Today (April '78) we are having one of our Chinook winds, which I always enjoy. We usually have one or two in the Spring, and they eat up the snow in Colorado at quite a rate--running about 60 per, at 55º. Back in Illinois there is what we kids called a "high wind." It seemed to roar through the tree tops all day, while not too bad at ground level. At least that is the way it seemed to us at the time.
I remember a wind incident that I'll have to tell you about. Lean back -- into the wind. Skirting Wheaton on the south is America's first private golf course--Chicago Golf Club, a product of designer Charles Blair MacDonald and the Chicago Athletic Club. It is a beautiful Class A layout, copied after Scotland's St. Andrews (sans the weather).
The membership (was) very exclusive, composed solely of millionaires from Chicago's elite families. I caddied for those people from age 9 to 28 (imagine?), and picked up a lot thereby. At any rate, during my final years at the Club, I caddied "special" for George Henneberry, owner of Chicago's Henneberry Rotogravure. One of his cars was a canary-yellow convertible coupe, V-16 Cad, with rumble seat and all. I nearly racked that monster up one time. Hoo--boy! I'd a been payin' for that thing this past half-century. Take it out in caddy fees!
George was a good golfer, and often had Tommy Armour* (1896-1968) over to the Club as a guest. In those instances I would caddy for Tommy. At the time, late 30's, Tommy was pro at nearby Medinah Country Club. If you remember, Tommy had tremendously powerful hands and wrists, and was the finest iron player of that day. But he was just pathetic with his woods--a real pride-crusher for him.
We are turning into the wind, now. Tommy had a powerful young protege' by the name of Lawson Little** (1910-1968) -- Golden Bear All-American fullback, turning golf pro. I believe Tommy was high on Lawson for two reasons. He coveted his wood ability, and wanted to help him with his irons. Nobody at the time could come near Lawson as to woods, including Sam Snead. But he was wild in the iron realm, and needed Tommy's help. And he needed his Maker's help concerning his explosive temper--which was his ultimate undoing. Nobody could throw a club farther than Lawson; and how Tommy hated to see that happen. Me too, as I usually had to go and fetch it!
The reason I got to know both Tommy and Lawson and their games, was that Tommy would often bring Lawson as his guest when he was George's guest! We all enjoyed that, as it would make for an interesting round with those two in the foursome--king of the irons, and king of the woods.
So one fine afternoon in the fall of '38, there we were on the
first tee at Chicago Golf--with a "high wind" roaring through the maple tops and
the big American flag just snapping away. George Henneberry was already there, as
was the Club pro, Jack Drucker (alcoholic). Pretty soon Lawson came pounding out,
huge shoulders hunched--looked like he was getting ready for the Rose Bowl. Finally,
Tommy sauntered out--always last, of course.
You still there--this may go on for pages, once I get wound up. Or wind-blown. Anyways ... except for Tommy, that wind had us all a little on edge. It was right out of the west, and the first hole faces east. Lawson was first to drive, and he teed his ball quite high. As a result he hit a towering drive, getting the full benefit of that wind.
We thought that ball would never come down, and when it finally did it gave a high bounce and landed in a trap--a trap across the fairway designed for poor second shots! Lawson, his bull-neck already scarlet, whirled on me with, "Why the hell didn't you tell me I could reach that *#@$@% trap?!
Stunned, I defensively lifted up my voice, with the other three caddies coming through in unison: "Nobody Ever Did That Before!!" Ol' Tommy immediately came to our rescue with, "Congratulations, Lawson." Lawson just growled, but we all knew with relief that he was actually happy to have accomplished such a feat ... with the help of our "High Wind."
Lawson is gone now--lost his temper and had a heart attack on the golf course some ten years ago. Tommy is gone, probably about six years ago. George Henneberry is gone--died bankrupt; and unless Jack Drucker escaped to the water wagon, he is certainly gone by now. Two of the caddies of that particular windy day are gone--both violently. And ol' Miles would certainly be with them had the Lord not mercifully saved him a year or so later.
Saga No. II, which you can save for next week.
I'll have to share with you some more things from the golf world of the past--both from the upper and lower echelons of society. As for the uppers, it was quite a thing to be on the first tee at Chicago Golf on a bright summer Sunday morning in the 20's and 30's. The flags would be out, the striped tournament tent pitched, and we pack-rats stationed at our bags. Surrounding us were the families--the Wetmores, Fauntleroys, McCormicks, Swifts, Witherspoons, Cuttens, Butterfields, Lyfords--on and on the impressive list could go. That was some generation.
In
caddying for old Ort Wells now and then (golf carts were never dreamed of--nor would they
have dreamed of using them) he kindly took an interest and offered to help me get started
in the game. I was ten at the time, and my Mother took me into Chicago on the
Roaring Elgin--we hiked over to Michigan Avenue and met old Ort on a Monday morning at 11
o'clock in the lobby of the Chicago Athletic Club.
The old man reached behind a door and pulled out an even older mashie (No. 5, to you), and handed it to me. That was it; my first club, and me a left-hander. He didn't even invite us to lunch at the Club! But he got me started in the game, and I subsequently, and very slowly, built my first set of clubs around that old mashie. The club made a right-handed golfer out of me.
There would always be a sprinkling of interesting guests at the Club on weekends--Robert Lincoln, for one, in the early days. Another, on the opposite end of the scale, was young Orson Welles--probably seventeen at the time. He was there for reasons other than golf, however. (Was it to gather material for Citizen Kane?!). He was chubby then, and later married a member's daughter, Elaine Nicholson. Divorced in about two years, as I remember.
