THE AMERICAN GOLFER

Early Episodes in the Golf Career of Atlanta's Young Links Marvel

By O. B. KeelerHE other day I got to wondering howBob Jones got his start. Everybodyknows Bob now—18 his last birthday,

which was March 17, he is one of theleading amateur golfers of this hem-isphere. And I got to wonderinghow he got his start; if he took aVardon grip on his first rattle andcut his teeth on a niblick—that sortof thing. I had known Boh since, asa stocky kid of 13, he went to thefinal round of the second flight inthe Southern championship of 1915.But I wanted to know somethingback of that.

I asked Bob's father, R. P. Jones,if the youthful Robert evinced anyparticularly startling golfing symp-toms as an infant.

I learned that he did not. For thefirst five years of his life he livedrather from day to day. One doctorafter another, to the number of six,told Bob's parents it would be amiracle if they raised him. Up tothe age of five he had not negotiatedone single morsel of solid food. Itwas white of egg and peptonoids andsuch pap for Bob; and his fathersays he was a pitiful sight to behold.

No improvement being percepti-ble, Mr. Jones recalled his own rug-ged days as a small boy in the coun-try; and be consulted with Mrs.Jones; and they decided to try turn-ing the little fellow out to grass — to losehis shoes and set him down on the bosom

of Mother Nature to fight his battle.So the Joneses moved out from the city of

Atlanta and went to board with a family in

HUS Robert fooled the half-dozen doc-tors, paddling about over the red old hills

of Georgia, and (I suspect) peering fre-quently and curiously at the white-clad fig-ures hitting a little white ball about over thegreen new hills of the East Lake golf course.Bob's father didn't play golf at that time.He had been a famous baseball player at theUniversity of Georgia; always picked on theAll-Southern team; and much sought after bybig league ball clubs. But he had never takenup golf. And here was golf at his very door-step.

Boarding in the same family also was oneFulton Caldwell, an ardent golfer. And oneafternoon Mr. Caldwell was puttering aboutthe yard with this club and that; and thesmall Robert was watching him closely; andthe man asked the little boy if he would liketo hit the ball.

I regret to record that the first effort of

the future phenomenon in the game of hislater choice was not an entire success. Frank-ly, it was a fizzle. The club was approxi-

mately the same length as Roberthimself, and the shaft poked himwoefully in the stomach.

Mr. Caldwell laughed."I've got one in the house you can

have," he said, and fished out an oldcleek. He and Joe Nash and WillCrumley — hardened golfers all —held a consultation and sawed theshaft of the cleek off well below theleather. This left no conventionalgrip on the first golfing weapon ofLittle Bob Jones, but in one's sixthyear one is not meticulous. Besides,three old balls accompanied the gift—here was treasure indeed.

In the same household was a boyof about Bob's age, Frank Meador;and he, too, was equipped in a simi-lar manner. The little boys laidthemselves out a golf course aboutthe premises, criss-crossing in defi-ance of all traditions and at the riskof their youthful skulls, with one"long hole" of about 200 feet, laidout down the street. This was notonly a very long hole. In proportion,it probably was the most hazardoushole ever devised. It had deep andstony ditches along both sides of thefairway; and the fairway consistedmostly of wheel-ruts. By an inflexi-

ble rule, a ball was played wherever it lay.No winter rules applied.

He was twelve when he won an invitation tournamentat the Roebuck Country Club

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How Bobby Jones Started

Robert T. Jones, Jr. He's Bobby to the Golfing world

the East Lake suburb, right alongside theEast Lake golf course of the Atlanta AthleticClub. The shoes of the youthful Robert wereduly removed, and he was turned loose uponthe rich, ruddy Georgia earth; a tiny, spin-dling figure in rompers.

I incline to the theory that some inherent,hardy fighting quality in the little chap aidedDame Nature at this juncture. At any rate,in a month Bob was taking his eggs boiledinstead of beaten. In three months, he waseating anything he could bite, and it must besaid for the kid that his dental equipment wasall that could have been asked at that age.

Fooled the Medicos

At the age of eleven years, Bobby was breaking 80frequently at East Lake

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hit with his imitation of one Judge Broyles,who was a very quick player and liked tocarry his own clubs. His follow-through wasa divided effort. As soon as the ball wasstruck, Judge Broyles let go of the club with

his left hand and reached for thebag with it, at the same momentstarting to walk after the shot,his eyes meanwhile riveted onthe ball. The tout ensemble wasremarkable, and, as reproducedfaithfully by Bobby, caused ex-cessive joy in the hearts of allexcept Judge Broyles, who neversaw anything very funny about it.

