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Golf and Religion
”Golf is the Lord's punishment for man's sins.”
My being in the golf business would naturally indicate that the Church and I were competitors. Not so. Have you noticed those four men dressed in casual clothes listening attentively to the sermon? They have a one o’clock tee time. They will tend to lose a little of the benefit of the sermon if caught in a traffic jam getting out of the parking lot, but apparently regain some religion once they are on the golf course. You can hear them calling on the Lord on occasion for various reasons.
I had a minister member of my club who was totally addicted to the game of golf. Early one Sunday afternoon he showed up to play golf. I asked him if he had lost his job, he replied, “All religion stops after twelve.” He will likely make a hole in one and not be able to tell anyone.
Before I became a golf professional, I had a religious background, starting with pumping the organ in a country Church. I sang in the youth choir as a soprano. Something happened when my voice changed. While attending an event that required singing, such as the National Anthem, my wife used to tell me not to utter a peep, but mouth the words. In later years I was also President of Christian Endeavors, but not in the golf season.
In one period of my life, I had to hitch hike to the club each morning and at time I used to get a ride with a Catholic Priest on his way to the club. I used to caddy for him, and when we were out of sight of the clubhouse he would let me use his clubs and play me for ten cents a hole, and I would end up losing my caddie fee.
While as the owner of a club, I was approached by a new minister in the area. He said that where he came from they let ministers play free. The combination of his attitude, and that he caught me when business was not good, brought out the other side of me. I told him that I would do that the day that the collection plate was not passed. That was the end of the conversation.
But on the other side of the coin, was a minister by the name of Love. It was an appropriate name for him. I noticed his absence for a period of time and inquired about it to one of his friends. He told me the Rev. Love’s church was having some financial problems and that he was donating his salary to the church, and could no longer afford to play. I sent word to Rev. Love, that he no longer had to pay to play at my club. During this period, I had Paul Hahn, the famous trick shot artist perform at my club. Rev. Love had him as a member of his church while living in North Carolina. The afternoon of the exhibition Paul Hahn spotted him in the gallery. He went up an pulled him out of the gallery and introduced him and made a big fuss over him. That was a great day for Rev. Love.
At one time I was playing golf with a young minister, and he had just hit his ball into the water. It was in plain sight, but well out of reach. He pulled off his pants, waded out and retrieved his ball. They needed to raise his pay.
At one of my clubs, I had a foursome comprised of a Priest and three Jewish members. They told him one day that he ought to give up his Parish, and they knew of an opening at a Synagogue, and they would put in a good word for him.
A minister once was heard to say, “I do not swear, but spit on the ground. Where I spit, grass never grows again.”
The Rev. Love story relating to being recognized by Paul Hahn reminds me of a somewhat related story. I had a cousin, who was an outstanding athlete and who played a number of years of pro football. Back in those days they did not have all of the protective equipment of today, and his nose had been broken about seven times, however he got me interested in sports. Once out of football he became a wanderer and bummed his way all over the country from job to job. One summer he landed in my home town and ran a Diner. While there, he played tennis at the club where I worked. We had a Summer Stock Theater in town that year, and one of the celebrities was Edwin Everette Horton, of Hollywood fame of those days. They became tennis partners while the show was there.
Some years later he was working on some construction job in Jacksonville, Florida. I had just hitch-hiked from Connecticut on my way to Miami, and I had gotten a ride to Jacksonville. I had his address, and looked him up and spent a couple of days with him. Fred, his name was Fred also, was quite intelligent, and could carry on a conversation on any subject, but was full of baloney. At that time he was an outstanding bowler in a local league. He had told his bowling partners about his relationship with Edward Everette Horton. One day his bowling partners approached him and told him one of his friends was coming to town to perform in a show. He was coming in by train and they were going to take him down to the train station to meet his old friend. Not knowing if Horton would even remember him, he was dreading this meeting. The first person Edward Everette Horton spotted was Fred. He threw his arms around him and asked what he was doing there and gave him an invitation to his show. Fred said that I can tell those guys anything now and they will believe me. I don’t know what ever happened to him. His mother died and left him ten thousand dollars and he was never heard from since. This story has had nothing to do with my original subject, unless you can count the praying that Fred did on the way to the train station for the dreaded meeting with Edward Everette Horton.
There are two things that require keeping your head down: golf and praying.