Roberts Rules

At Augusta National, the vote of one unyielding man was all that really counted

Web-posted Apr. 22 at 7 PM

By Steve Eubanks
Illustrations by Robert Andrew Parker

The skies were partly cloudy that night. The moon was hidden, but an eerie glow illuminated the quiet grounds. By 2:20 a.m. on Sept. 29, 1977, the air was thick and still, and the temperature hovered around 65 degrees. For the late-shift security guard at Augusta National, the routine had been just that, routine. But at 2:27 the guard noticed something out of the ordinary. Mr. Cliff, as they all called him, was out of his suite. The guard greeted him but said very little. You said little to Mr. Cliff, and he said little in return. That was the way things worked. One cross word, and the 84-year-old's iron fist would come pounding down. Former employees and more than a few former members could attest to the severity of Mr. Cliff's wrath, and people did whatever was necessary to steer clear of any run-ins with Mr. Cliff. The guard also noticed that Clifford Roberts wore a trench coat and trousers over his pajamas. The old man had recently suffered a stroke, so the night watchman was careful to pay particularly close attention to how and where Roberts moved. Everything seemed in order--odd, but in order--so the guard went back to his post, and Roberts disappeared.

Roberts's Yankees had won their 99th game of the season earlier that Wednesday night, but he had been doing other things than watching baseball. There were last-minute items to prepare, a note to write, some tidying up to do. He took the gun out after 2, and just before 2:27 he put on the trench coat and headed out the door for a middle-of-the-night stroll.

The par-3 course is situated just east of the clubhouse, in an area that was a parking lot until 1958, when George Cobb designed the nine short holes. Before Cobb arrived on the scene and when the area was wooded and isolated, Ike suggested a fishing pond be added. Cliff could now take pride in having obliged his longtime friend. They had spent many hours together, Cliff and Ike, talking policies and world affairs, playing golf and bridge, and painting. Ike loved painting.

The walk down the hill to the pond was relatively short, although after Roberts's stroke, walks of any distance were more arduous than before. Then, of course, there was the cancer. Fortunately he hadn't suffered any truly debilitating effects other than some memory lapses and a cumulative weariness brought on by a lack of sleep, which reportedly was caused by his unwillingness to take his medication. Roberts's health had deteriorated to the point where he was a virtual prisoner in his clubhouse apartment, the walk to his office being too much for him to bear in his weakened condition.

On what was to be his last day, he had the club barber, Johnny Johnson, come to his apartment and give him a haircut. This was late afternoon, and they talked for an hour, until about 6 p.m. Then he called his wife, Betty, who was at home in Beverly Hills, Calif., and asked her to come to Augusta. She said she couldn't come immediately because she needed a day to make arrangements for closing the house.

Sometime during the evening he called in a Pinkerton guard who was operating the switchboard. Roberts produced a gun and asked the man the proper way to shoot it, saying he had heard noises outside his apartment.

It was dark, even though a floodlight shone on the path leading toward the pond. The night sounds were still as he made his way, wearing galoshes and no shoes and without benefit of a cane. This area was safe, away from the main course where spectators would have undoubtedly discovered the spot and created some kind of macabre landmark. This was also more helpful to the staff. Emergency vehicles could access the pond with ease, investigators wouldn't disturb any of the high-traffic areas around the clubhouse or the golf course, and it would be an easy spot to clean up. He knew every blade of grass, every knoll, every trickle of water on that 365 acres, and, in every respect, this was the perfect place. The Smith & Wesson .38 was the right choice as well: powerful enough to accomplish the task, but not overly so. He didn't want any gruesome disfiguration, but he also wanted to succeed. He always wanted to succeed. Roberts made it to the water's edge at a little before three in the morning. He took out the pistol, put it to his head, and in the methodical and cold-natured way he lived his life, he ended it with one final, resounding retort.

