The Man Who Casts The Longest Shadow

Looking back across the valleys of 10, 20 and 30 years and warming oneself in the glow of memories, it seems that of all the dramatic figures who have agitated the peaceful Augusta countryside at Masters time, it is the Hawk on the opposite page who is remembered best. Actually, Ben Hogan only won the tournament twice, as contrasted with three victories for his friend Jimmy Demaret and three for Sam Snead, his closest rival in the postwar decade. Of course, Arnold Palmer, this year's defending champion, has won it four times, and that is certainly one of the immense accomplishments of golf, but Palmer is a now figure, a man of these times. You do not include him when you start a sentence, "I remember when...." And even in his overwhelming triumph last year, Palmer was still two strokes shy of Hogan's 1953 tournament record of 70-69-66-69—274, which is 14 strokes under par on the grudging Masters course.

Ben Hogan's years of victory were not so many, once you think back on it. They began in 1940 and ended in 1953—a mere 14 years—but during that period he won every major championship available to a professional. He took the U.S. Open four times, the British Open the only time he played in it and the PGA twice. In his last great competitive year, 1953, he won the U.S. and British Opens and the Masters, three-quarters of what is now considered the Grand Slam of professional golf. Since then he has finished on top only once—winning the Colonial National Invitation on his home course in 1959.

It is a full decade now since the Hogan era ended, but the stimulation and chill attraction of the man refuse to recede. So intense was the aura of awe which grew around him that time has failed to dispel it. He was the Hawk then, the Ice Man and, as far as the public is concerned, he is the Hawk today. "Hi there, Byron," the people will shout. "Where's your pink shoes, Jimmy?" they will call. And then they see him, and they whisper, "It's Hogan."

Today Ben Hogan is a balding businessman living in his home town of Fort Worth and devoting much of his time to running the Ben Hogan Company, a leading manufacturer of golf equipment. He still plays golf seriously and for pleasure, which to Hogan are one and the same thing, and last year he took part in four tournaments—the Masters, the Colonial National, the PGA and the Carling World Open. He finished in ties for ninth, fourth, ninth and fourth, in order of appearance. Considering the fact that he can no longer putt with any confidence or authority and that he has so little opportunity to hone his game to a competitive edge, it was an extraordinary performance for a man of 51 or 52 years. (And consider this impractical thought, too: if he had entered the 30 biggest tournaments last year and kept finishing ninth and fourth he would have won $84,244 and been fifth on the money winners' list.) The way he played was so precise, so pure and so intelligent that by the end of 1964 the pros had revived the durable clich� that "from tee to green, Ben Hogan can still hit the ball better than any man alive."

The touring pros are fascinated by Hogan. They talk about him a lot, as if he were some combination of natural and supernatural phenomena—a strange cross between Mount Rushmore and the Headless Horseman. His accomplishments and attitudes made him a legend of the game, but his peers help perpetuate the legend. At his peak he was a fearsome specter in the minds of the other players as he marched impassively along the fairways, staring ahead with that grim half-smile on his face. Tournament leaders carried but one thought in their minds: How is Hogan doing? The thought alone was frequently enough to undo their composure. He was so thoroughly enveloped in the caul of his concentration that he seldom spoke. There was a standard joke along the tournament route: "Hogan was real talkative out there today."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'You're away.' "

The Hogan stories always portray the relentless Hawk, never satisfied with victory alone but pressing toward some unattainable perfection. Jimmy Demaret, who was probably as close to Hogan as any man during the days when Ben was working his way to the top, tells of the time many years ago when Hogan had completed a round in a tournament at Oak Hill in Rochester that included eight birdies. His score was 66, which put him well in the lead. Demaret had been paired with Hogan that day, and they had played early enough to finish in time for lunch. They had a sandwich and a beer together, and then Demaret whiled away the afternoon in the locker room with some of the other golfers. Hogan, meanwhile, had gone to the practice tee. Demaret left the club as it was getting dark, and he discovered Hogan still practicing. "My God, Ben," he said, "you had eight birdies out there today. What more do you want?"

"There is no reason that you should not birdie every hole," Hogan answered.

Having been born near Fort Worth and raised there, Hogan is a complete Westerner. In the tradition of the West—the real West, that is, not the big-city West—his speech is spare to the point of brusqueness, and this laconicism gives many of the stories about Hogan their special quality. One of his close friends said recently: "Ben had to make it in life the hard way, and he learned not to waste anything—including words. If you ask him would he like to go fishing with you and he can't do it, all he says is no. He's not being rude. He just doesn't see any need for explanations."