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For the first time in his life, Ben Hogan's remarkable will power was beamed at something less tangible than hitting a golf ball. Back home in Fort Worth, bandaged from hip to ankle, he began the prescribed exercises. He insisted on removing and replacing the bandages himself because, after a little practice, he felt he could do it better than the doctors.
He embarked on his first few toddling steps, painstakingly worked up to a complete circuit of the living room. After several months, when he had managed 15 times around the room, Valerie would ask him jokingly, "How many laps today?" It was better to laugh about it, they decided, than hang out a wreath.
HIS accident was ten months old the day he announced casually that he was going over to the club to hit a few golf balls—and would Valerie like to go along? She watched while Ben swung and shanked one off to the right like a Sunday duffer. "Look, I've shanked," cried Hogan, and his wife exclaimed, "Well, you've learned something new." That night they celebrated with a steak dinner.
It was miracle enough that Hogan ever came back to tournament golf. But it was stranger still that he came back a more polished performer than before. He had his old game plus a new frame of mind. Winning tournaments did not seem so important any more, and were therefore easier to win. But it took guts to do it on legs that ached while he was on the fairway and hurt even worse at night. They had never ached so badly as one day in Philadelphia in June 1950. He stumbled into his hotel room and sank into a chair. That day he had gone 36 holes at Merion to tie for first place in the U.S. Open, and now his legs were swelling and tightening with cramps. Hogan tried to sleep that night but it was no use. Since he is allergic to painkilling drugs, his only recourse was to draw a hot tub of water and sit in it. He drew one tub, sat in it a while, then drew another tub. He got no sleep that night. At the club next day he put elastic bandages on his legs and walked purposefully to the practice tee. He hit a couple of balls with each club in his bag. Then he went out and beat Lloyd Mangrum and George Fazio to become U.S. Open champion.
BEN HOGAN is not likely to worry about where his next meal is coming from for some time. A good businessman, he has money coming in from tournaments and exhibitions. Over & above that, he collects an annual levy from the Greyhound Bus Corp. (an estimated $25,000 a year for ten years) as a result of his accident.
He is getting paid by a sporting goods company for the use of his name on golf equipment, and money for endorsing Chesterfield cigarettes (which he chain-smokes on the golf course but seldom smokes off it). He owns a couple of oil wells, a one-sixth interest in the new $2,000,000 ranch-type Western Hills Hotel near Fort Worth, and next winter he will run the posh new Tamarisk Country Club at Palm Springs, Calif., where he is building a home overlooking the third tee. Other golfers find themselves dreaming of the day Hogan will find a nice green pasture for himself. It seems to be their only hope of getting a real shot at one of the pig tournaments. Like a mulligan stew, Ben Hogan just seems to get better & better the longer he simmers.