'this One Was For My Friends'

For two weeks, between his stirring victory in the Masters and last week's Tournament of Champions, Ben Crenshaw was home in Austin, Texas, going about the business of being the long-overdue winner of a major championship and finding out that it was a very nice business indeed. All of Austin seemed to be smiling at him, not tentatively, the way people smile at a celebrity, hoping for something in return, but fondly, taking pleasure from his happiness.

"Hey, Bin. Howrya, boy?"

"Hey, Bin. We're so happy for you."

"Hey, Bin. We were pullin' for you."

That everybody loves a winner is one of life's mournful axioms, mournful because of the picture that its harsh corollary brings to mind—of the loser, suddenly alone and friendless. In spite of the crushing disappointments that have plagued his 11-year career in professional golf—finishing second in five major championships and playing five full seasons without a win of any kind—Crenshaw, 32, has never been friendless. Far from it. His grace through his long ordeal as he carried the increasingly heavy burden of his own and others' expectations has inspired more admiration than most golfers, no matter how successful, can expect in a lifetime. His agony when he was on the golf course was palpable even through the filter of a television camera, but he always left it there. The blame for his failures remained in the only place an honest golfer can put it, not in the rough or a caddie's error or nature's heartless whims, but inside his own tortured head. For his opponents and the rest of us, there was always a big Texas grin. Crenshaw seemed sorrier for what he was putting his friends through than he was for himself.

"This one was for my friends," he said two weeks after the Masters, in the low, choked tones that still seized his voice every time he tried to express his feelings. "I'm so lucky I've got friends."

Perhaps only serious golfers understand fully how devastating their game can be, and maybe it's that understanding that creates the camaraderie that exists among them. "It's a feeling," says Crenshaw, "like we're all in this together and golf is a tough game and it's up and down all the time. It's an incredible bond."

The bond was evident at a March of Dimes benefit held at an Austin restaurant on April 26, while the Legends of Golf Tournament was under way at Onion Creek Country Club, south of town. Arnold Palmer, as honorary national chairman of the March of Dimes, presided, and the legends themselves were there in force, men with weathered faces and calloused hands—Doug Sanders, Charlie Sifford, Jackie Burke, Orville Moody, Miller Barber, Lionel and Jay Hebert and others. The party had been planned for months, but after Crenshaw's Masters victory it was hastily transformed into an event to honor him. The walls were decorated with his picture and the ceiling was hung with mementos of his tour victories. Introducing Crenshaw, Palmer, always a competitor, drew a laugh when he said, "This isn't easy for me." But he went on to say, "He's done a great job with his life and his profession. We couldn't be more happy to have Ben Crenshaw joining the Masters club." There was prolonged applause. No whistles, no "Hook 'em Horns," just a lot of people—golfers, friends, strangers—all of them standing and clapping and smiling at the short (5'9"), sturdy (170 pounds) young man with the nice face.

When Crenshaw turned professional in 1973 after his junior year at the University of Texas, he was already a legend in the Lone Star State. At 11 he had shot a 74 on the Austin Municipal course. At 13 he qualified for the Texas Junior championship with a 70. In his senior year at Austin High he won 18 of the 19 tournaments he entered. That summer at Hazeltine, outside Minneapolis, a terror of an Open course, Crenshaw, at 18, became the second-youngest low amateur in the history of the U.S. Open, a distinction he still holds, and finished ahead of Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player. At Texas he won the NCAA individual championship three times, once in a tie with his teammate Tom Kite, and in his last year he was in a league by himself, winning 11 of his 15 tournaments.

In those days Crenshaw was known for his phenomenal putting, his long, flowing, natural swing, his temper on the course and his sweet disposition off it. It was Dick Collins, then a sportswriter for the Austin American-Statesman, who first called him Gentle Ben when he was still in high school. "There was a TV series about a kid and a bear," says Collins. "It was the bear that was Gentle Ben, but the name seemed appropriate at the time."