Feeling Like 18 at 50 : Senior Golf Tour Gives Allin New Sense of Purpose

His hands were shaking so fiercely that the oatmeal quivered and danced off the edge of the spoon. That was when Buddy Allin gave up on breakfast.

He had this feeling before, the one where his guts seem ready to turn inside-out and every breath is a chore. But not like this. He had never been this nervous. Never. Not during the war or the disease or any of the other things that he’s been through in his 50 years.

Now he had to either play 18 holes of golf at an elite level, or go back to work for another year.

But he looked at his trembling hands and realized this is what he’s always thrived on. He realized that he lives for that sickening high when he busts a drive straight down the middle and then looks at his trembling hands and thinks, “I did that?”

That’s how it was for Buddy Allin last November when, only a few hours after he couldn’t lap up his cereal, he qualified for the Senior PGA Tour.

Allin shot 68 on the final day of the Tour’s National Qualifying Tournament in Lutz, Fla., to finish three strokes back of winner Tommy Aycock and earn a spot on the tour.

Allin, who grew up in Santa Barbara and lives in Hemet, is living the dream life again, just as he did when he played on the PGA Tour most of the 1970s. But this is better.

He is gulping coffee on a plush couch at the Ojai Valley Inn, a few days before the start of his fourth senior tournament, the FHP Health Care Classic, which begins Friday. His son and his second wife’s two daughters are grown, so it’s just Buddy and Carol, making the rounds.

There is no pressure these days. No one expects much of Buddy Allin. Especially Buddy Allin.

“When you don’t anticipate, you can’t have any lows,” said Allin, former head professional at Saticoy Country Club in Camarillo.

He can’t anticipate, he says, because he doesn’t know if his nerves are still intact. And there are signs of wear, signs of the toll his nerves have taken.

His hair is silver and his face is creased with wrinkles. He drinks coffee by the gallon and doesn’t mind a cigarette along with it. His memory is hazy, and dates often take a few moments to materialize on the edge of his tongue.

That all makes perfect sense, though, because he is a veteran in more ways than one.

*

He was standing at attention in the middle of a Utah winter when he decided Vietnam would be easier than this.

Allin joined the ROTC at Brigham Young to keep his scholarship after taking a year off. But in November of 1966, instead of running away from the Army like so many others, Allin ran headlong into it and enlisted.

He spent 18 months in Vietnam in field artillery. He did ground and air observation and served as a fire detection officer. And he reveled in it. Vietnam was a game for Buddy Allin, one monstrous rush of adrenalin after another.

“When you’re getting shot at, you’re on a high,” he said.

Perhaps none of the trauma has stuck with Allin because he can’t remember the details. As soon as he came back, he let it all go.

ESPN came to his house for an interview when he made the Senior Tour and asked about the medals that hung on his wall. Allin had to study the citations mounted below the medals. He couldn’t remember what they were for.

All he remembers is the thrill. “War is a good game,” he said.

He says the same things about golf. He lives for the excitement, the rush of adrenalin. Comparing war to golf is absurd.

Still, he said, “The game remains the same.”

He returned in 1969 and spent a year as an assistant pro in Santa Barbara. In 1970, he earned his PGA touring card on the first try, five days after his first wife bore his son by Cesarean section. She and the baby were there as Buddy arrived in Tucson, Ariz., five minutes before the registration deadline.

Somehow, he was playing well. Then he was told that if he parred the next two holes, he would earn his card. And the nerves set in.

He parred the next two holes.

He won more than $500,000 on the tour over the next 10 years, winning five tournaments.

*

Allin had never really thought about it much. It was just a little black mark, about the size of a half-dollar, near the back of his leg. Right near where he laced his boots during the war.

His doctor friend had always talked about removing it, just in case. And finally, in 1981, he had it done. The news was not good. It was melanoma. Cancer.

Allin spent 14 days in the hospital the first time. Then they removed some of the lymph nodes around his groin and he spent another week in bed.

The cancer was most likely the result of Agent Orange bombings in Vietnam, Allin was told. And if they hadn’t detected it so soon, it might have been worse.

But as it was, he said it didn’t even throw a scare into him.

“It’s over and gone,” he said.

Allin read that after seven years of cancer in remission, you’re probably in the clear. So he doesn’t worry. He has been preoccupied with other things.

At some point in the late 1970s, just before the cancer set in, Allin lost his desire to play golf. That’s when he went to work at Saticoy, where a young woman named Carol was a cocktail waitress. They barely knew each other because Buddy was married and Carol knew nothing about golf.

Soon after, Allin’s marriage deteriorated, and he went back on the tour. Carol moved to Phoenix, and on a whim, Buddy looked her up while he was there for a tournament. Carol says it was in 1981. Buddy says 1982.

Whenever it started, it is still going strong.

So is his desire to play. He knew for certain the morning he held a shaking spoon of oatmeal.

He is a rookie again, just as he was on that first day in the Army and the first tournament on the tour. Just as he was the first time he heard “melanoma.”

Allin has learned to stop and smell the flowers lining the fairway. He and Carol are simply enjoying the travel, the scenery, the leisure. And if he wins?

He turned his head shyly and steadied the coffee in his hands. “Nothing’s gonna change,” he said. “But I really just want to stay in my world for a little while.”