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In a game that demands the concentration of a watchmaker, Trevino confesses that "the only time I stop yakking is when I'm asleep." A methodical player like Nicklaus will go an entire round without uttering a word. Lee the Lip chatters before, after and sometimes even during a shot. "You know," he will say as he tees up, "I've got to be the only Mexican"—thwack goes his drive down the fairway—"who's never been in a detention home. I just never got caught." On another hole, he will announce: "Five years ago, I was teeing up on dirt. Now I've got tees" —thwack—"with my name on 'em." Orville Moody, one of Trevino's close friends on the tour, recalls how Lee shocked an unsuspecting gallery in Singapore when they were teamed in the 1969 World Cup matches. As Lee lined up a 20-ft. putt, the customary funereal hush fell over the crowd. Slowly, deliberately, he drew back his putter and then suddenly said, "With a million-dollar swing like mine"—tap—"I can't miss." He didn't.
Trevino's high jinks tend to obscure the excellence of his somewhat unorthodox style. Pointing his feet to the left and swinging to the right, he has a flat chopping stroke that sends his drives off the tee like sharp singles to center field. Dead center field, that is. No power hitter, he makes up in accuracy what he lacks in distance. "The only time Lee's off the fairway," says Archer, "is when he's answering the phone." As for his short game, few if any of the pros surpass his skill at, as he puts it, "dropping the ball on the Governor's lawn." Once there, he putts like a pool shark. "My swing's not much," he says, "but it's good for a short fat man." Then, smiling slyly, he adds, "Say, it's worked for a while, hasn't it?"
Part Showman, Part Salesman
Shambling along a fairway, the short fat man often looks more like one of the galleryites—which explains in part why he has become the duffers' delight. "I've got a lot of people rooting for me," says Trevino, "because there's more poor people than rich people. You look at my galleries. You'll see tattoos. Plain dresses. I represent the guy who goes to the driving range, the municipal player, the truck driver, the union man, the guy who grinds it out. To them, I am someone who worked hard, kept at it and made it. Sure, I go out of my way to talk to them. They're my people."
Trevino's people are taking to the fairways in record numbers. Once the pastime of the privileged, golf is played today by 12 million Americans on more than 10,000 courses. When the pros arrive in town, duffers stand ten deep to see how Casper cocks his elbow on the backswing or Player plants his feet for an uphill lie. Since an average of 10 million viewers watch the weekend tournaments on TV, today's pro golfer must be part showman and part salesman for one of the fastest-growing sports in the U.S. No one is more aware of that fact than Lee Trevino: "You won't catch me criticizing a gallery. I don't care if they scream their heads off, because they pay my way out here."