was hitting 8- or 9-irons to his caddie, Cecil Timms, who never moved. The ball would land in front of him, he would hold out a hand, catch it on the bounce, and pop it into the bag.

"Hogan hit about 20 shots, and Timms stood there on that one spot. Then Hogan hit one that Timms had to make a step to the side to catch, just one step.

"Hogan never said anything, just went, 'Tsk!' He hit another 20 or so balls, and again Timms never moved. It was just bounce, catch, into the bag, over and over. Then Timms had to lunge for another one. A grunt from Hogan. Off he goes again, another 30 balls before Timms again takes a step."

"Damnit, Harry," burst out an exasperated Hogan, "I used to be able to play that shot!"

The championship in those days was played Monday through Friday. There were qualifying rounds Monday and Tuesday that everyone had to play. Wednesday and Thursday were the first two rounds of the championship, which wound up with 36 holes on Friday. After easily qualifying, Hogan opened with 73 and 71 and entered the final day two shots back.

Friday was a pleasant summer day by Scottish standards, which is to say that it wasn't raining and you could dispense with your overcoat if you were young and healthy, or old and foolhardy. A morning 70 put Hogan into a tie for the lead with de Vicenzo after three rounds, one ahead of Rees, Cerda, and Australia's Peter Thomson.

Hogan had been awake all night with the flu, but kept it to himself. His wife, Valerie, told Dad about it between rounds. She was worried about Hogan's health, not his golf. He was also in constant pain from a back injury he had sustained while practicing the previous week, but he had asked Dad not to breathe a word of it to anyone. Hogan did not believe in excuses.

Hogan had another problem. After a car crash in 1949 left him with battered legs, he played only in warm weather. But he thought he could come to Scotland because it was summer. It was a serious miscalculation. His injuries were acting up in the cold sea air.

"Every night when Hogan got back to his hotel," Dad said, "he could hardly move. He had to be lifted into a warm bath just to get the circulation going in his legs. Every night." Two rounds in one day would be a test of endurance.

Hogan set off in the final round wrapped in the sweaters Valerie insisted he wear. He walked stiff-legged and alone down the fairway, eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him, shoulders hunched, and hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. In the pockets were hand warmers, metal cylinders fired by lighter fluid and covered in velvet. They would last for a few holes.

That afternoon, Hogan shot 68 as methodically as munching on a sandwich. He won by four strokes. It was a new course record. It was also a triumph of sheer willpower.

Hogan wrote in the Express that "Carnoustie gave me one experience which I have never had before. In the whole four rounds of the championship proper, I did not lay one single shot 'stiff,' by that I mean so close that I did not have to worry about the putt." And that was on greens that he hated because they were so slow.

When I say, "Hogan wrote," I do it advisedly.

"He would read everything carefully," remembered Dad. "Mostly, he never said anything, but once in a while he might say, 'Harry, this word here. I would never use a word like that.' "

The presentation of the trophy was to take place at the Carnoustie "clubhouse," a dumbbell-shaped building that was not much more than two oversize starter's boxes joined by a covered walkway, with a bench for changing shoes. Carnoustie was, and is, a public course, and the clubs that used it had their clubhouses across the street.

A large crowd had gathered for the presentation. Rain had begun to drizzle down, and the crowd grew restive as a lengthy delay ensued. De Vicenzo left to catch a train. The trouble was that Hogan was refusing to participate in the ceremony; it offended his sense of propriety to appear without his jacket, which was in a clubhouse across the street.

The problem was finally solved when he turned to Dad and asked, "Harry, can you lend me your jacket?"

Dad had to write one more article, a postmortem for the Sunday paper. He asked Hogan for the secret of his victory.

"All week long," Hogan replied, "I never hit a drive more than 10 feet from where I wanted it."

Ten feet!

"At one point in the final round," Dad said, "Hogan hit a terrible approach shot. It barely got off the ground. He almost missed it altogether. He proceeded to hit the next one onto the green, and holed out as if nothing had happened.

"I asked him about it afterward. I said, 'Ben, a shot like that, when you're right in the hunt for the Open championship, didn't it bother you?'

"He said, 'Harry, God gave me back my life and my wife's life. I'm not going to get upset over a bad golf shot.' "

The day after the Open, Hogan was due to fly to Paris from the Royal Air Force base at Leuchars, which is about two good wood shots short of the golf courses at St. Andrews. Carnoustie is about 12 miles from St. Andrews as the crow flies, though no crow in its right mind would attempt the windswept flight across the cold North Sea.

In those days, before the Tay Bridge, it was more than an hour by road, unless you took your chances on the "Fifey," the ancient paddle-wheeled ferry that battled its way across the Firth of Tay.

Dad asked Hogan if he would take the opportunity to visit the Old Course. "What for?" asked Hogan. "It's just another golf course."

"But Ben," protested Dad. "It's St. Andrews. The Old Course!"

Hogan must have seen the stunned expression on Dad's face, and he took pity on him. Sort of.

"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Ben, "When that plane takes off tomorrow, it'll fly right over the course. I promise you, if the weather's clear, I'll take a real good look at it."

When Hogan's last article was published, Dad allowed himself a few comments of his own in a sidebar:

"[His] shoes had to shine with a bright polish before every round, his trousers had to be properly creased, his hair combed, his nails neatly trimmed. Yet Hogan is not a vain man -- it is just that he believes in perfection. I was with him day after day, yet not once did I hear him refer to any of his golfing successes. He looks on himself as a golfer who has had some of the breaks. Only the really great can be that simple."

Dad's final verdict was delivered four decades later, in the kitchen. Dad had fallen silent. It had grown dark, but it didn't matter to Dad. He was looking out over the fairways of 40 years of Opens, seeing the Nicklauses and the Palmers, the Thomsons and the Watsons. When he spoke, his words were flat and even, weighted with certainty.

"Hogan was the greatest of them all."

Bryan Andrew is a retired scientist who lives in Ottawa, Canada. He watched the 1953 British Open as a 14-year-old.