Putt-putt: the other U.S. open

Golf Digest, June, 2003 by John Barton

Miniature golf itself was nothing new. The first such course was built in 1916, on a private estate in Pinehurst, N.C. Soon they were springing up everywhere. By 1930 there were 150 rooftop putting courses in Manhattan alone, and perhaps 50,000 miniature golf courses nationwide.

Miniature golf came to be known as The Madness of 1930. Courses appeared in the basements of hotels, in the exercise yards of prisons, on the decks of ocean liners. Instruction books and magazines were published. A record--"I've Gone Goofy Over Miniature Golf "--was released. The New York Times wrote that miniature golf "gave some indication of replacing movies as the nation's fifth-largest industry," something that caused terrified Hollywood studio executives to order their stars to stay off the little links. Most defied the ban: Fred Astaire, an avid golfer, was photographed putting on the roof of the Hotel White in New York, Fay Wray was seen playing in Los Angeles, and Mary Pickford even opened her own course--the first night brought traffic to a standstill as she and Douglas Fairbanks took on all comers.

The Marines were called in to build a course at President Hoover's summer camp in Maryland. The Prince of Wales demanded a course at St. James' Palace in London. The game was played by the rich and famous, but by ordinary working folk, too--it was an inexpensive and enjoyable escape from the gathering economic storm clouds. (Of course, it was not a completely democratic idyll: There were courses for "coloreds only," and The Los Angeles Times reported that putting seemed to come naturally to women on account of their "hereditary gift of wielding a broom day in and day out.")

The elfin courses went to great lengths to outdo their competitors. Glamorous ladies were hired to entice passersby, as were circus animals, live bands and singing midgets. Marathon dancing, pole-sitting, pie-eating and mini-golf contests were held. The themes for individual courses became ever more ingenious and fantastic: There were sunken gardens, light shows, waterfalls; courses depicting the Wild West, the South American jungle, the grand palaces of Europe, the Great Wall of China. Miniature golf courses were the nation's first theme parks.

Millions took to the game. Courses would stay open until 4 a.m., and tipsy revelers in ball gowns and dinner jackets would stop by for a quick round before heading for home--the perfect end to a long night out. In the vernacular of the times, miniature golf was truly gay.

It was a classic bubble. Inexorably, it burst. The nation was saturated with courses, which increasingly were facing legal restrictions, and with a galloping Great Depression, suddenly the game didn't seem so funny anymore. America's favorite cowboy, Will Rogers, summed up the new zeitgeist: "There's millions got a putter in their hand when they ought to have a shovel."

By the time Don Clayton quit the insurance business, the blossoming postwar suburbs had given rise to a modest renaissance of the game (George W. and Laura Bush had their first date on a miniature golf course in Midland, Tex.). But Clayton hated all the wacky gimmicks associated with most miniature golf courses. He wanted his courses to be a true test of skill, not luck. He personally designed and copyrighted every Putt-Putt hole--they are all par 2, and all are devoid of clowns' mouths or windmills or other whimsical distractions (the giant safari animals at Putt-Putt courses are merely set decoration). Clayton made sure every detail of every franchise was just right. He persuaded Sam Snead to play Putt-Putt, and he got TV interested too--the Putt-Putt Parade of Champions on Sundays became one of the longest-running sports shows in history. At the top of Clayton's game, there were more than 250 franchises in 10 countries. He died in 1996, but his persona still looms large. As one old-time Putt-Putter told me, "He could sell fleas to a dog."