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 97 years young Gene Sarazen was a true pioneer of the game
Posted: Friday May 14, 1999 01:09 PM
That he lived 97 years was no great surprise. That he died that young will forever perplex those who knew Gene Sarazen. His only concession to age was the bursitis in his left shoulder that kept him from swinging a golf club the way he wanted, and the cane with which he walked. He wore no glasses and could read the smallest print with ease. He wore no hearing aid and could pick up conversations across any room. For a man still in knickers, he was as modern as they come. His legacy is stunning, a true pioneer of the game. He invented the sand wedge, played regularly with Harry Vardon, who had a grip named after him, took the game from the early '20s to the late '90s, from Walter Hagen to Tiger Woods. Try this on for size: Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Ben Hogan and Gene Sarazen the only men ever to win all four major championships at least once during their careers. Such a giant, so tiny. No more than 5'6" when age finally took him from us. And his voice was tinier. A squeeky wisp with a great melody to it, he would regale a visitor with wonderful stories for hours, never once tiring. And just when you thought he surely must be embellishing this one, you would check the books and discover he was right on, only with a bit more color and style. He lived alone, with help from a very patient housekeeper, in a Marco Island condominium in the final decades. I visited once, a few years ago, when he was a teenage 95. We sat in the common area downstairs and when the interview was finished, we said our goodbyes and he turned to walk away. "Psst," he whistled from around a corner. "C'mere a second." He led me down a long hallway, ceiling-to-floor lockers on either side, storage areas for each unit. He unlocked his and proudly stood aside. "Look," he proudly ordered.
Inside was the makings of a golf hall of fame. Clubs and bags and shoes and balls and clothing from top to bottom, stuffed to overflow, all from another era. He reached into one of the tour bags and pulled out a beat-up putter, no larger than your 10-year-old's. "Lookit here," he said. "I won the 1922 U.S.Open with this putter." "Gene," I stuttered, "c'mon, that should be in a museum or something. That's an important part of history." "Shoot," he laughed. "So am I. And someday they'll stuff me and put me in one, too. But for another century or so, I'll just keep this -- and me -- right here, thank you." In the years since, we kept in touch. I would see him at the Masters every spring, at various functions around the country, occasionally at his condo. "Still have that putter?" I would ask. "Yeah, still have it," he would answer. "We're both still hanging around." And he would laugh that tiny laugh, his eyes twinkling. Gene Sarazen was 97. I'll never believe he died that young.
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