There’s Always a Hook

Greg Norman was on the phone. I was glad. Greg Norman needs my help.

“It’s about the take-away, Greg. You’ve got your hands too high in the arc,” I told him. “You’ve got the V’s pointing toward the wrong shoulder. You’ve got to get them pointing toward the ocean. Or toward Indio. Or is that putts? I get a little mixed up.

“But, hang on! You’ve come to the right place. After all, who was it who told Arnie, ‘Go for it!’ that year up at Olympic Club when he blew that seven-shot lead? Who was it who told Jerry Pate, ‘You’ll never get there with that!’ at Atlanta when he pulled out that five-iron on No. 18 in ‘76? And told Watson, ‘You’d better hit another one,’ as his shot at Pebble Beach landed in the deep rough at 17? I can help you, Greg. I know what you’re doing wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” yells Greg. “I called up to tell you about the Ronald McDonald House charity tournament at Sherwood Country Club on Nov. 16-19. It’s going to be one of the great golf tournaments on the fall circuit. Twenty of the finest players in the game.”

“Wait a minute, Greg,” I said. “Later. First things first. Now that I’ve got you on the phone, I’ve got some things we have to go over. That lateral movement you have at the top of the swing? Where you slide toward the ball? I wonder if it would do you some good to anchor that right foot? At the end of a round, my right foot has ivy growing out of it. It keeps my swing going nicely outside in.”

“Anchor my right foot!” screams Greg. “If I do, I’ll hit those little infield flies like you do. How can I win a British Open with those little foul popups you send off the tee? I’ve seen your game. What are you--about a 30?”

“Listen, Greg,” I told him. “You don’t have to be a great chef to know when an omelet’s good. After all, who do you think it was told Hemingway how to get out of a slump? ‘Use more adjectives,’ I told him.

“Who do you think Stan Musial used to come to when he had trouble with the inside fastball? ‘You’re crouching too much,’ I told him.

“Steve Garvey used to come to me for advice all the time. ‘You got to get out more,’ I told him.”

Greg was getting desperate. “Do you want to talk about the Ronald McDonald or do you want to mess up my short game?” he grumped. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Greg, the thing you got to do is, not get discouraged,” I told him. “I’m an old hand at fighting discouragement on the golf course. Do you know I once made 16 nines? And two X’s?”

“Discouraged!” roared Greg. “I just won two tournaments out of the last three I played!”

I ignored him. “You see, Greg, it gets to you when guys chip in over your head when you’re lying there in two and playing the way the Scotsmen intended you to, and they’ve been all over the course. I know it makes you want to quit the game. I’ve quit it 17 times myself, by last count. I know what it is to shoot impeccable golf and get beat on flukes. I shot a 98 once and lost the bets four ways.”

Greg exploded. “But I love just being in a position to get beat! I can’t wait to get to the golf course! I find it exciting, fun! I love golf!”

“We all love golf, Greg,” I told him sadly. “It’s golf that doesn’t love us. Now here’s what you do: The next time you get in a position to win a big one, you hit a deliberately bad shot off the tee. You’ve been penalized four times for playing a hole the way it should be played. This way, you lull those perverse devils to sleep. They’ll concentrate on the other guy. Let your opponent split the fairway, make the green in two. Whatever. You knock it over in the right rough.”

Greg was unimpressed. “But what if I don’t chip in? Hole it out?”

I soothed him. “Don’t worry, Greg. You will. The gods of golf hate perfection. They hate a guy who hits all fairways and greens. Trust me.

“Do you remember a PGA once where Palmer hit every fairway and every green and Bobby Nichols disappeared after the first tee for 18 holes? Nobody saw him all afternoon till he came walking out of the woods on 18 with a short putt to win it all. He was in more trees than a squirrel.

“Golf hates a smart guy who does it the way you’re supposed to. Look what they did to Hogan. Palmer. Look at the way Ballesteros wins. Out of parking lots! Listen, try my way just once, will you?”

Greg was annoyed. “Look, this is getting us nowhere. Have you seen Sherwood Country Club? It’s one of the most beautiful layouts in the world. And we’re going to have a tournament like you’ve never seen before. Twenty of the greatest players in the world. Nicklaus, Strange, Calcavecchia, all the top players, the top five of the money list, the top 10 of the all-time list. We’ll have a two-day pro-am. Then we’ll have an alternate-shot round, a scramble and a best-ball.”

“You’ll have a scramble?” I said eagerly. “Do you have a partner? I think I may be able to make it.”

“I’ll have Jack Nicklaus,” Greg said. “Although, I do wish you’d told me sooner you’d be available.”

“No need to get sarcastic, Greg,” I told him. “It so happens I’m very good at scrambles. Used my shot twice the last time we played one.”

Greg was unperturbed. “We’ll raise a million and a half for the Ronald McDonald houses. As you know, these are places where the parents and families of catastrophically ill kids can go to live nearby while they’re undergoing treatment. As you know, I’m a sucker for sick kids. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make their lives happier. I see this tournament as a way to do it.”

Added Greg: “We’re going to restrict the gallery to 5,000 a day because we want them to be able to see these great golfers in a unique format.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

“Good,” said Greg.

“You may need me,” I told him. “There’s a lot of subtleties in that course. Greg? Greg?”

He had hung up. Some people just don’t want to improve.