Roberts's body tumbled into a creek bed and was not found until 8 a.m. Dr. James Mitchener, the Richmond County coroner, said that there was "no reason to believe this was anything but a self-inflicted wound," although for years caddies at the National perpetuated the notion that something more sinister had occurred. Nevertheless, the shroud of secrecy surrounding Roberts fueled speculation of all kinds. He was a Wall Street investment banker and a partner of Reynolds & Company, which later became Dean Witter Reynolds. He was the chief financial adviser and campaign finance chairman for the only president to serve two full terms between FDR and Reagan, and yet, when he died, The New York Times had to call the Augusta Chronicle to get information for his obituary. He was a ghost, a shadowy unknown. Everyone saw him during Masters week as the official voice of Augusta National at all press conferences and in all matters relating to club policy. But for 51 weeks a year the steely-eyed Roberts went about his business in intentional obscurity.

Roberts feared that a macabre landmark might be created where he committed suicide.

Inveiglement and obfuscation in all things personal and an obsessive, unyielding control of all things relating to his club--those were the trademarks Roberts became noted for in life and were the reputation he left behind in death. Even the statement put out by the club the day Roberts's body was found reflected the cold and dispassionate legacy he left behind: "It is with great regret that the Augusta National Golf Club announces that its chairman, Clifford Roberts, died during the night. Death was caused by a self-inflicted wound. Mr. Roberts had been in ill health for several months. Funeral services will be private. No flowers are requested." No mention of Betty, his third wife following two divorces, was offered by the men in the green coats.

The Augusta Chronicle ran front-page headlines the next day: roberts found dead, with heaping accolades, such as masters uniqueness stands as tribute to roberts's work. Deane Beman, the Tour commissioner, said: "The PGA Tour has lost a great friend, but more than that, the game of golf has lost a great champion." On a more genuine note Jack Nicklaus said, "I've lost a great friend in the passing of Cliff Roberts. He was most helpful to me in my golf career, and our friendship goes back many years to my amateur days." While they were printing those words, the joke (as sick as it was) around the Chronicle was that Roberts the autocrat had "controlled everything down to the last shot."

He was loved and hated, respected and scorned, trusted in ways only a handful of people can imagine, yet vulnerable enough to take his own life, leaving only a note of apology to his wife. Former USGA official Frank Hannigan called Roberts "a very sick old man." Nicklaus said, "I loved Cliff Roberts. He was one of my favorites ... a great guy." There is one point, however, on which everyone agrees: From the time it opened until the time of his death, Augusta National operated under Roberts's rules of order.

Sam Snead says, "Roberts was a real stickler. One time Arnold Palmer went down there with his dad to play golf. Roberts told Palmer that his dad couldn't play unless he was with a member. There was another time when a senator came there with someone, and they just went out and played. Someone told Roberts that this senator was playing without a member. Roberts stayed around until the senator had finished his round, then went up to him and said, 'Mr. Senator, it's in our bylaws that you have to play with a member here. Well, now that you've played, don't bother coming back.'"

Roberts's rules guided the club through the depths of a depression, a world war, innumerable civil rights protests, 40 golf tournaments and hundreds of innovations that have been copied by clubs and tournaments around the world. Roberts negotiated the television deals, all 21 of them while he was alive, and he wrote personal notes of criticism every year to CBS executives. Roberts was as meticulous with the written word as he was with every other facet of his life. One year as a Christmas gift he sent the media a Masters-green address book with the National's logo on the front. While the address book was unexpected and a very classy touch, Roberts also sent a typewritten note that not only destroyed any goodwill he'd hoped to generate, it fueled more talk than the gift itself. The note read, "You will find that about 20 percent of your friends will annually change their address or phone number and then erasing becomes necessary; therefore, entries should not be made except with a pencil. Always use sharply pointed hard-lead pencils (No. 3), as soft-lead pencils will smear. You will need to list quite a bit of data in limited spaces, so I advise you to print rather than write. To me, the handiest place to carry an address book is in my left breast coat pocket."

Jones (right) believed that CBS, not Roberts, wanted him off the telecast.

