Gentle Touch Wins Over Fans

When he putts, nobody in the gallery secretly mouths to himself, “Miss it!” If he hits the ball in the rough, everybody groans. When a red number goes up next to his name, the crowd cheers.

No one has ever seen him throw a club, kick a ball-washer, snarl at a marshal or a spectator. In pro-ams, he helps the auto dealers line up their putts. The press likes him. He yields to no one in his knowledge and affection for the history of the game.

In a game where nicknames run to “the Hawk,” “the Shark,” “the Slammer,” “the Bear” or “Boom Boom,” he’s “Gentle Ben.” That should tell you all you have to know about Ben Crenshaw. He loves the game, and it loves him.

Well, at least the people around the game do. As for the game itself, it frequently treats Ben Crenshaw the way that waitress treats her lovesick admirer in “Of Human Bondage.” She kicks him around something awful, but no matter what she does, how she mocks him, taunts him, cheats on him, he keeps coming back for more.

In a way, that’s what golf does to Ben Crenshaw. Torment him.

When Ben Crenshaw came out on the tour 20 years ago, the game thought it had the logical successor to Ben Hogan. Even his stature was similar, 5 feet 9. He had won three NCAA championships in a row; he played in a U.S. Open when he was only 18. He played the bold, take-no-prisoners, what-trees? game of an Arnold Palmer. He had the longest swing and the highest finish in the game.

He was fun to watch. The ball went far. It didn’t always go straight. Ben probably led the tour in out-of-bounds shots. He also led it in one-putts. They thought that as soon as he found a way to keep the ball between the white markers, he would make the world forget that other Ben.

But golf is as resistant to conquest as China. Many a shining young player disappears into its interior never to be heard from again. Crenshaw didn’t disappear, but there were times search parties were sent out.

The consensus was, he tried too hard. No one had more respect for the game. No one had to tell Ben Crenshaw what a British Open victory, or what a Masters or a U.S. Open meant. He never laid up with a major on the line. He was the Arnold Toynbee of golf history. He knew every shot Bobby Jones hit. He could tell you what club Hogan used on the 18th or from where Gene Sarazen hit his double-eagle.

But golf is not a kingdom any more. It’s a rabble. A winner a week. Guys were not making history any more, only money.

So, Crenshaw didn’t become king of the hill. But neither did anyone else. What he did become was the most popular player in the game. When he won his Masters in 1984, every golf fan in the country felt as if he himself had won it. When Crenshaw hit it over a green, they felt like kicking a ball-washer for him.

His popularity was worldwide. When he finished second in a British Open one year, cabdrivers in the airport were calling out to him, “Shoulda been yours, Ben!”

He became famous for his putting stroke, which was as smooth as hot fudge over whipped cream, but it overshadowed the rest of his game unfairly. A good putting stroke is a waste if you don’t reach the green in time.

He won his 18th tour event at New Orleans last week with a putting exhibition that was right out of Lourdes. It was so good that no one noticed Crenshaw’s shots were never in the water--or even on the wrong side of the fairway--for 72 holes.

Even at 42, Crenshaw still projects the image of everybody’s kid brother. He should play with a puppy dog following him. It wouldn’t be too hard to picture him as a member of an Our Gang comedy playing in high-top sneakers with hand-me-down clubs.

Everyone wants to win the Masters. But for Crenshaw, it has been an obsession. He has been second in three British Opens. But in the Masters, he has been second four times. He has been third once and fourth twice. In 22 appearances, he has been out of the top 20 only six times.

No one ever cherished the green jacket more than Ben Crenshaw. He’s like Somerset Maugham’s character, the more the Masters rebuffs him, the more he wants her.

“To me, this is a course that beats you back,” Crenshaw says. “With all the development of new equipment and all the refinements, you still find holes you can’t play. The Masters is somewhat of a check on technology. The undulations of the greens are the heart and soul of this course, and they blunt your attack. I came here first in 1972 and fell in love with the course. I still am.

“The greens are Bobby Jones’ persona. He has laid out the course with what he referred to as ‘imminent danger’ and ‘deferred danger.’ Nowhere does your short game feel such severe pressure. Playing the Masters is a little like playing billiards. You try to ‘leave’ balls in certain spots. You can’t play it without imagination.”

Clearly, Gentle Ben is in the grip of devotion to this elusive mistress. But it’s not blind love. He is conscious of all her tricks of rejection. It just makes him all the fonder. But if she spurns him again, the heart she breaks won’t be only his. It will be every golf fan in a locker room anywhere and cause the greatest weeping and gnashing of teeth since Arnold Palmer butchered the 18th hole and lost to Gary Player in 1961.

But it won’t matter to Ben. He’ll be back next year with flowers in hand and a box of candy under the arm and hope in his heart. He’s hopelessly in love with the fickle girl.