Divine Course for Disciple of Golf

My late wife always used to say, “If Jim ever gets to heaven and Ben Hogan isn’t there, he ain’t staying.”

We all laughed. But, you know something? I hope today they have in heaven this little 18-hole golf course with trouble on the right, narrow fairways, maybe a par three with this sand trap in the middle of the green, a long par five or two that requires a one-iron second, a finishing hole uphill against a sloping fairway to weed out the ribbon clerks and identify the champions.

You see, I’m assuming Hogan’s there and I have this fantasy in which God is waiting for him and he says “Ben! We’ve been waiting for you!” and he shows him the course, which looks suspiciously like Riviera in 1948, and the Lord says “Look! Hogan’s Alley!”

And, I don’t want to be blasphemous, but I would then visualize the Lord saying, “Now, what do you say, Ben, we have this little 18-hole four-ball tomorrow. St. Peter and I will stand you and Jay Hebert, who just got here the other day too?”

Then, the Lord will say, “We’ll play at full handicap, one low ball, play it as it lies and I’ll promise no miracles.”

But, Hogan will say, “Wait a minute! No disrespect but you may need a couple of miracles, Sir. I’m really on my game and Jay is putting well. How about we give you three shots and two miracles a side and we’ll adjust at the turn?” And the Lord will say “Fine, automatic presses, $20 four-ways and we’ll flip for honors at the first tee.”

God is a golfer, every weekend hacker is sure. Probably a five handicap but maybe scratch. But Hogan, of course, will have to find out before they arrange the bets.

And the Lord will say, “Ben, I’m actually a plus-2 these days, but I’ve got a new putter in the bag which needs breaking in--what say we play even?”

And, my fantasy continues where they have this wonderful match--kind of like that storied foursome years ago at Pebble Beach in which Hogan and Byron Nelson played Ken Venturi and Harvie Ward, two amateurs then, for all the guts and glory. It’ll come down to the last hole all even, and it’ll be like Riviera’s 451-yard 18th uphill and St. Peter will drive the green and the ball will go in the hole, but Hogan and Jay will protest, “You already used up your last miracle back on 15!” And the Lord will agree “You’re right,” and make St. Peter go back to the tee where he will then, out of miracles, hit it out of bounds left to lose all four ways.

And the Lord will say “Same time tomorrow, Ben? This time we get one a side?”

Hogan left us the other day for greener fairways. A goodbye as he would have wanted it, without superlatives, by a man of God in his own church in Fort Worth before an audience of his contemporaries and the flower of American golf. A proper goodbye to a man who was a part of our youth, a source of our pride. A man on whom even a breath of scandal never touched, who never did an unworthy thing in his life, whose friendship was as rare as rubies.

For what Hogan meant, it’s the old story. For those who know golf, no explanation is necessary. For those who don’t, no explanation is possible.

He died as he had lived, in the care and arms of his lovely Valerie. My wife, Linda, and I went to see her after the services this week, talked into the afternoon with her about bygone days, never-dimming triumphs, the legend that was Ben Hogan, her husband of 62 years.

“I was holding his hand and kissed him,” Valerie whispered, “when the nurses came in and said ‘Mrs. Hogan, he’s gone. He’s been gone several minutes.’ ”

Ben hated to leave her, as usual.

All I can say is, I hope they have a lot of par-fives where he is today. And God better not give him too many strokes. Or all He’ll hear all day is “You’re away!”