There were other obsessions that bordered on neurotic. Roberts wore a variation of the same blue suit every day. His only accoutrement was a red tie--he had 24, all of them identical. He consumed tea and crumpets every morning and fresh peaches every afternoon, and rarely had to place an order for anything. The staff knew what Mr. Roberts wanted, and the food would magically appear before he had to ask. His needs were modest, but the club's menu was altered to fit his requirements. You needn't ask for french fries. Roberts considered them unhealthy, and they were not served at the club. His office, his appearance and his speech were remarkably mundane. "It was a spartan office," Frank Chirkinian recalls, "very plain, totally inelegant. There were two or three pictures on the wall but nothing to make it a very personal place. There was not a single piece of paper on the desk." Hannigan described Roberts's personal appearance as "button-faced and somber--American Gothic."

Given his total lack of charisma, it's surprising that Roberts ascended to a position as one of President Eisenhower's most influential advisers. Even more surprising is the fact that before joining Ike or Bobby Jones, Roberts did remarkably well as a traveling clothing salesman, a Texas oil speculator and a Wall Street stockbroker. Most who knew him couldn't imagine him selling water in the desert. Says Hannigan, "It took Roberts forever to say anything. He just droned. He spoke in a total monotone, very slowly."

In spite of all that, there are pervasive rumors that Roberts had a great sense of humor. Nicklaus says, "People never really seemed to see it. It was very dry." There were no great belly laughs with Roberts, but there were some well-chronicled episodes of wit, methodically planned, occasionally expensive and always with Roberts in control. During the time when streaking was the rage, Roberts was asked what he would do if a streaker went racing across the course on Sunday during the tournament. He thought for a moment and then deadpanned, "I would take back his season badge."

For the Jamboree, Mr. Cliff really could walk on water.

As for more orchestrated humor, Roberts produced films for the members' annual Jamboree party. One time he staged himself making a hole in one on the 16th. After the ball is shown hopping into the cup, Roberts calmly walks off the front of the tee, steps out onto the lake fronting the green and, without missing a step, strolls atop the water over to the green. He waves for his caddie to follow him, and the looper plunges into the pond. Long before the days of computer video editing, this bit of film magic was pulled off by building a bridge just below the surface of the water. In another of these slapstick classics, a large bear is shown running out of the pines scaring the dickens out of various members as they play the course. In the final shot the bear's head comes off, and there is Cliff, laughing at his handiwork.

Deity or vicious carnivore, the metaphors in these Jamboree films hit closer to home than Roberts or any of the other members would have liked to admit. His presence made people scurry, with or without the costume. A former grounds crew employee said, "Mr. Roberts was a ghost. You'd be working along, and all of a sudden he'd just appear out of nowhere, and if things weren't just right, he'd get mighty hot." Roberts retained control of his environment through power, and he retained power through fear and intimidation. Roberts's self-esteem was secure. In a late-night bridge game during one of Ike's 28 visits to the club, the former general bid a grand slam without an ace in his hand. (For those not bridge-minded, that's like going for a 600-yard par-5 in two after topping your tee shot.) Cliff doubled, and the president went down four, at which point Roberts said, "Mr. President, now you understand why I can't let you run the country by yourself."

The depth of Roberts's power was only eclipsed by his own perception of that power. Negotiations for television rights weren't negotiations at all: Roberts dictated what was going to happen, and the CBS brass did everything but kiss his ring. The Masters coverage was and is as close to a commercial-free environment as exists in television. There are only four commercial minutes an hour (Roberts's rule) as opposed to as many as 12 in an average Tour telecast. Just cutting commercials wasn't enough for Roberts. In 1966 he ordered CBS to begin each Masters telecast with an announcement praising the limited-commercial policy. This announcement would take all of 30 seconds, but Roberts didn't want just any announcer reciting his policy. His first pick for the assignment was Walter Cronkite. After some anxious moments and hemming and hawing, CBS said Cronkite couldn't make it. Cliff then commanded Alistair Cooke to come to Augusta and plug the brilliant policy. Cooke politely declined. CBS scrambled and came up with one of the most respected and recognized entertainers in the business who was also an avid golfer: Ed Sullivan. Roberts coldly replied, "Hell, no. Sullivan uses monkeys on his program."

