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Hacker’s History, PGA Championship edition:

Back in 1957, the PGA of America staged its 39th annual Championship at the Miami Valley Country Club in Dayton, Ohio. This tournament is historically important because it was the last PGA Championship to be conducted at match play.

If you’re trying to remember who won the last major of 1957, it was Lionel Hebert, who pipped Dow Finsterwald in the final, 2&1. If you’re trying to remember who Lionel Hebert was, you’re not alone. He had a brother, Jay, who also won the PGA, in 1960. And Dow Finsterwald would come back the next year and win the first PGA Championship played at stroke play.

But in 1957, change was very much in the air at the PGA. Since the end of the Second World War, the championship had been losing ground with golf fans. Ben Hogan, the cock of the walk in golf after the war, played his last PGA Championship in 1948. Like many of the touring pros of his day, Hogan didn’t like playing in the dog days of August heat. He also didn’t like match play, where one round against a nobody who started sinking putts could send you home.

And the way the tournament was set up back then, a player who made it into the finals or quarterfinals could expect to play more than 200 holes, all in the August heat.

Another reason the PGA lacked big-name talent in the field was the PGA’s own rules. First, in order to be eligible to play, a golfer had to be an official member of the PGA of America, and to attain that membership, you had to serve a five-year apprenticeship, working part-time at a country club selling shirts, giving lessons and schmoozing with the members.

Five years! And in 1957, there were a handful of young, up-and-coming golfers trying to earn a living on the PGA Tour circuit. Guys like Arnold Palmer and Mike Souchak and amateurs like Billy Joe Patton and a 17-year-old Jack Nicklaus were not allowed to play the 1957 PGA Championship because of the apprentice rule.

Of course, the PGA of America also had a ‘Caucasians-only’ membership rule until 1963, but that’s another story.

So the 1957 PGA Championship had a weak field, at an unknown golf course (which had contributed the usual $40,000 to the PGA in order to get the tournament) held in the heat of the summer. Also, there was no national television or radio coverage. It’s no wonder the PGA lost its shirt.

All of that helps explain why the board of directors of the PGA voted later in 1957 to change the format of the event from match play to medal. They also had TV cameras in place in 1958 at the Llanerch Country Club in Haverford, Pennsylvania. They also made sure golf’s matinee idol, Arnold Palmer, was in the field. He didn’t win. In fact, Arnie never won the PGA Championship, although he finished second a bunch of times.

It would be another ten years, in 1969, that the PGA Tour officially split off from the PGA of America and went on to become one of the most successful and wealthy sports organizations in the world.

Today, the PGA Championship continues to search for relevance in the world of golf. It still has a weak field, because the PGA of America insists on reserving thirty or so places in the field to the club professionals in its ranks. It’s moved the play dates from the heat of August to the cooler weather of May now, creating a major season that runs from the Masters in April through the Open Championship in July. And it appears to still be open to awarding the tournament venue to the highest bidder, which this year was Conrad Gold and his worldwide resort and club chain.

But it’s still one of golf’s four major titles. And that means the competition will be fierce, the tension on Sunday afternoon unbearable, and the winner will hold special place in golf’s ongoing history.

 

“Arnie never won the PGA?” Billy Ray Bosworth said to me. We were in our greenside booth above the 16th green. It was Thursday afternoon. The PGA Championship had been underway since just after 6:30 that morning. We were on the air.

“Nope,” I said. “Total choke job.”

I heard Ben Oswald start yelling in my ear.

“My executive producer is yelling at me,” I told the viewers. “Apparently he thinks that Arnold Palmer should never be criticized, may he rest in peace.”

“Well,” Boz said, “He was kinda The Man.”

“I agree,” I said. “He was also one of the nicest men I ever met. But he never won the PGA, nice guy or not. And he had his chances. Finished second in 1964, 1968 and 1970. But he never delivered the final round heroics he needed.”

