His Ownself: Dan Jenkins on pros, presidents, and when a funny line becomes a cheap shot

Golf Digest, June, 2001 by Guy Yocom

Have you ever restrained yourself at the typewriter from going for a player's jugular?

It was always a temptation when somebody goofy won the tournament. It's a temptation today when Tiger doesn't win. Here's my favorite restraint story:

I'm at Medinah in '75, and Lou Graham has just beaten John Mahaffey in the U.S. Open playoff. It's hot, humid, miserable, and I'm in the press tent on a killer deadline, clacking away on the old Olivetti. Suddenly, I get this tap on a shoulder. I look around and it's Patsy Graham, Lou's wife. She grins and says, "Be nice, Dan. He's really a good guy." I laughed like hell, and I'm sure I was kinder to Lou in print than I might have been otherwise.

Do pro golfers qualify as athletes?

Absolutely. Stand close and watch the way they whip the clubhead through the ball, the divot they take, you know they're athletes. It takes an athlete to hit a 300-yard drive, straight, then change gears for chip shots and putts. And apart from Casey Martin, the pros don't ride carts.

Does Martin deserve to ride in a cart?

No. Ben Hogan never asked for a cart after the accident, and he probably had a better reason.

Most people disagree with you on this.

Really? Now I won't sleep at all tonight.

Do you get a kick out of being controversial?

No, I just take pride in being right. A guy came up to me in a hotel bar, some overserved sponsor. He squinted at me and said, "Aren't you Dan Jenkins?" I nodded. He said, "I've read some of your stuff. Man, you've got a problem." I said, "No, you've got the problem, I've got the typewriter." Big moment in journalism.

What was your first exposure to pro golf?

With my own eyes? It was when the 1941 U.S. Open came to Colonial Country Club in Fort Worth. I was 11. I'd only seen Colonial through a car window before that, but I was out there the whole week, thanks to being raised by a family of sports fans. When the National Open came to town, it was naturally the place to be. My dad was a scratch golfer, and my uncles and cousins and aunts played pretty well, and they all made sure I got to see the Open. So there we all were, out there at Colonial.

You were a lucky kid.

Spoiled rotten. An only-child deal.

What about being at that U.S. Open?

I'd never seen bent greens before. It was magic time. Guys in beltless slacks and two-toned shoes and all kinds of tricky clothes making the ball back up. How'd they do that? You couldn't do that on the sand greens and Bermuda greens I'd been scraping it around on. I was informed that Hogan and Nelson were from Fort Worth and that they were the greatest players in the world, and that this week, right now, my hometown was the sports capital of the universe.

I've got this photo on my wall. Walking toward the camera side by side in a practice round on Wednesday, the day before the Open started, are Tommy Armour, Gene Sarazen, Lawson Little and Byron Nelson. And right behind them, about 10 yards back, is this little kid in his striped polo shirt, his white duck pants, his brown moccasins, and the ticket tied on his belt. It's me. Yeah. I have a caption on the photo. Gene Sarazen is saying, "If that little kid behind us grows up to be a golf writer, this game is in big trouble."