Every year Mr. Cliff would review hours of tape and critique every aspect of the broadcast. In his trademark fastidious fashion Roberts showed his genuine distrust for the "unfiltered" medium in his annual letters to Bill MacPhail, the vice president of CBS Sports. Excerpts of one such letter, dated April 30, 1963, and written three weeks after Nicklaus won his first Masters, by one shot over Tony Lema, showed Roberts's attention to detail:

Roberts dictated the pictures and the announcers that would be used by the network. CBS learned that it would be broadcasting in color in 1966 when Roberts made the announcement after the '65 event. The network learned who the broadcasters would be each year when Roberts gave Chirkinian the list of "suggested" commentators. CBS executives also had to wait, every year, to see what new wrinkle Mr. Cliff would insist on. In the words of one CBS executive, "You've never known what hell is until Cliff Roberts stared at you through those thick glasses and poked a bony finger into your chest."

Tillman was a gift to Roberts, who "gave" him to the club.

Sports Illustrated writer Frank Deford best summed up Roberts's estimation of his own importance: "Some men think they're God. In golf at least, Mr. Roberts was sure he was God, only he had to go around telling everybody that Bobby Jones was God. It must have worn on him. No wonder he spoke so hesitantly."

Deford was right. Roberts knew who ran things, but he had to continue to let everyone believe Bob Jones wore the ultimate green coat. The strain in Roberts's relationship with Jones festered over time and ended on a sour note when Roberts was not invited to Jones's funeral. In the beginning they were the perfect one-two punch: Everybody loved Jones, and everybody feared Roberts. As time went on, however, Roberts's penchant for control led to more than a few minor rifts. He would not, or could not, yield on even the smallest point. It was Roberts's way or no way.

In the late 1940s Jones struck up a relationship with course architect Robert Trent Jones (no relation). Bob and Trent revamped Augusta's 16th hole--lengthening it, moving the green, moving the tee and adding the pond. Roberts hated everything about the renovations. His problem had nothing to do with golf, it had to do with control. Cliff wasn't involved, ergo it was a bad idea.

Roberts grew stronger as the disease that would eventually claim Jones's life worsened. The membership began to take on a more Robertsonian look as Cliff did his best to stack the club with people he deemed worthy--not Bob's old friends or the sons of existing members, but CEOs, movers and shakers and men Roberts liked to be around. Jones sardonically expressed his attitude toward these changes in a note to Cliff regarding a list of prospective new members: "About all I can say is that you appear to have picked a group of individuals who are thoroughly solvent and should be able to pay their dues."

Perhaps the cruelest example of Roberts's manipulative skills came at the expense of MacPhail. Jones had always been part of the posttournament green jacket ceremony. Even after he became so weak that he could no longer stand and could barely hang onto his cigarette holder, CBS remained content with his presence. It was touching, nostalgic and perfect TV. On the other hand, it had become increasingly obvious that while the public wanted to catch its annual glimpse of Jones the man, viewers were being subjected to a shadow of the great champion whose enduringly boyish countenance had given way to the pained look of a sick man out of sorts with the world around him.

Roberts thought it unseemly to have Jones's withered physical condition broadcast to the entire country. Therefore he told his old friend that CBS (specifically MacPhail) had decided that Bob should not continue to be part of the presentation. Hurt to the point of tears, Jones confronted MacPhail. As he had done every year with Roberts, MacPhail listened, only this time he didn't smile. Instead he turned away. MacPhail let Jones go to his grave thinking CBS was responsible for his ousting. The truth, MacPhail knew, would have been far too painful.

Roberts was less circumspect when dealing with minorities. According to Hannigan, "[Roberts] thought that blacks should be cared for decently, so long as it was understood they were servants or entertainers.... This confidant of the president of the U.S. thought there would be trouble in both the U.S. and England wherever people of color converged in large numbers." Hannigan is quick to point out, however, that Roberts's innate suspicions weren't confined merely to people of color. "He regarded shortened Italian names as evidence of sinister behavior."

