Old
hickory's new believers
By Tod Leonard
Union-Tribune Staff Writer
|
A decade ago,
Chris McIntyre didn't know a niblick from a mashie, a brassie from a cleek.
Golf history wasn't his thing. Vardon was the way you gripped a club. What
McIntyre did know was that he was awfully restless playing the same games
with the same people, hitting the same shots with the same golf clubs at his
then-home course, StoneRidge Country Club in McIntyre
dearly loved golf, but wasn't there something more? He found what he was looking for in an 85-year-old golf club he bought out of a friend's garage for $15. The hickory-shafted instrument, a shovel-like niblick, was so ugly it was beautiful. The blade was pock-marked with round indents for traction because grooves were for mad scientists in 1915. The grip was paper-thin leather. |
|
|
|
The first time
McIntyre struck a ball with his niblick in 2000, the sound was, Clunk! The
vibration sent a shock up his arms, and the buzz reached McIntyre's brain. “That first
shot flew high into the sky, came down soft and straight,” McIntyre said. “I
was like, 'Wow, I'm not sure what just happened here, but it worked!' “It was
amazing. There was a big smile on my face. It was elation, satisfaction.” Modern golf
died for McIntyre that day. He'd gone hickory, and he wasn't turning back. It
changed his life. McIntyre,
54, is a key player in a small, but growing society of devotees who are
spreading the gospel of hickory golf. Just a few years ago, there were but a
handful of hickory events in which to play. Now there are dozens. At Oakhurst,
the competitors will use replicas of the 19th century, hardened-putty
gutta-percha balls that McIntyre painstakingly produces, one by one, in the
workshop of his Rancho Bernardo home. “Just like young Tommy Morris would
have been making in his shop in 1865,” McIntyre said. A couple of
years ago, McIntyre took a buyout from Hewlett-Packard, where he'd worked for
33 years in manufacturing, and got into the hickory golf business. He has
collected and restored more than 600 clubs that he rents out for group
tournaments. With great pride, McIntyre has been an innovator in producing
thousands of golf balls with old-time molds he bought from collectors. Recently,
McIntyre and another hickory-obsessed golfer, In these
tough times, nostalgia is a marvelous thing. “It was such
a classy, golden era for golf,” said White, 50. “ McIntyre,
who looks the part all the more because of his wire rim glasses and gray
mustache, said he drew curious stares several weeks ago when he played at the
golf mecca Bandon Dunes in “I acted the
part,” he said with a smile. “That's sort of the fun that goes along with
it.” McIntyre
describes himself as a self-loathing, perfectionist golfer before hickory.
But the very nature of the old clubs – torquing shaft, small heads, smooth
hitting surfaces – make it nearly impossible to have lofty expectations. You
just never know exactly where the ball is going to go. McIntyre
heeds the words of the great Harry Vardon, the golfer he has come to admire
the most: “Do not despair.” “I find
myself much less worried about mistakes because I realize the game is about
pushing it forward down the course,” he said. “You're not hitting the ball as
far, so you've got to figure out different ways to get it around the course.
You focus more on the short game, and back then, as it is now, that was the
most important part of the game anyway.” McIntyre is
a strong player with any clubs. His best hickory round is the 77 he shot at
Pinehurst No. 1 using one wood, four irons and a putter. He jokes that he's
the “No. 4 hickory golfer in the world” because he once finished fourth in
the National Hickory Championship. The national
championship at Oakhurst each June is hickory golf's U.S. Open and Masters
rolled into one. Watching it is said to be like attending a Civil War
re-enactment at Oakhurst is
a nine-hole layout of 2,235 yards, and shooting a couple of shots over par for
36 holes is usually good enough to win the tournament. The clubs must be
pre-1900 and the balls are gutties. There are no golf bags and no tees; just
as the golfers did back then, there are buckets of sand and water from which
to fashion a “tee.” Sheep really do “mow” everything but the greens. Next month
at Oakhurst, there will be a prohibitive favorite, just as there has been in
most of the last decade. They call Randy Jensen the Hickory Tiger for good
reason. The 54-year-old golf shop owner from A former
college golfer at Creighton, Jensen is hickory's Johnny Appleseed. He's
written a 300-page book about all things hickory, and he plays in at least a
dozen events each year around the world. “ “When you
miss the sweet spot on a hickory club by a quarter of an inch, you feel it,”
Jensen explained. “With a modern driver, you can miss by three-quarters and
it's pretty hard to tell. If a guy wants to be a really good golfer and loves
a challenge, hickory will make you a better golfer.” Jensen
played with McIntyre in the San Diegan's all-time memorable hickory round. In
2004, McIntyre rose before the sun to get a walk-on time for the Old Course
at McIntyre
said he finished the round by hitting the flagstick with his approach on the
finishing hole, drawing cheers from the townies and tourists standing in
front of the golf shop Old Tom Morris opened in 1848 a few paces from the
18th green. His emotion,
however, caught him by surprise much earlier in the round, after he'd cracked
a nice drive at No. 6. “I was
walking off the tee down this little path through the gorse, and at that
moment it hit me,” McIntyre said. “I welled up with tears. 'My god, I'm here
at the home of golf, playing it like it was meant to be.' “For a
second, I couldn't believe where I was or what I was doing. It was a genuine
golden moment.” |
|
|