Naturally, then Bob copiedfor his own swing that of Stew-art Maiden; copied it with suchfaithfulness that at least once inhis subsequent career he wasmistaken for Stewart at a dis-tance by a man who knew theCarnoustie pro, but never hadseen Bobby. And with modi-fications since suited to his ownbuild and growth, Bobby hasthat swing today.

Bob Jones did not gain hisform through lessons, though ashe came along in the game Stew-art was frequently called on tostraighten out a kink; to correcta pull, or matters of that sort.But the boy was a polishedgolfer when he was 10 years old,

with never a lesson. It was right around histenth birthday—either just before or justafter—that he shot an 80 around the old EastLake course, parred at 73. He was begin-ning to thicken up physically then, and wasgetting into his long shots a good deal of theamazing power that characterizes them today.

imitate with ludicrous exactness the swingand style of any golfer he saw. For the edi-fication of his father and his friends, Bobbywould go out on the lawn and swing like thisplayer and that. In particular, he made a

JUNE 5

Acquired Golf Taste

SUPPOSE it was here that Bob Jonesgained his taste for the Scotch National

Industry, for the youngster—in his sixthyear, two-headed and still spin-dling, despite a magnificent ap-petite — played indefatigablywith the abbreviated cleek, andcarefully and conscientiouslykept his scores, counting all thestrokes.

Now, the striving golfer ofmiddle life doubtless feels an in-terest in where Bob got hisswing; a swing that has excitedadmiration and a good deal ofwonder over pretty much of thiscountry.

At this stage of the proceed-ings, so far as I can learn, no-body showed Bob anything, andso far as his infantile swing isconcerned, he just swung. Hisfather was just taking up golfand was too much harried by hisown troubles to bother muchwith the small, indefatigable fig-ure, plugging about the yard andup and down the "long hole" inthe road, to the little holes,scooped out in the ground, thatformed his links.

But next spring the Jonesesmoved over squarely into theEast Lake Club grounds and rented a cottagejust off the fairway of what is now the firstbole. Then it was directly back of the sunkenthirteenth green.

And the Christmas before Bob was 7 yearsold. Mr. Jones, somewhat affected by thepatient manipulation of the shortened cleek,got Stewart Maiden, the club professional,to make for Bobby a full set of clubs, meas-ured to his size and reach. And Bobby, per-mitted by the green committee to play on thecourse except Saturdays and Sundays, beganto blossom forth.

I was particularly curious to know howfar a little chap like that could hit a golfball, and was at some pains to get estimates.

Just after reaching 7 years old, and veryslight and frail for that age, Bobby becameable to play No. 1 on the old course as adrive-and-pitch hole. It was a short one-shotter of 160 yards, with a big grass trap alittle more than half-way to the green.Bobby, swinging his diminutive driver withall his might, could carry this trap; a carryof upward of 90 yards. With a fair run tohis shot, he was left with a comfortable pitchto the green—and it got to be amazing, thenumber of par threes he made on that hole.

Still he had no golfing lessons. But afterschool, in the long afternoons—he started toschool when he was 6—the little boy wouldtake his cap full of balls, his mashie and put-ter, and go down to the thirteenth green of theold course, just back of his house, and by thehour he would pitch to the green, and putt,and putt, and putt.

And this, by the way, is precisely the man-ner in which the greatest of the older schoolof professionals, and some of the best of themoderns, got their start in golf; their start,and the deadly accuracy near the pin whichsubsequently broke the heart of many a long-hitting opponent, who had learned his gamein a different way.

At this time, too, Bobby came to regardStewart Maiden as the arbiter of all

This is how the youngster looked when he startled the golfing world with his fineperformance in his first National championship at Merion in 1916

golfing destinies; the glass of fashion andthe mold of form. And this is where he gotthe foundation for one of the finest golfingstyles now extant.

Bobby was a natural mimic. He could

Tourney Winner at 8

HEN he was 8 years old, Bob Joneswon his first tournament, the Junior

Club championship. He won this event the nextyear, and the next. At 10 he was shooting anoccasional round within a stroke or two ofthe course amateur record; was playing withPerry Adair, then a brilliant kid of 13 or 14,and any grown-ups who might care to tacklehim. Miss Alexa Sterling at this time wasshowing great class at the game, and some-times the trio of youngsters played together.

