If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in sporting history (April 7, 1951), that Chesterfield®
cigarette spokesman
Ben Hogan won The Masters golf tournament with a 72-hole score of 280, a tally that is remarkably on par with today's fancy-panted vest-wearers, especially considering that the chain-smoking Hogan's vision was likely obscured by near-constant plumes of tobacco smoke curling up into his eyeballs, that his clubs — fashioned from hickory sticks — were primitive at best, and that his golf balls had liquid — possibly molten lava — centers that would explode on impact if he had an unfortunate “slice” in his swing. Contrarily, today’s floppy-haired saddle-shoed golf messiahs wield graphite-shafted, titanium-headed monstrosities with names like Big Bertha™, Great Big Bertha™ and Great Big Bertha’s Mammoth Cousin Mathilda™. A simple flick of the fashion-plated prima donna’s wrist launches a Zectron-centered Cab Calloway® golf ball 500 yards at a poke, sending the drunken, suburban male golf crowd into delirium. “You da’ man!” they shout, blood vessels throbbing in their hairless skulls. “It’s in the hole!” they howl, when anyone with modest vision can discern otherwise. Methinks if Master Ben Hogan were around today, he'd be chewing Nicorette® gum en-route to another Masters run and he'd administer a proper hickory stick beating to any adult male stalking him for the entirety of 18 holes, hooting and hollering at every scratch of his bloody backside.
Ben Hogan won The Masters golf tournament with a 72-hole score of 280, a tally that is remarkably on par with today's fancy-panted vest-wearers, especially considering that the chain-smoking Hogan's vision was likely obscured by near-constant plumes of tobacco smoke curling up into his eyeballs, that his clubs — fashioned from hickory sticks — were primitive at best, and that his golf balls had liquid — possibly molten lava — centers that would explode on impact if he had an unfortunate “slice” in his swing. Contrarily, today’s floppy-haired saddle-shoed golf messiahs wield graphite-shafted, titanium-headed monstrosities with names like Big Bertha™, Great Big Bertha™ and Great Big Bertha’s Mammoth Cousin Mathilda™. A simple flick of the fashion-plated prima donna’s wrist launches a Zectron-centered Cab Calloway® golf ball 500 yards at a poke, sending the drunken, suburban male golf crowd into delirium. “You da’ man!” they shout, blood vessels throbbing in their hairless skulls. “It’s in the hole!” they howl, when anyone with modest vision can discern otherwise. Methinks if Master Ben Hogan were around today, he'd be chewing Nicorette® gum en-route to another Masters run and he'd administer a proper hickory stick beating to any adult male stalking him for the entirety of 18 holes, hooting and hollering at every scratch of his bloody backside.