There were many lovely daughters in those families, as you can imagine. There was tall and fair Ruth Brown, a fine golfer who could certainly have made the female pro ranks of today. She married Forrest Evishenski. Her brother, Keith Brown, was Yale's star pole-vaulter in the early 30's. Gardie Brown, his older brother, was the Club's best golfer at the time. (The parents were co-champs of the Club as the worst pains-in-the-neck to caddy for!).
In speaking of the lower echelon, I'll have to be a little more careful in what
I share with you. Several miles south of Chicago Golf is another course, The
Antlers. A far cry from my Alma Mater! Admittedly, I stooped to caddy there
for a year or so--a part of my liberal education, you can be sure. It was over there
that I caddied for, and got to know, one "Doc" Stacey. Doc was one of Al
Capone's hit men.
Doc was an awfully nice killer, and a good golfer. He would come out from Cicero on weekend afternoons, along with such co-workers as Jack "Legs" Diamond, Doc Piccarro, and sundry others. Capone himself was never much for golf--he being far more adept with a baseball bat!
Although these boys didn't bring their violin cases with their golf bags, I would always have the extra load of a big black 45 inserted in the ball pocket of the bag. Doc Stacey, as you would not be liable to know, was one of the machine-gunners involved in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
You will have to pardon me, but one thing leads to another in this fifty-year-old reminiscing. Some years before I met Doc, the Capone gang had a hideout right on our street there in Warrenville, six or eight houses from our home. They had a big still working there, which we knew nothing of at the time. Just as well...
Big black touring cars would come roaring past our place during the night, especially on weekends. My folks were always kind of tight-mouthed about the whole thing, as I recall. This traffic would come out from Cicero via Ogden Avenue, and then over to Warrenville--usually to get a load of hooch, no doubt. Now and then there would be those who would stay over for a "party."
One bright and hot Saturday morning several of us barefooted kids were heading down the street for the Forest Preserve. In front of the "Pinello place," (the hideout), were half-a-dozen "girls" arrayed on the lawn. Several hoods were lollygaging among them (you would have gagged, too), still in their flashy dressing gowns--all blue-jowled and pasty-faced.
We stopped and stared. Not a peep out of anyone--except a growl out of ol' Tige. He knew! The "ladies" smiled. The "gents" smirked. Me, ever the mouthy one, coolly looked the dames over and suddenly blurted out, "Buncha hoooors!" Up jumped the hoods, and away we scampered into the dark recesses of our favorite haunt, The DuPage County Forest Preserve--every instant expecting to feel the hot lead and hear the yammer of tommy-guns behind us. "We'll get you, you little %$*#@¢'s!!"
Later, much later, in order to get safely back home, we snuk and snickered along the bank of the DuPage River, down behind the hideout. Often regretted not telling ol' Doc about that one. And to think--it may well have been one of those very girls who ultimately brought Big Al down to his pox-ridden doom!
This is getting further and further from golf! For a minute, some thirty-five years later, I thought those hoods had finally caught up with me. It was on a bright and hot Saturday morning, identical to that one so long ago. Cornelia and I had recently moved to Warrenville, from Brooklyn (tired of the hoods there), and we were pulling into our driveway after shopping.
Parked near the driveway entrance was a big black car, with two hoods in
it. As we stopped by the back door, one of them got out and started up the
driveway. He was dressed in a black suit--not a dressing gown. The brim of his
gray hat was snapped down. I told Cornelia to come along quickly, and we met him
halfway down the drive. I asked him what he was selling? By that time the
driver slowly pulled over behind some lilac bushes, and stopped.
So this little guy grinned, sort of, and said he wanted to sell me some siding for my house. Ever the racketeer! I looked him in the evil--eye and asked, "You know who I am?" He didn't say a word, but just flexed his jawr muscles--the only ones he had. Then I said, "I'm a personal friend of Doc Stacey's." He still didn't say a word, but he stopped flexing. Then he turned around and headed for the big black rented limo, got in and clicked the door, and off they oozed. A week later I began installing my own siding--lovely green shingles.
Doc Stacey, by the way, and his younger brother, "Slug," owned The Spanish Club, which was a dive located on the north-west corner of Wolf and Roosevelt Roads. Often tempted to do so, but never stopped in to see ol' Doc.
Come to think of it, Doc came over to Chicago Golf on several occasions, with the pro from Antlers, to play a round on Mondays. I caddied for him. They were somewhat out of their realm, and had to change their shoes, etc., in the car, as they were not allowed in the club house or locker room. I told you that Chicago Golf Club (was) very exclusive.
More at another time..... maybe.
Miles
* Won the 1927 U.S. Open, 1930 PGA Championship, and the 1931 British Open. His brilliant 1930 campaign was overshadowed by Bobby Jones' Grand Slam, and Armour has been unjustly overlooked. His book How to Play Your Best Golf All the Time became a best-seller and for many years was the biggest-selling book ever authored on golf. [back]
** The leading amateur of the 1930s and later a successful touring professional. Little rose to prominence in 1934 by winning both the British and U.S. Amateur Championships, and by the astounding feat of defending both titles successfully in 1935. After 1935 Little joined the PGA Tour circuit as a professional-the first prominent amateur to turn professional and presaging prominent defections by Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus from the amateur ranks in later years. Little's decision paid off immediately with a victory in the 1936 Canadian Open, but he did not fulfill the expectations of many despite winning the 1940 U.S. Open and several PGA Tour events, including the 1940 Los Angeles Open and the 1941 Texas Open. [back]