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The first sign of change was the arrival of the renowned golf course architect, Robert Trent Jones. Jones was soon followed by bulldozers growling and grunting their way through the woods to lengthen the already forbidding fairways, to dig new traps and widen old ones. It was very soon evident that the mowers were neglecting wide swatches of fairway—fairway that had never seemed wide enough but was now being narrowed to less than 42 yards.
As the landscaping began to take shape, the Olympians shuddered at some of the sights they saw as they stroked their tentative way around this new horror. The fourth, for instance. Here on a 406-yard dog-leg to the left, a booming drive through a narrow tunnel of trees used to put you in a fair way for a lucky par four if a perfect three iron, hit blind and uphill, caught the green. Now the bulldozers were burrowing deep into the trees behind the tee to carve out an added 30 yards. That blind second shot to the green henceforth required more divine guidance than plain luck.
Or the seventh. Here was a nice 270-yard uphill hole where the belabored fellow could always figure on his par four if he behaved himself. So what do they do? They let the rough grow for the first 210 yards, leaving a fairway shaped like a dewdrop and about the same size—27 yards long and 25 yards wide. Between that and the newly humpbacked green was a yawning trap to catch the oversized drive or the undersized chip.
Or the 16th. At 570 yards this crescent-shaped fairway was always three full woods for any but the nervy or lucky golfer who shaved the trees on the left with each blow. Jones extended the hole another 30 yards and dug a vicious trap in front of the green to protect it against that long third shot with a spoon. If you could one-putt it you might get your par five, but how else?
And the 17th. This reasonable par five got a new tee 25 yards ahead of the old one but off to the side to sharpen the dog-leg. With a mere 461 yards left they called it a par four. Nothing to it if you could slap out a 250-yard drive and follow it with a perfect 210-yard wood smack on the green. Anything else would be disastrous.
The officials who were preparing to welcome the nation's top golfers to the 56th Open called it modernizing. Around the 19th hole at the Olympic Club they are calling it plain murder. The way they look at it now, they would just as leave the golfing fathers had paid their compliment to someone else's course.
Pronation and supination
Dr. Forrest Clare (Phog) Allen decided to become a basketball coach in 1908, ignoring the advice of Dr. James Naismith, the founder of the game. "But, Forrest," the older man protested, "you can't coach the game of basketball. It's meant to be played, not coached."
Phog Allen has spent the intervening years disproving the dictum. In his first year on the bench he coached both Baker University and Kansas U., guiding the latter to a conference title. The next year, when Haskell Institute became the third team in his stable, Kansas again won a championship. But it wasn't until 1920 that Phog settled down in Lawrence for good and devoted his talents to making Kansas the spiritual headquarters of basketball.
The teaching technique of Phog Allen is as fierce and unconventional as the man himself. "You just do the playing," he tells his boys. "I'll do the fighting and talking." In practice he lathers his players with phrases they hear in their sleep: "Guard as if your arms were cut off at the elbows.... The knees are the only springs in the body—bend them!...Pass at angles, run in curves." When philosophizing on the game he will use such terms as "pronation" and "supination" to describe hand and wrist action, and he likes to teach a "stratified transitional man-for-man defense with zone principles."