Bob's father promised him that when hewas 16 he might enter the Southern cham-pionship, but that event came to East Lakein June of 1915, when Bob was three monthspast 13, and it was too much to deny the boya chance at it. He had won his spurs in aninvitation tournament at the Roebuck Club.Birmingham, that spring, capturing the mainprize, and Mr. Jones let slip the leash in theSouthern.

Bobby qualified easily in the first thirty-two, and played Commodore Bryan Heard,that sterling veteran, in the first round. Itwas a terrific battle—I saw the finish of it—and Bobby lost on the last green. The Com-modore, by the way, was beaten next day byPerry Adair. "Too many of these kids," hesaid, with a philosophical grin.

Down in the next flight from this defeat,the 13-year-old boy played straight throughto the final, and there, shooting some of thebest golf of the tournament, he was defeatedby Clark of Nashville in a sensational match.

Next year Bob won the big invitationtournament at the Birmingham Country

(Continued on page 25)This is how he appeared as a finalist at Oakmont last

summer

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How Bobby Jones Started

JUNE 5

Club, and entered the National atMerion. His performance there isstill fresh in the mind of the Ameri-can golfing public, as are his morerecent appearances.

I recall how the newspaper accountsof Bob's play at Merion styled him a"husky" boy; a "stocky" youngster;and all that—and he was; he weighed152 pounds then, at 14. During thenext winter he grew six inches and lostseven pounds. Now he weighs about160, but that is off-season weight. Intrim, he will weigh a good deal less.

But it all seems a long way fromthe pale little spindling chap, swing-ing himself almost off his skinny littlelegs as he hewed the ball out of thedeep ruts of the roadway with thesawed-off cleek.

A long, long way, it seems. YetBobby is only 18 now. He has gonea long way in golf. And that is notall.

OBBY JONES, besides being acrack golfer, is a crack student,

with a definite and serious object inview that has nothing to do with golf.Starting school at the age of 6, hewent steadily through the Atlantapublic schools, and entered theTechnological High School. His rec-ord there was exceptional. His teach-ers had only the highest praise forhis work and conduct; and he appliedhimself with such effect that in allhis four years he did not have to takea single examination. He was regu-larly right around the top of hisclasses; a steady and even brilliantstudent, who made one of the bestrecords in the annals of that school.

This spring Bob Jones is finishinghis sophomore year at the GeorgiaSchool of Technology, taking thehardest course in its curriculum—mechanical engineering. That is theprofession for which he is training,seriously and patiently, and with thesame steadiness of purpose thatmarked his previous school work.

Living in a city where golf may beplayed all the year 'round, I doubtif any young golf crack in the coun-try is distracted as little from hiscollege work as Bob during the collegeterm. He loves golf— naturally; butit never has been permitted to inter-fere with his work in grade school,prep school or college. In two yearsmore he will he through Georgia Tech—with high honors, or I miss my esti-mate—and whatever he has done ingolf will not have interfered in theslightest with his preparation for thegame of life.

And here's another little human in-terest touch. Boh Jones has made aconvert to sport of his grandfather,Robert T. Jones, of Canton, Ga., forwhom he is named.

Bob's father laughs about it occa-sionally. You see, Bob's father wasa famous athlete in his day, and hisfather was much opposed to all suchstuff and nonsense. He refused everto watch his son play ball, and whentold by an old friend of the familythat "Bob" was the greatest amateurball player he had ever seen, the sternold man said: "That's the poorestcompliment you could possibly payhim."

But it's different with Bob, thegrandson. He clips out and keeps theaccounts of little Bob's golf matches.And in the summer of 1918, whenlittle Bob and Perry Adair playedKenneth Edwards and Jimmy Stan-dish at East Lake, in a big Red Crossmatch, little Bob's grandfather, whowould never watch his son play ball,journeyed down from Canton to seehis first golf match—and liked it won-drous well.

"I guess it's right about all workand no play making Jack a dull boy,"says Robert T. Jones, Sr. "Anyway,the play doesn't seem to be hurtinglittle Bob any."

"Yes—but what about me, when Iwas doing a little playing?" asksmiddle Bob.

But the oldest Bob only smiles.

(Continued from page 5)

Off the Links

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