Fort Worth-Star Telegram Collection, University of Texas at Arlington Libraries
AR406-6-430
Without question, Fort Worth golf legend Ben Hogan has earned a spot on professional golf’s Mount Rushmore with an inspiring, odds-defying career capped by his status as one of five golfers to complete the Modern Grand Slam.
Such a feat requires victories in all four of professional golf’s major championships: the Masters, U.S. Open, British Open, and PGA Championship. Hogan, who died in 1997, is joined on that list by Jack Nicklaus, Tiger Woods, Gary Player, and Gene Sarazen. That puts him in elite company.
But does Hogan truly stand alone as the greatest of all time? Is he really golf’s GOAT?
A two-word response will suffice. Acceptable options include:
- Of course.
- HELL, yes!
- Not Jack.
- Tiger, WHO?
Feel free to Google it, folks. But this much is not debatable: Hogan achieved milestones and overcame challenges that no other professional golfer faced, much less surmounted. The short list includes an impoverished childhood, a near-fatal car crash in 1949, and a painful daily stretching regimen required to get him to the first tee before every subsequent round … including the 24 that secured his final six major championships. Hogan’s tragedy-to-triumph tale triggered a movie (“Follow the Sun,” 1951), inspired a nation, and still resonates loudly with those who know and appreciate the sport’s history.
You don’t need to factor in any Cowtown Math to reach that conclusion. But it is a useful tool when explaining why Hogan, credited with nine major championships by the PGA Tour, stands taller than Jack Nicklaus, winner of 18 professional majors, on golf’s all-time list. Fortunately, I studied long enough under the tutelage of the late, great Dan Jenkins to earn my Ph.D. in Cowtown Math. Jenkins, a fellow Fort Worth native and Hall of Fame golf writer, shared countless tales about shots he witnessed and rounds he covered during Hogan’s heyday.
Years earlier, I had grown to appreciate his otherworldly skills during my days as a teenaged employee in the Shady Oaks golf shop. Part of my job description meant regular duty as Hogan’s practice companion when he chose to hit balls at the club and needed someone to retrieve them.
Combining what I witnessed with everything Dan told me, it is clear that Hogan got more out of his talent — and had more of it available during the peak of his career — than anyone who ever played the game. That sounds like the definition of golf’s GOAT to me. Yet the pesky shortfall in major titles won in comparison to others persists. Here is where the Cowtown Math comes into play.
First and foremost: Hogan won the 1942 Hale America Open, a wartime U.S. Open substitute overseen by the U.S. Golf Association — the same organization that makes the U.S. Open venue impossible for professionals every June. In 1942, the course was every bit as rugged as any USGA-designed Open layout in previous or subsequent years. Hogan’s triumph was heralded as his “first major title” in Star-Telegram headlines on June 22, 1942, and the gold medal he received that day looks exactly like the four he was awarded for winning the U.S. Open in 1948, 1950, 1951, and 1953. That’s verification enough to credit Hogan with his 10th major championship, even if the USGA does not concur.
Next, Hogan won an unprecedented five titles at the Colonial NIT, which any Fort Worth golf fan recognizes as golf’s “fifth major.” Nicklaus won there only once, in 1982. Using Cowtown Math, the Golden Bear has been upgraded to 19 major titles. But the Hawk is nipping at his heels with 15, one more than Tiger Woods’ total.
So, we move on to the merits of proper context and the eyeball test. If those components can be used to differentiate competitors in the College Football Playoff, they are certainly good enough to draw lines in the sand when determining the Golf GOAT.
Nicklaus, a strapping lad who routinely outdrove PGA Tour peers by 30-50 yards off the tee, was a standout, five-sport, amateur athlete in Columbus, Ohio. He was an All-Ohio selection as a shooting guard for his high school basketball team and excelled in football to the point that Ohio State coach Woody Hayes discussed making him a Buckeye in that sport as well. But after watching the youngster play golf, Woody urged Jack to focus on the sport that eventually made him famous because his athletic gifts were too well-suited for a long and profitable golf career, and he could not stomach the idea of seeing that dream erased by an ACL injury on the gridiron.
Hogan, nicknamed “Bantam Ben” because of his diminutive size (5-foot-9, 146 pounds) and fiery spirit, willed his way to a golf career despite limited, God-given, physical skills. Through relentless practice, he mastered a set of tools that were laughably outdated compared to the ones Nicklaus used on the PGA Tour, let alone Tiger.
In 1946, the year of Hogan’s first major championship, his typical drive went 265 yards. The maximum distance for a 7-iron was 135 yards, and no golf balls were tailored to match a player’s launch angle or spin rate, as they are today. When Hogan wanted to move a ball from left to right, or keep it low when hitting into the wind, he adjusted his grip and stance to make it happen. Those nuggets should help with context. So should the fact that Hogan once made 16 consecutive appearances in the U.S. Open — or its “wartime equivalent” — between 1940 and 1960 without finishing outside the Top 10. During that stretch, he also mixed in five victories at the year’s most challenging layout.
And the eyeball test? Well, that’s the clincher. During my days at Shady Oaks, I was Hogan’s target/ball retriever — a “shagger,” in the parlance of the day — on more than 30 occasions. During our sessions, he would empty a shag bag filled with practice balls near his golf cart. I walked a while before placing the empty bag on the ground at 80 yards, Hogan’s established sand wedge distance. Then, I stepped aside and watched the magic happen. Eventually, I moved the bag back slightly with each club change as the Hawk worked his way with the bag. Even in his late 60s, the man still did the unthinkable. We never ended a practice session without Hogan putting at least one ball into the bag on the fly. Usually, it was multiple shots. One day, he buried six. It remains the damnedest practice session I have ever seen.
Years later, I shared that story with Jenkins. He countered by rattling off a LONG list of starry-eyed young touring pros he had spotted at the practice range through the years, just watching Hogan do his thing. So, I checked out his story. Ben Crenshaw admitted he was there. So, too, was Lanny Wadkins. And, yes, a young Jack Nicklaus conceded that he did likewise. What does that say?
“I don’t know,” Jenkins said that day. “I just know that I saw Jack Nicklaus watch Hogan hit practice balls dozens of times. I never once saw Hogan stop to watch Nicklaus.”
That makes perfect sense to me. Why would the Golf GOAT waste his time watching the runner-up?
(Editor's Note: This story is the second in a series highlighting the career of Ben Hogan)
Click on the headlines below to read more about Ben Hogan.
