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Ben Hogan died on a hot day in June. All over the world, golf balls were in flight at the moment he passed from this earth. Every shot, whether struck poorly or precisely, bore the mark of Hogan. No single person has influenced the game like the man from Texas. If you speak of technique, you speak of Hogan. If you speak of the mental game, you speak of Hogan. Every teacher of the game who is worth a damn has studied Hogan. You see, Hogan dug it out of the dirt. He was an original, with original ideas. Sure, he had his influences, but he never achieved any level of greatness on talent alone. He won with a drive and determination unparalleled in modern sport. He excelled by grinding out every last bit of potential he might have had, then went beyond that.
The eulogies marvel at his great record in the major championships, and his amazing recovery from the catastrophic accident that threatened his career. But what all the tributes fail to touch on is the overwhelming influence he had on scores of golfers like myself who have spent years in search of the mechanical perfection he seemed to embody. For twenty years I have rarely spent a day that I did not either read a part of one of Hogan’s books, or look at pictures of Hogan’s swing, or watch films of Hogan hitting balls. My best friends are all versed in Hogan, and we still discuss him at length. Even my kids know Hogan. To them, he’s “The Guy with the Hat”.
As I sit at my computer I look directly at a large framed photo of Ben Hogan at Dubsdread Country Club, 1947. It is a black and white shot of Hogan from behind just a moment after impact with the driver, and to me it is arguably the most beautiful picture I have ever seen. I stare at it until I lose myself: I am in Hogan’s body. I am producing the fierce rotation that compressed the golf ball unlike anyone who has played the game. I plug my video camera into the TV and put on two hours of Hogan hitting balls, at all stages of his career, from every conceivable angle, and I watch over and over until I feel the motion become mine. I know what each foot does, where each knee goes, how the hips move, how the shoulders turn, the arm path, the wrist action, the grip. I was never fortunate enough to be physically present when he hit balls, but I in my mind’s ear I can hear the ball cracking off the club with a totally different sound, that of a ball being completely and perfectly mashed, every ounce of energy focused on driving that white sphere on a perfect trajectory towards its destination. What else could be the result of such a motion, his arms totally responding to his body to produce a completely free lash at impact.
Hogan’s swing was and is the stuff of dreams for myself and thousands of other fanatics at every level of play. What fascinates me is that unlike today, when every champion seems to have not only a teacher they depend on for constant adjustments but coaches for every conceivable aspect of the game, Hogan did it all on his own. His knowledge filled two instructional books to which every modern teacher refers. I can just imagine Hogan’s reply if asked his opinion of today’s famous instructors: “That’s a nice theory. What did he win with it?” Can you imagine Hogan’s reaction to a “sport psychologist”? I can. It would be a wordless shake of the head, a gesture of pity and disgust for what has replaced self-knowledge and inner strength. And what of the players who feel as though they are being “too hard on themselves”, who can’t seem to “enjoy themselves” on the course? God forbid they ever ask Hogan for advice. I can see him fixing the young golfers with an icy stare and coldly suggesting that they “quit whining and keep practicing”. “Golf is Not a Game of Perfect”? “Then why play”?, Hogan might say. His only use for such a tome would be to rest his martinis on it. Hogan knew only one way: work longer and harder than the rest, and beat them as a result.
Hogan’s influence extends far beyond the lines of golfers beating balls at the local driving range, emulating the famous Hogan work ethic and love of practice. There is a little known cult in our society, one my friend, fellow professional, and partner in crime Mark Diamond termed “Hogan Youth”. The members of this secret cadre live in houses whose walls are covered with pictures of Hogan: Hogan at Merion, Hogan smoking a cigarette at the Masters, Hogan with Nelson and Snead, Hogan at address, Hogan at the top, Hogan at impact, not to mention multi-framed sequences of Hogan with every club, from every angle. If there was a photo of Hogan sitting on a toilet it would probably be up there as well. First born sons have a tendency to be named Ben. Any pet is also likely to be named Hogan, or Ben. Any true Hogan Youth member has at least three copies of Power Golf, one completely in tatters and two more pristine versions that don’t usually see the light of day.
The same goes for The Five Lessons, with two of the copies being so filled with handwritten notes in the margins as to be almost unreadable. Then there is the collection of videos: Hogan at Augusta in 1947, Hogan and Bolt in the early 60’s, the Hogan vs. Snead match on Shell’s Wonderful World of Golf, Follow the Sun, and hundreds of Hogan swings painstakingly collected and organized from every source imaginable. And don’t forget the Hogan autographs, on letters, programs, cards, pictures, golf balls. I have a bronze statue of Hogan my wife bought me for our anniversary last year. My good friend and fellow cult member Richard Kress called her when he found out small versions of the large statue of Hogan that was to be put in front of the Colonial Country Club in Texas were being sold to a limited number of buyers. At first I couldn’t believe what we had paid for it: now, I can’t believe how fortunate I am to have it.
In looking back at my golfing career it is safe to say that the one constant, the connective tissue that binds all the ups and downs, the stops and starts, the successes and failures, is Hogan. My father introduced me to the game by showing me Antony Ravielli’s wonderful drawings in The Five Lessons: The Modern Fundamentals of Golf. Little did I know that at that time, if I had the inclination, I could have seen Hogan in the flesh, still able to strike the ball as well as anyone ever has. When I lost my swing and quit the game in 1980, I tried to get into politics, but I was an ultra-liberal democrat and Ronald Reagan had just been elected. Thus, it turned out that the only job I could get was a sales position at what was then the first Washington Golf Center, still located on Shirlington Road in Alexandria. I didn’t plan on playing again, but there on the shelf was Hogan’s Five Lessons. I began reading, and working on my grip, then hitting balls into the Golf-O-Mat, and before I knew it I was playing in the Belle Haven Four-Ball with Perky Cullinane and getting to the finals. I won the D.C. Amateur that year and turned pro, moving to Orlando to spend five years on the mini-tours.
I may have read Hogan, but up until 1983 my swing looked much more like Tom Watson’s, and the accompanying “reverse-C” finish helped destroy my back and lead to surgery. I had to completely rebuild my swing or forget about golf. I knew I had to finish with a flatter back, and that the way to do that was to round off my swing and rotate more back and through. Hogan became my model and my guide, and since then all of my success as a player and a teacher have in some way been tied to my interpretation of what Hogan was up to.
I never met Hogan. I never saw him swing in person. I don’t know if he would have liked me: I can only hope that he would have respected me. In my heart I feel like I understand him. I can’t pretend to emulate him, but I know his swing, I can feel his pain, I understand his ferocious determination to get it right and to do it himself. My body won’t allow me to get his swing just right, but his example is there to strive for. I love my wife and kids too much to give myself completely to golf the way he did, but when I’m out there competing I can give the same all-out effort. His life, his struggles and successes in golf serve as hope and guidance for the thousands of us who has made golf a large part of our own lives. He never wanted to hand it to anyone on a plate; he wrote his books, he said what he said, his swings are there to pore over, now it is up to us to figure it out. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Ben, we’ll all miss you terribly. Thanks for everything.