“But he’s still The Man, right Hacks?”

“Sure, sure,” I said. “If that makes you feel better.”

We continued doing our Boz and Hack show on sixteen. I noticed many of the players went with three woods or less off the tee on the hole, trying to find the sliver of fairway between the water on the left, and the sand and thick rough down the right. Then they had to work a mid-iron into the small green, water left and behind, two deep bunkers on the right.

There were a lot of balls in the water. Boz began imitating submarine klaxons…dive, dive, dive…every time a ball splashed. The soundtrack of our golf tournament was beginning to sound a lot like the Hunt for Red October. Ben Oswald, who I had noticed was yelling at us a lot less than normal, told Boz to knock it off. “Can the sound effects, you moron,” he said on the intercom at one point, late in the afternoon. “You sound like you’re in seventh grade for Chrissakes.”

The sun was making its way over to Buffalo when we finally went off the air. Shadows drifted across the fairways and the color of the water took on a weird hue: half pink, half orange. When our monitor went black, we packed up, climbed down the ladder and made our way back to Television City. There was a mandatory post-round production meeting.

I was exhausted. You might think sitting on your tuckus for six or seven hours talking about golf and golfers would be easy, but it’s not. I was drained. I wanted a cold beer, a hamburger and Mary Jane to rub my shoulders. In roughly that order.

The talent gathered in our trailer, falling into the chairs set around a big conference table. Everyone else looked beat, too. Ben Oswald finally strolled in. He looked like he was ready to go another ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.

“OK,” he said, sitting down at the head of the table. “That was pretty good. Kenny and Kelsey? Good job on the fairways today. I heard a lot of good insight. Van, Jimmy? Nice work. Tight. As to you two clowns at sixteen? …”

“Thanks, Boss,” Boz said. “We’ll try to keep the quality high throughout the weekend.”

“Quality?” Ben said. “I’ve had five calls from the network today, since we went on air. Four of them were passing on complaints about language from religious leaders. I think you offended every one of the world’s major religions.”

“Who was the fifth call from?” I asked.

“What?”

“You said you had five calls,” I said. “Four were from various padres complaining about Boz.”

“Hey!” Boz said. “You were there, too!”

“So who was the fifth one from?”

“The head of IBS,” Oswald said. “He was laughing. Said you two guys were very entertaining.”

“What did you think, Ben?” I asked.

“Do you care?” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “You’re the television guy. You’ve been doing this for decades. If you think we’re screwing up, I want to know.”

He sat there silently for a bit. Everyone was watching him. I was expecting an Oswaldian explosion without parallel, and felt my lower colonic entrance slam shut.

“I can’t stand your act,” he said, finally. “It goes against everything I’ve ever believed about good TV. You are brash, mouthy, you’ve made yourselves the story, not the golf. You insult the traditions of the game. You insult the warriors who have gone before us. You’re snarky, impolite, smart-assy. I can’t think of a single reason why I shouldn’t fire both of your butts.”

He stopped.

“But…” I prompted.

“But it seems to be working,” he said, dropping his head in defeat. “The preliminary numbers are in, and the fans are eating it up. Fuckin’ nighttime comedians are riffing off your stuff. Social media has gone crazy. Clips of you guys are getting tweeted and retweeted by the millions. You’ve gone viral.”

There was a silence in the room that lasted for a few seconds.

“So is this a good time to ask for a raise?” I said.

Van Collins, the old man of the group, who had been listening quietly with his head bowed, snapped his head up and stared at me. Sitting next to him, Jimmy Williams’ face broke out in a grin. Then Van began to laugh, a deep baritone sound that came from his gut. Jimmy joined in, and pretty soon, everyone at the table was howling. Boz pounded me on the back.

Ben Oswald sat there, silent, staring. He looked like he wanted to grab something or someone by the neck and start choking the life out of it. But after a couple minutes of laughter from the crew at the table, he couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh, too.