The best example of Roberts's pejorative view of blacks is his version of the story of Augusta National employee Claude Tillman and the way in which Tillman came to work at the club:

[Claude] came to us shortly after the death of our member Tom Barrett, of Augusta.... [Before Barrett's death I had] developed a very strong liking for Claude, Tom's faithful helper.... The little black fellow couldn't read or write, but he was able to drive a car, mind the children, keep the yard clean, mix drinks, relieve the cook when necessary, shave and dress Tom in the morning, and give him a rubdown if Tom had a morning-after feeling.

Tom Barrett's war injuries were credited with bringing on a fatal illness, and during that time he told me that he wanted me to have Claude. He apparently made a stipulation to that effect, because Tom's widow, Louise, placed a Christmas wreath around Claude's neck, tied a card to it bearing my name, and sent Claude to me. After conferring with Bowman [Milligan, the club's steward, who is also black], I passed along my gift to the club by placing Claude in charge of the kitchen. After arrival in Augusta from New York some six weeks later, the following conversation took place between Claude and me:

"Claude, how are you doing in the kitchen?" "We is doin' jus' fine." "Are we doing a good volume of business?" "We is doin' lots of business." "But are we making any money?" "Yes, suh!" "But, how do you know? Give me an example." After scratching his head for a bit, Claude said, "You takes my milk. I measures it out very careful and I serves five glasses from a bottle at fifteen cents a glass, and a bottle only costs us fifteen cents. And on that basis, Mr. Cliff, we is 'bliged to show a profit."

Roberts wrote that description--dialogue included--in 1976. To understand many of Roberts's idiosyncrasies, one must look west, to the town of Morning Sun, Iowa, where in 1894 Rebecca Scott Key Roberts (a distant cousin of Francis Scott Key) gave birth to her second son, Clifford. Clifford's father, Charles, worked as a real estate salesman in various locations throughout the Midwest. While there were stories of drinking and other family vices, nothing dramatically unusual seemed afoot in the Roberts household. Then in 1913, 19-year-old Clifford, out on the road selling wholesale men's suits, got word that his mother had taken her own life. It was a tragic event that in hindsight offers a glimpse into Roberts's own mysterious psyche.

"The suicide of a parent more often than not suggests deeper problems in the family relationship," says clinical psychologist Wayne Wilson, who has counseled many children of suicidal parents. "There is usually a breakdown of what we consider the normal family structure, partly because the depressed parent is incapable of parenting. In these situations the child becomes the parent and, in effect, makes his or her own rules."

Roberts never attended college and barely made it through high school after a heated argument with the principal. He sold suits, joined the Army (where he was first introduced to Augusta when Uncle Sam shipped him to nearby Camp Hancock) and sold oil leases in east Texas. At 27 Roberts--the classic overachiever from the even more classic dysfunctional family--made $50,000 in oil speculation. The year was 1921, and the whiz kid from Morning Sun had made his mark. With the money Roberts bought a partnership in Reynolds & Company and began earning the epithet, the Boy Wonder of Wall Street. He was a high roller, with all the intimacy of a block of ice.

Throughout his tenure as chairman of Augusta National, Roberts would spend upward of four months a year at the club, leaving his wife behind in New York. While he was serving his country in France, as a member of the Signal Corps, Roberts fell into a romantic but peculiar affair with a woman named Suzanne Verdet. He visited her numerous times, long after becoming Wall Street's wonder boy. The most memorable visit was in 1928, when Verdet talked Roberts into staying in Paris for an extra day. The plane Roberts would have taken back to London crashed in the English Channel, killing all on board. Roberts let it be known that Verdet had saved his life. But he never married her, never moved her to America and never formalized the relationship in any way, but years later, when she needed 24-hour nursing, Roberts took care of all of her expenses. He continued to take care of things after his death: Verdet's financial needs were provided for in Roberts's will.

