He only played in the four major championships, maybe one or two other tournaments. In the winter months, he hardly played at all. If ever there was a person who was a natural at the game, it was Bob. In those days, out at East Lake, there wasn’t really any intensive practice range like you have now. The fine players today go out and beat balls for hours. Well, Bob would hit six or seven shots to loosen up, then go play.
One of my favorite stories about Bobby was when he lost the U.S. Open in 1925. He lost by one stroke–because he had called a penalty on himself. His ball rotated while he was in the woods. Nobody saw it happen, but he called a penalty anyway. He reported it, then said later that he didn’t deserve any credit for enforcing the rule on himself. “You might as well praise a man for not robbing a bank,” he said. Well, the Tuesday or Wednesday following the tournament, I went down to the club and I ran into him. I remember clearly that I said to him, “I’m sorry you lost.” And he said, “Don’t worry about it, son. You never know who your friends are until you lose.” That’s always stuck in my mind.
In 1948, he stopped playing golf because his back was giving him a helluva lot of problems. He had a rare disease that was causing the deterioration of his spinal column. So at age 46, he hit his last shot. A reporter back then stopped in to see him at the Masters, to pay his respects. He asked Bob, “Don’t you feel sad about what’s happened to you?” And Bob said, “Remember, you play the ball as it lies.”
