Despite the gaffe and the contrast between Jones’ patrician
background and Burke’s hardscrabble formative years (he was a caddie
and, by age
20, a Marine Corps drill instructor), ultimately
no Masters
champion had more in
common with the co-founder of
Augusta
National—like Jones, Burke built a
nationally renowned
club from
scratch.
In the wake of his 1956 heroics, Burke was offered the head
professional job at Baltusrol in New Jersey, but he and Demaret were
thinking
much bigger. They succeeded: In addition to boasting
a
thriving membership,
Champions, a 36-hole facility, hosted
the 1967
Ryder Cup, 1969 U.S. Open, 1993
U.S. Amateur and five
Tour
Championships.
Burke is still linked to Jones, having received the USGA’s Bob
Jones Award in 2004, in recognition of distinguished sportsmanship in
golf.
Burke is a true elder statesman, a rank earned through a
lifetime
of immersion
in the game, and Champions provides the
platform from
which to dispense his golf
gospel.
He has strong opinions on just about everything. On diet and
exercise trends, for example: “Eat whatever you want. Just eat less of
it. Don’t
lift weights; don’t run. Use a rubber hose to
strengthen
yourself gently,
without straining your
joints.”
On modern equipment: “I don’t think Hagen ever talked about the
ball. Jones never gave his driver credit for winning a tournament. But
the
commerce side leads the art side in golf today. I don’t
see the
ball getting
scaled back. America doesn’t go
backward.”
On the Ryder Cup: “We came in 12 planes; [the European team] came
in one. The money has gotten obscene: [The PGA of America] takes in $50
million
and spends $40 million. The spectators can’t see, but
a lot of
them don’t care.
It’s corporations entertaining their
customers. It’s
an event.”
On Augusta National: “I guarantee you that’s the most boring club
in the world. Where’s the club feeling when your members are jetting in
from all
over the country?”
And finally, his lone swing thought: “The same one I’ve always
had: Hit the ball.”
Burke keeps it simple, and it works.
Because you knew you’d finally have to hit the ball, didn’t you, you dumb son
of a bitch?
