I LOOK AT BUTCH Harmon, I see his dad. I listen to Butch Harmon, I hear his dad. Claude Harmon was my friend and the smartest man I ever knew about the golf swing. No wonder that Butch learned enough from his father to incorporate the wisdom into his own teachings and consistently find himself voted the number-one golf instructor west of Vladivostok, north of the Falklands, and due south of David Leadbetter.
It’s impossible to talk about Butch—Claude Harmon Jr.—without talking about his dad, the 1948 Masters champion, the last club pro to win a major. Claude Harmon didn’t tell golf stories, he told opinions. He had plenty of them, and most of them were on-target. Nobody understood this better than Butch.
I used to seek out a seat at a table next to Claude in the Augusta National clubhouse every spring during the Masters to soak up his tales and opinions, often told with a sweep of his hand.
We had Ben Hogan in common as a friend and idol.
Claude would say, “Ben Hogan would rather let a black widow spider crawl inside his shirt than hit a hook.” Then he would add, “It’s not the hook that kills you, it’s the fear of hitting it.”
Today you might guess it came from Claude if you hear Butch say, “You don’t practice a golf swing, you practice golf shots. If you aim at nothing, you’ll hit it every time.”
I once asked Butch if I could tell him a story about his dad that he might not have heard.
Butch grinned. “You start it, I’ll finish it.”
I can still hear Claude saying, “If a man tells me he knew President Eisenhower, I would ask him how President Eisenhower liked his steaks cooked. I know how Ike liked his steaks cooked—with a layer of salt on both sides. And he liked a sliced onion sandwich on light bread with mustard. Good for the heart. I knew Ike. I taught Ike.”
Claude also taught Kennedy, Nixon, and Ford, not to overlook Howard Hughes, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Henry Ford, the Duke of Windsor, and King Hassan II of Morocco.
Doing a magazine piece, I was once with Claude on one of his trips to Morocco. I wasn’t permitted to dine or socialize with the king, but I followed him as he played golf on a course inside the walls of one of his palaces. King Hassan II might have been Claude’s toughest golf pupil.
In the city of Fez one evening as we dined on barbecued goat, Claude said, with a sweep of the hand, “It’s not easy to explain to His Majesty that the golf club doesn’t know he’s a king.”
Butch can drop the names of some of his own important students, past and present. To name four: Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, Greg Norman, and Ernie Els.
Tiger won his first eight pro majors with Butch Harmon. Butch didn’t try to do anything with Tiger’s swing. He mainly spoke to him about course management and how to conduct himself around the people he would be dealing with.
How much to tip locker room attendants, hotel housekeepers, restaurant help, anyone who does him a favor. All that, along with how to activate his credit cards.
Butch explained to Tiger that he should make an attempt to be cordial and cooperative with the press. IMG, the agency that originally signed Tiger, evidently told him something else in that regard.
Butch hasn’t needed to instruct Phil Mickelson on any form of generosity.
Phil has always been popular with the fans and press, and, as those in the know can attest to, he’s a notorious big tipper. There’s a host of locker room guys, hotel maids, waiters, waitresses, and maître d’s who will testify to his generosity.
When Butch was a kid running around trying to learn the game, Claude was the “head coach at Harmon Tech,” officially known as Winged Foot Golf Club. If you wanted to play a medley of Claude’s hits, the assistants who passed through “Harmon Tech” in those years included Jackie Burke, Dave Marr, Mike Souchak, Dick Mayer, Rod Funseth, and Al Mengert.
Butch was exposed to that, as were his three brothers—Craig, the head pro for over forty years now at Oak Hill in Rochester, New York; Billy, who is now the director of golf at Toscana Country Club in Palm Springs; and Dick, the longtime pro at River Oaks in Houston who shockingly passed away a few years ago.
Winged Foot was special back then. It had a dazzling membership. Some of the best known were Tommy Armour; Fred Corcoran, who once ran the PGA Tour and was the agent for Sam Snead and Ted Williams; Dick Chapman, who won both the U.S. Amateur and British Amateur; Frank Gifford, the football hero and TV broadcaster; and finally Craig Wood, the 1941 U.S. Open and Masters champion who became a member after he retired as Winged Foot’s head pro. Claude had been Wood’s assistant and was put in line by Craig to become his successor.
Butch would argue that Winged Foot was the greatest club in America back then, a true sportsman’s haven. But times have changed. Butch has observed a new breed of member now. The guy who goes from Choate to Yale to the first tee at Winged Foot West.
Golf’s top instructor enjoys explaining how Claude tried to curb Butch’s anger on the golf course when he was a young man.
After watching a youthful Butch throw a tantrum after shooting a 79 one day, Claude said to Butch, “I can see Arnold Palmer getting mad, but what have you got to be mad about? You’re no good, anyhow.”
Somehow I can hear Butch passing that along to someone whose game he’s trying to help. It’s in his DNA.