"Let's make it
$10, Mister Hahn." Sanders' voice had taken on a sarcastic inflection.
"I don't bet
that kind of money," Hahn said.
"No, but I'll
play you a $2 nassau."
Sanders agreed. As
good as his talk, he proceeded to fire a 67, winning the nassau plus a $2
press. "Son, you've made $8," Hahn said. "I'd like to help you make
it $88, just so you won't feel you've wasted your day."
in mind, Mister Hahn?"
driving contest. I have my bag of trick clubs and trick tees in my car. You'll
use the same clubs and tees I use, but I'll spot you 50 yards on every drive
and lay you 10 to 1. We'll hit eight balls."
Sanders could not
resist what seemed an easy mark. At 10 to 1 he had only to outdrive Hahn once
to come out ahead. He appeared supremely confident, even as he studied Hahn's
set of outsized and collapsible clubs and the graduated tees that ranged in
height to three feet.
Says Hahn today:
"I employed eight different shots, and one by one I went through Doug
Sanders. We're the closest of friends now, but the lesson he learned from me
was never bet another man's game."
Hahn, as it
happens, was a long time learning which game was his—in fact, before becoming a
trick-shot artist, he spent 16 years at a variety of occupations that totaled
up to a status just this side of vagrancy. His mother, divorced when he was 6,
ran a rooming house in Charleston, S.C. during the Depression, her heart set on
Paul growing up to become a man of the cloth. Alas, he learned few Psalms
shooting craps and dealing blackjack in the caddie yard at Charleston Municipal
Course. After Hahn won the city high school golf championship at 15, he quit
school, itching to give the world two strokes and wrestle it into submission.
He hopped a freight train and set out to find his niche. Even as a caddie he
had amused himself by hitting golf balls one-handed and driving two balls with
a single swing, but as yet he had no notion that people would pay to watch his