Shanks For The Memories

In the first tournament of Rex Caldwell's Tour career, the 1975 Phoenix Open, the wide-eyed rookie distinguished himself by shanking three attempted chips to the 4th green at Phoenix Country Club. "The third one got on the green," says Caldwell, "but it wasn't headed anywhere near the hole. I made like a 25-footer for a double."

Later that season, in the second round of the Houston Open at Woodlands Country Club, Caldwell, dubbed Sexy Rexy for his mustache and exquisitely coiffed 'do, shanked the ball four times in the first nine holes. On the 10th he split the fairway and left himself with an approach of 80 yards. "I told the guys to stop walking ahead of me," Caldwell says. "I proceeded to shank a wedge right over their heads. I was proficient at it. I could tell when it was coming."

Caldwell, who won once on Tour, is not the biggest name to become eligible for the Senior tour this season—he turned 50 on May 5—but he is most likely the only chronic shanker. He's proof that even the best players in the world aren't immune to golf's most crippling, beguiling shot—one that is so fantastically awful that its appearances at the professional level are the height of incongruity and, consequently, hilarity.

A shank is a ball that goes sideways. It's what results when the ball meets the hosel, the part of a club that connects the shaft to the head. Baseball players inexplicably lose the ability to throw, tennis players get the service yips, and basketball players are buffaloed by the free throw. Golfers shank.

Jack Nicklaus was playing in the 1964 Masters, with Arnold Palmer in command of the tournament, when he got to the 12th hole on Sunday. As Nicklaus waited to hit, he noticed the cofounders of Augusta National, Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts, sitting in a cart in front and to the right of the tee. "I was standing there with an eight-iron in my hands," Nicklaus says. "The pin was back right. I'll never forget the tension in my right arm. I've never felt anything like it. When I swung, my right arm just dominated; it never broke down. I shanked it right over their heads. It went so far right it didn't even go in the water. But it was a very pretty shank—one of the best I ever hit. I usually don't remember bad shots, but I couldn't forget that one."

Who knows around which corner the shank lurks? So mysterious is the shot, many players won't utter the S word, instead using such euphemisms as the lateral or pitch-out. "It's an airborne virus," says CBS commentator Gary McCord. "If you say it, you might catch it."

At the '72 Bing Crosby National Pro-Am, Johnny Miller was on the downhill par-4 16th hole at Pebble Beach, tied with Nicklaus. Everybody thought the 32-year-old Golden Bear, with 36 victories, would devour the brash, 24-year-old Miller, but that's not what happened The shank devoured Miller. After a perfect drive Miller sized up his approach shot and, using a seven-iron, hit what he later called "the perfect shank." He bogeyed the hole, lost in a playoff and left Monterey a changed man. A year later, when Miller won the U.S. Open at Oakmont, he played the inward half of his final-round 63 with one swing thought: Don't shank it. "It was haunting," Miller says. "You never forget it. After the Crosby I never won another tournament without it playing on my mind down the stretch."

The shank is only one stroke, but it's not that simple. "Once you've done it," McCord says, "the next shot is always really interesting. It's usually a pull-hook."

Or another shank. If the first shank is followed by a second, you've got the shanks, you're in deep, and while they would never say it, your playing partners would just as soon you were quarantined. Bruce Devlin of Australia, who won nine times on Tour, will shank on purpose at exhibitions, just to make people squirm. "After the second one they know I'm doing it on purpose," he says, "but it shakes up everybody to start with."

Like a high-speed car crash, a shank is both grotesque and strangely fascinating. During a practice round for the '70 Westchester Classic, Ben Hogan joined an obscure pro named Hal Underwood and another player on the back nine. Underwood watched in awe as the vaunted Hogan eagled the par-5 12th hole, but it the par-3 16th Hogan shanked his tee shot. The ball rattled around the TV tower behind the 15th green before coming to rest. Underwood froze. Should he get the ball? Should he say anything? Hogan teed up another one and hit it flush this time, and the three pros walked to the green. "By the way he acted," Underwood said, after leaving the ball alone, "he had me convinced that the first shot never happened."