Through Roberts's hard work and rigid perfectionism, the Masters spawned some of golf's most lasting innovations: tee-to-green gallery ropes, grandstands, the over-under scoring system that shows how a player stands to par, pairing the field in twosomes rather than threesomes and complementary pairing sheets. All these were Masters firsts. Roberts had the good sense and management skills to listen carefully to suggestions, and he understood the importance of being the first on the block with a new idea. He established a series of committees to study and recommend changes, improvements and innovations. Committee heads were members, and each reported back to him with a list of suggested improvements. The over-under scoring system, for example, was the brainchild of CBS's Chirkinian. Aiken, S.C., native Bobby Knowles, who served on the scoring committee for years, then came up with the idea of making under-par numbers red and over-par numbers black. That particular innovation is usually attributed to Roberts.

Some changes came straight from Roberts, no committee needed. Byron Nelson recalls the first year of gallery ropes: "The ropes were all white. I was out on the course with Cliff, and he looked around at the white ropes and said, 'That doesn't go in this place at all. The ropes should be green.' This was just before the tournament was to start, but in a couple of days the ropes were changed to green."

In 1966 Roberts unilaterally added two bunkers to the left side of the 18th fairway, right in the spot most players were hitting their tee shots. The 18th became a premium driving hole overnight. However, because of some semantic hang-up Roberts referred to the bunkers as bunker, singular. After a few years and more than a few corner-of-the-eye looks, Roberts began calling the traps a "two-section bunker," meaning he was right all along. It was the rest of us who couldn't count.

Clifford Roberts was cremated and his ashes are buried on the grounds of Augusta National, although the exact location is not disclosed, and all club officials involved were sworn to secrecy. The .38-caliber Smith & Wesson sat in a room untouched until 1988 when Augusta National general manager Jim Armstrong came across it and two others during a routine physical inventory. One of them happened to be the pistol Roberts had used 11 years earlier to commit suicide. Assuming they were excess baggage, Armstrong sold the guns to his chief of security, Charlie Young, who was a gun dealer, for around $200.

Young knew what he had and made a sizable profit when he sold Roberts's gun to official Augusta National photographer Frank Christian Jr. for $1,000. Christian, whose father had also been the club's photographer, had known Roberts for years and didn't want the gun to end up on display or at auction. To keep it off the open market, he bought it himself.

Enter golf collectibles dealer Bob Burkett, who offered to buy the gun. Said Christian, "He [Burkett] came down to buy my golf ball collection and a number of other things. He asked if I would consider letting him sell the gun. He said he had a source that could put it where it would never be seen. He said it would be very confidential."

Burkett, owner of Old Sport Golf antiques and collectibles in Atlanta, says of the deal, "At the time I was representing a Japanese museum group that had agreed to purchase the gun and move it into a private museum in Japan. Unfortunately, when things got tight in Japan, the group stiffed me, leaving me with over a hundred thousand [dollars worth] in collectible merchandise, some of which I still own."

Along came a New Jersey man named Richard Ulrich, who approached Burkett with a claim that he had some Japanese investors who would buy the gun if Burkett would allow Ulrich to put it on the market. Anxious to get rid of his excess inventory, Burkett agreed. "The guy didn't have any Japanese clients," Burkett says. "What he had was an auction catalog, printed in English, that he sent to Japan. A week or so later the catalog filters back to America, and Frank Christian and Charlie Young lose their jobs."

The club terminated both men's affiliation with it in early 1991, even though it had actually been the National itself that had started the chain of events by selling the gun. Hord Hardin called the auction catalog "distasteful," and said of Christian, "The guy made a mistake." Burkett claims he was contacted after the terminations of Christian and Young by several green coats who, in his words, "tried to play hardball" to get the gun back. However, none of them made an offer to purchase the piece.

Eventually Burkett sold the gun back to Christian. "Frank came to me and explained his situation," Burkett says. "I let him have the gun for exactly what I paid for it. After Jack Stephens came in [as tournament chairman] in May of 1991, Frank and Charlie were rehired."

"I agreed not to talk about it," says Christian. "The National agreed not to talk about it, and I'm keeping my end of the bargain."

Burkett is more open about the episode. "As far as I know," he says, "the damn gun's in the bottom of Ike's Pond."

Excerpted from "Augusta, Home of the Masters Tournament," by Steve Eubanks, published by Rutledge Hill Press.