Hard Luck Sammy

Samuel Jackson Snead had never forgotten his three most horrible minutes of golf, at Philadelphia's swanky Spring Mill course eight years ago. On the final hole, with golf's greatest prize--the U.S. Open --all but won, Sammy swung at the ball. There was a cloud of sand but he had missed the ball; it rolled feebly to the edge of a sand trap. Sammy swung again. The ball plunked to the edge of a trap on the opposite side of the green. To cap his rout, he missed a one-foot putt.

Last week at the St. Louis Country Club, Sammy Snead trudged onto the final green. Carefully, he plucked a leaf from the sod, squatted to survey the roll of the green. It was the U.S. Open Championship again, and he had to sink an 18-foot putt to get into the playoff match. Sammy stroked the ball, and a gallery of 3,000 stood in awed silence as it rolled up to the cup, plunked in. Then the gallery roared. Sammy puckered his lips and grinned. This time things were going to be different.

For Want of $100,000. For 72 holes, unpredictable Sam Snead had licked sport's toughest war of nerves by pretending to himself that he hated golf. He didn't like the greens and called them the worst he'd seen in any U.S. Open. As he dug into a clubhouse sundae before the first round, he told a newsman: "If I had another $100,000 I'd give my irons away; I'd stuff that golf bag over the caddie's head--got no urge to play golf any more."

That attitude got him through the tough grind which made good golfers spray tee shots into the wire-haired rough, even quit in disgust.

At the halfway mark the two early leaders of the pack, little Dick Metz and big Chick Harbert, went haywire--they could not keep up their sub-par pace. Golfers who still had a chance to win drifted into the clubhouse, bit into sandwiches, tried to wash them down with a glass of milk. Some ate sugar lumps to steady nerves. The tension infected the crowd: the grapevine spread that someone's putter was getting hot, and the crowd drifted from threesome to threesome looking for the player who would fight his way to the top.

One golfer who always had a gallery behind him was pudgy Bobby Locke of South Africa. He caught the fancy of U.S. golf galleries with his free & easy front. Actually, he was as icy on the golf course as he was crusty with U.S. newsmen who tried to interview him in the lockerroom (he demanded money for answering reporters' questions). He finished three strokes off the leaders and was out.

Surprising Sailor. The man everybody had to catch down the stretch was Lew Worsham, a sandy-haired, 29-year-old ex-sailor from Washington, D.C., one time pro at Burning Tree. A nervous chain-smoker, likable young Lew Worsham had taken his wife to St. Louis with him, but made her stay back in the clubhouse. When he faltered momentarily on the 17th in the final round, one onlooker said: "There goes $50,000." But Worsham spit on his hands, with newsreels grinding beside him and shot a par. That gave him a two-under-par 282 for the 72 holes; he went off nervously to the lockerroom for a bottle of beer. He had the lead but it was not much of one. Twenty minutes later, Oldtimer Sam Snead sank his last putt for a birdie, to tie Worsham at 282.

The Last Putt. Sammy and Lew fought out their tie at medal play this week. They went into the last hole even. Both had good drives of about 260 yards. Both pitched up to within 25 feet of the pin, though Worsham was still off the green. It looked like another playoff unless either sank a long one. Worsham shot first; his ball hit the right edge of the cup and bounced out. Snead's putt was short. Officials got out a tape measure: Snead's ball was 30 1/2 inches away; Worsham's was 29 1/2 inches. Without any green-reading, Sammy putted quickly. He missed the cup by two inches. Once again hard-luck Sammy Snead had blown the championship. Young Lew Worsham stepped up, calmly stroked his ball in to win.

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