The Happy Master Of Hog Heaven

Tommy Bolt sat in the center of a group of callers who had gathered in the waterfront backyard of his home in Crystal River, Fla. There had been some small talk, but now there was a lull in the conversation. There was no sound except the call of a faraway bird. The river, deep and clear, sparkled in the late-morning sun. A light breeze came up. It was a rare moment of tranquillity. Suddenly Tommy Bolt jumped from his chair, extended his arms appealingly and cried out: "Let's everybody just relax! There's no need for pressure here. Remember, pals, Rome wasn't built in a day, and it took Wagon Train two years to get through Kansas."

Everybody present promptly went into action. Tommy Walker Bolt, not quite 3, picked up a golf club, swung himself completely around and sat down heavily. His mother, Mary Lou Bolt, wearing a beach robe over her swimsuit, gathered up the iced-tea glasses and hurried into the house. Jim Wright, who handles Tommy Bolt endorsements and manages his business enterprises, pulled out a notebook and began scribbling rapidly. A man from a golf cart company rummaged in his briefcase. Lou Cappola, the high school football coach, got up and shook himself. A city man fumbled for a cigarette, lit up and inhaled deeply.

Tommy Bolt was visibly pleased by all these small activities. Obviously, at age 44, he had cast himself in a new role. A man notorious for his horrendous temper tantrums on the golf course, he was now, consciously or unconsciously, dedicated to stirring up other people in order that he might calm them down.

In his time, Bolt had played many another part: the poor boy on the move with his family through Oklahoma, Louisiana and Texas; the caddie who saved up his tips to buy his first set of clubs in partnership with his brother; the worker on construction jobs who learned to be a carpenter; the public links player who rose to be the National Open champion of 1958; the big-time professional who has been prospering on his fringe benefits—if not in recent tournaments—ever since.

Along the way, Tommy Bolt became the pride and the despair of the world of golf. He was admired as a shotmaker of extraordinary grace and style, as a competitor who added dash and color and excitement to every tournament field, as a star who never lost his country boy's wit and charm, as a soft touch for traveling caddies and a sucker for co-signing bank loans. What shocked and unnerved the golf world was the fact that this same amiable Tommy Bolt was also capable of great and terrible rages. He broke clubs, threw clubs, hurled shoes, walked out of tournaments, and used language deemed unbecoming a men's locker room. He was fined, rebuked and suspended. His conduct was deplored in England and South Africa. Some sportswriters denounced him, others admonished him more in pain than in anger. One writer composed an open letter quoting King Solomon and beseeching reform.

Tommy always promised. Again and again he announced that he had seen the error of his ways. Sometimes he shared the credit for his "reformation" with others: perhaps with Bishop Fulton Sheen or Dr. Norman Vincent Peale or the editors of the Reader's Digest . Once he said his whole personality had been changed through a prayer for serenity that had been sent to him by a hard-drinking old buddy who had himself seen the light.

In his backyard this summer day, the 1962 edition of Tommy Bolt walked about, searching the faces of his guests for signs of worry or tension that they themselves might not yet be aware of. In his $85 fawn-colored slacks, his flaming-red sports shirt and his narrow-brim, pure-white straw hat, he looked like Li'l Abner dressed up.

He stopped and put a hand on the broad shoulder of his friend, Coach Cappola. "Don't be nervous, Lou," he counseled. "Watch that self-control. Remember what the Bible says. He that ruleth his spirit is better than he who taketh a city. He looked around to observe the effect of the quotation on the others. "I got that," he said, "from one of the open letters a sportswriter sent me."

Lou Cappola nodded. He is locally celebrated for the self-control he had shown one day two years ago when Tommy Bolt, on the bench as honorary assistant football coach, had run out on the field to tackle a runner, a show of enthusiasm which could have cost Crystal River High a 15-yard penalty, but Tommy missed the tackle.

Bolt moved over to the city man and asked: "Now isn't this better'n that old rat race up North?"