meant lighted driving ranges, empty fairways at dusk, high school football fields early on Sunday mornings. People really did teach themselves golf at such places once. Not todayâs titanium-headed game. Yesterdayâs persimmon game, the one that lives on in Arnoldâs barn.
In Hoganâs day, a guy had a better chance of fixing himself when things were going wrong because, to borrow a phrase, he owned his swing . Iâm sure this sounds comically quaint to any youngsters who have made it this far, but this is what Billy believes. You want to get better? Billy will give you the fundamentals. His brothers will, too. The rest is up to you. The flight of your shots will tell you what you need to know. I asked Billy once what he liked best about golf. He said, âThe ball in the air.â
That Billy is a member of a clan known as the Harmon Brothers is a meaningless designation in most places, but in certain golf circles it is like saying youâre golf royalty. There were four Harmon brothers, all golf pros: Butch, Craig, Dick, and Billy. (And two sisters, not in the biz.) Their father was the winner of the 1948 Masters and the last club pro to win a major tournament. Claude Harmon could flat-out play. For pure talent, of the four sons, Billy was the closest to him.
Claude won his Masters when he stopped off in Augusta while driving from what was then his winter job, at Seminole in South Florida, to his main job, at Winged Foot in Westchester, New York. Later Claude was lured west to Thunderbird, which, like the other clubs where he worked, was an enclave of the rich and the super-rich. The Harmon kids were always surrounded by wealth, even though it stopped at their front door.
Butch taught Greg Norman in his prime, which was why Earl brought Tiger to Butch in â93, when Tiger was seventeen. Butch and Tiger worked together through 2004, when their relationship suffocated under the weight of their collective egos. The breakup did not serve either man well, but you can imagine how thin the air was on their mountaintop.
Craig Harmon, the second oldest of the four sons, was the head pro at Oak Hill, site of various major events, for decades. The third brother, the late Dick Harmon, was a beloved club pro in Houston. Billy, batting cleanup, was for years the neâer-do-well son, a born golfer who, in his early twenties, lost his desire to beat his opponents. It was the early 1970s, he was at San Jose State, and smoking weed just seemed like so much more fun. Butch had made it to the show as a player. Billy got there as a caddie.
He was available to work for Mike at the 1990 Masters because Jay Haas wasnât in the tournament. It was a week when Mike actually allowed a caddie to advise him, which was remarkable, because few players in the history of professional golf could have wanted less from a caddie than Mike.
But Billy was different. He was steeped in the game and its people. He knew Augusta. He had played it. He had caddied for Jay there. He had been in groups with Jayâs uncle, Bob Goalby, who won the â68 Masters when De Vicenzo did not. He had heard Craig Wood, the â41 Masters winner and Claudeâs predecessor at Winged Foot, talk about the course. And his father. And Hogan himself. Mike had reasons to trust Billy.
Reading a twenty-foot birdie putt on the fifth hole in the first round of their Masters, Billy said to Mike, âI know it looks like it goes left, but it actually goes right.â Mike didnât see it but he took Billyâs insight on faith. You can guess the outcome.
Later, Mike stood over his ball on the par-three twelfth hole with a 7-iron in his hands. He was already six under par.
âIs it a big one?â Mike said as he made a final waggle.
âNot really,â Billy said as Mike made his backswing.
Itâs insane for a player and caddie to be discussing a shot during a swing . But they were oddly in synch. Mikeâs shot on twelve
In Hoganâs day, a guy had a better chance of fixing himself when things were going wrong because, to borrow a phrase, he owned his swing . Iâm sure this sounds comically quaint to any youngsters who have made it this far, but this is what Billy believes. You want to get better? Billy will give you the fundamentals. His brothers will, too. The rest is up to you. The flight of your shots will tell you what you need to know. I asked Billy once what he liked best about golf. He said, âThe ball in the air.â
That Billy is a member of a clan known as the Harmon Brothers is a meaningless designation in most places, but in certain golf circles it is like saying youâre golf royalty. There were four Harmon brothers, all golf pros: Butch, Craig, Dick, and Billy. (And two sisters, not in the biz.) Their father was the winner of the 1948 Masters and the last club pro to win a major tournament. Claude Harmon could flat-out play. For pure talent, of the four sons, Billy was the closest to him.
Claude won his Masters when he stopped off in Augusta while driving from what was then his winter job, at Seminole in South Florida, to his main job, at Winged Foot in Westchester, New York. Later Claude was lured west to Thunderbird, which, like the other clubs where he worked, was an enclave of the rich and the super-rich. The Harmon kids were always surrounded by wealth, even though it stopped at their front door.
Butch taught Greg Norman in his prime, which was why Earl brought Tiger to Butch in â93, when Tiger was seventeen. Butch and Tiger worked together through 2004, when their relationship suffocated under the weight of their collective egos. The breakup did not serve either man well, but you can imagine how thin the air was on their mountaintop.
Craig Harmon, the second oldest of the four sons, was the head pro at Oak Hill, site of various major events, for decades. The third brother, the late Dick Harmon, was a beloved club pro in Houston. Billy, batting cleanup, was for years the neâer-do-well son, a born golfer who, in his early twenties, lost his desire to beat his opponents. It was the early 1970s, he was at San Jose State, and smoking weed just seemed like so much more fun. Butch had made it to the show as a player. Billy got there as a caddie.
He was available to work for Mike at the 1990 Masters because Jay Haas wasnât in the tournament. It was a week when Mike actually allowed a caddie to advise him, which was remarkable, because few players in the history of professional golf could have wanted less from a caddie than Mike.
But Billy was different. He was steeped in the game and its people. He knew Augusta. He had played it. He had caddied for Jay there. He had been in groups with Jayâs uncle, Bob Goalby, who won the â68 Masters when De Vicenzo did not. He had heard Craig Wood, the â41 Masters winner and Claudeâs predecessor at Winged Foot, talk about the course. And his father. And Hogan himself. Mike had reasons to trust Billy.
Reading a twenty-foot birdie putt on the fifth hole in the first round of their Masters, Billy said to Mike, âI know it looks like it goes left, but it actually goes right.â Mike didnât see it but he took Billyâs insight on faith. You can guess the outcome.
Later, Mike stood over his ball on the par-three twelfth hole with a 7-iron in his hands. He was already six under par.
âIs it a big one?â Mike said as he made a final waggle.
âNot really,â Billy said as Mike made his backswing.
Itâs insane for a player and caddie to be discussing a shot during a swing . But they were oddly in synch. Mikeâs shot on twelve
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