SQUIRE NOW 96

An introduction to Gene Sarazen begins with a handshake, and yes, the legendary golfer’s grip remains firm. His eyes twinkle, his voice is strong and he looks like he could shoot his age.

Sarazen turns 96 this month. That’s way above par, which he finds a bit unsettling.

“You don’t know when you wake up in the morning whether you’re going to make it or not,” he says. “I’m looking at 100, and it scares you.”

It’s been more than 75 years since Sarazen won the first of his seven majors at the 1922 U.S. Open. He hit perhaps the most famous shot in golf in 1935, sinking a double eagle with a 4-wood at the Masters while Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen watched.

He played against both Harry Vardon and Jack Nicklaus, who won British Open titles 82 years apart.

Arthritis forced Sarazen to give up playing in 1993. He doesn’t travel to tournaments much anymore and doesn’t care for the Golf Channel.

“They’ve got a lot of fellows teaching you how to play, and you don’t want to watch that,” he says. “That’s very boring.”

But Sarazen is happy to reminisce. Immaculately dressed in a cardigan, knickers and two-tone wingtips, he relaxes in his fifth-story oceanfront condo, looking out at the Gulf of Mexico on Marco Island, Fla., as he looks back on one of golf’s greatest careers. His story is history.

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Sarazen was born Feb. 27, 1902, in Harrison, N.Y., the son of an Italian immigrant carpenter who never understood golf and saw his son play only once.

“It was at the PGA Championship in Pelham, N.Y.,” Sarazen recalls. “From the highway, he watched me play the 10th hole. I had a 40-foot putt and missed it. That night he said, ‘You mean to say they pay you fellows to play that game and you couldn’t put that thing in the hole?’ I said, ‘Did you ever try it?”’

The game wasn’t easy, but Sarazen loved it. He became a caddie at age 8, walking four miles to the nearest club and playing whenever he could. He set his sights on becoming a professional, against all odds.

“In those days, only brokers and bankers played golf,” he says.

He won his first tournament and $20. He made a hole-in-one and the next day his name was in the papers: Eugenio Saraceni.

“I didn’t like the name. It looked too much like a violin player. I changed it to Gene Sarazen.”

It would soon become one of the most famous names in sports.

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Sarazen nearly died during the 1918 flu epidemic. After recovering, he bought a $15 steamship ticket from New York to Florida and settled in Sebring, where he unloaded brick in a freight yard while polishing his game.

The president of the U.S. Golf Assn. thought the youngster showed promise and paid his way to the 1922 U.S. Open in Skokie, Ill. Sarazen won the tournament, then won the PGA Championship the same year.

At age 20, the 5-foot-6 former caddie was suddenly a big deal.

“I was younger than Tiger Woods,” he says. “The only thing is, Tiger has millions in the bank. I had pennies.”

Woods won $2.1 million in prize money last year. Sarazen’s earnings for his seven major titles totaled less than $50,000.

“It was pretty tough in those days,” Sarazen says. “You had to play exhibitions and appear in department stores. You didn’t get much--$250 for the day--and they wanted you to play 36 holes.”

Money isn’t the only difference in the game today, Sarazen says. He credits Woods with rejuvenating golf the same way Bobby Jones did in the 1920s, but he says the sport suffers from overexposure and slow play. He recommends fewer tournaments and faster rounds.

“I still hold the record for the fastest round at the Masters--one hour and 57 minutes,” he says proudly.

That achievement is a mere footnote to Sarazen’s most noteworthy entries in the record book. He became the first player to win a career Grand Slam--the U.S. Open (1922, 1932), the PGA Championship (1922, 1923, 1933), the British Open (1932) and the Masters (1935). Only Nicklaus, Ben Hogan and Gary Player have matched the feat.

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Sarazen has two children, seven grandchildren and five great grandchildren, many of them golfers. His daughter lives nearby, and a maid and a live-in cook help with housekeeping.

He and his wife, Mary, were married 62 years before she died in 1986. They met at a dinner in Hollywood, Fla., where Sarazen was on an exhibition tour.

“I was always looking around for blondes,” he says. “I saw this blonde, and I asked the maitre d’ to introduce me to her. She came out the next day to watch us play, and that’s when the romance began.”

Mary became a good golfer herself, and she eagerly met him at the train station when he returned home from the 1934 U.S. Open.

“She said, ‘What do you think I did yesterday? I shot an 84!’ I said, ‘What do you think I did yesterday? I lost the U.S. Open by one stroke!”’

Later, after Sarazen retired, he and his wife became regular playing partners. Did she ever beat him?

“Yes,” he says with a smile, “on some holes.”

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Rising from his chair, Sarazen shuffles across the carpet--it’s green, of course--and digs out a photo of himself from the 1920s. In the picture, he has just hit a drive and is smiling, pleased with the shot.

“I miss playing very much,” he says.

Sarazen’s final tournament was the 1973 British Open at Troon, where he sank a hole-in-one at age 71. He has lived on Marco Island since 1966 and spends most of his time there, but he returned last year to Skokie, where 600 guests celebrated the 75th anniversary of his first major title.

He helped to found the annual Sarazen World Open Championship in Atlanta in 1994, and he sponsors a charity tournament for his Marco Island foundation.

Sarazen also travels each year to the Masters, where he attends a dinner honoring past champions and joins Byron Nelson and Sam Snead to hit the ceremonial first tee shot. He plans to make the trip again in April.

“Oh, yes,” he says, “if I’m alive.”

Such occasions are bittersweet for Sarazen because his old rivals are gone. Jones has been dead for 27 years, Hagen for 29 years, Vardon for 61 years.

Sarazen, nicknamed the Squire of golf, and his memories remain very much alive. Nearing the end of a 45-minute interview, he glances at a reporter’s notebook filled with the past.

“You’ve got a long story there.” It’s nearly a century long.