An Ode to Ben Hogan
As I walked through the famed stone quarry to the 18th fairway at Merion, I had not yet thought of the Hogan plaque. I thought about how the last three holes at Merion, all played over a stone quarry, are arguably the best finishing holes in the game. I thought about how the 18th is the crown jewel, the perfect end to a masterpiece, the final scene in the final act.
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Few golf holes have plaques, and even fewer are worth reading.
If the plaque can be explained by saying only the players name and tournament, then it is worth reading in full. (The other test, which I despise, is to count the number of divots next to the plaque).
The significance of the memorialized shot should be such that it elevated the player to an echelon he or she would not have otherwise achieved. The plaque, therefore, is not a memorial of the shot, but rather a timestamp of when a legendary player further distanced himself from the ordinary.
A plaque worth reading is where the words “anomalous” and “aberration”, in respect to the player, go to die.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing a few plaques worth reading, but none as meaningful as the Ben Hogan plaque at Merion. Its significance emanates a gravitational pull; every player, guest or member, stops to take a look. The most daring (or obtuse) drop a ball and strike a shot, inches from where Hogan struck his.
Why break the unwritten rules of golf (and the club) to hit one shot?
Some may argue that it is the complementary (and quite famous) picture taken of Hogan holding his finish from that exact spot, some seventy years ago. Others may argue the plaque also represents one of the greatest sports comebacks in history. After nearly dying in a car crash sixteen months earlier, Hogan hit his famous 1 iron on the way to winning his country’s most prestigious tournament.
I would argue that it is because the 18th hole at Merion is stuck in time and steeped in history. Hitting the Hogan shot is a rare chance to live inside history, if only for a second.
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As I approached my ball, I saw it sit 10 feet behind the plaque. With the brutal finisher playing into the wind, my ball had not reached the slope to pick up an extra 30 yards. I didn’t mind. It sat on top of the hill, providing a clear picture of the rolling fairway and green, some 226 yards away.
Although I stood behind the plaque, it’s charisma engulfed me. I thought about Ben Hogan and the 1-iron, and what he may have been thinking 70 years ago. I pulled my 2-iron, and flushed the shot.
As the ball sailed toward the right green-side bunker, a sure bogey, it drew left at the last second, landing on the green. Perhaps it was the mud on the ball, or perhaps it was the hand of old Ben Hogan, watching from his place in history.
