1998 Old Tom Morris Award Winner

Venturi reflects on a lifetime of golf memories and second chances.

Kay Hawes

Ken and Beau Venturi enjoyed each other's company immensely. Tragically, Beau passed away in July, only a few months short of their 25th anniversary.

When Ken Venturi looks out from his vantage point atop the CBS tower on the 18th green, he doesn't see a golf tournament with a million-dollar purse. He sees the continuation of a tradition begun on the windswept hills of Scotland. He feels himself walking up the fairway. He sees Ben Hogan and hears the words of Byron Nelson. When he talks about what a player must do to win, he's really talking as though he were thinking about what he would have to do to win.

Surrounded by television monitors, with CBS personnel whispering in his ear piece, Venturi focuses on his job -- using his experience and his knowledge of the game to bring viewers closer to the drama. He doesn't talk about win-loss records, status on the all-time earnings list or the golfers' private lives. His job is to be in the players' brains at that moment. His job is to think what they're thinking and let the viewers in on the mystique.

This year, when the U.S. Open returned to Congressional Country Club for the first time since Venturi won it in 1964, a whole new generation of golf fans learned of his courageous triumph on that blistering day when he made his comeback. Also this summer, those fans learned of Venturi's current struggles, as Beau Venturi, his devoted wife of nearly 25 years, became more ill and finally lost her battle with brain cancer.

This bittersweet year held one more surprise for Venturi: GCSAA named him the recipient of the 1998 Old Tom Morris Award. He'll accept the award Feb. 7, at the Gala event during GCSAA's 69th International Golf Course Conference and Show in Anaheim, Calif.

Venturi, pictured here with Frank Dobie, general manager and superintendent at The Shron Golf Club in Sharon Center, Ohio, says that superintendents are the unsung heros of the game.

"I'll take up the loneliest sport I know of . . ."
The forces that were to shape Ken Venturi began early in his life. Born May 15, 1931, to Fred and Ethyl Venturi in the Mission district of San Francisco, Venturi knew even as a young boy that he had to do his part to make ends meet. His father was a ship chandler who sold net and twine to fishermen, and his mother sold real estate. Young Venturi threw newspapers, washed cars and cut lawns. When he was nine, he started to caddie at San Francisco Golf Club. His father would drop him off at the club, or sometimes Venturi would go with his dad when he went up and down the coast. He ended up caddying on weekends and after school at several different clubs in San Francisco.

About the same time, his parents and teachers turned the left-handed boy into a right-handed one. It was a common practice at the time, but the effects were long-lasting for Venturi, who began to stutter. The other kids mocked his speech, leading him to pummel some of the taunters. When he approached a teacher for help, she embarrassed him in front of the entire class. Following yet another trip to the principal's office, Venturi resolved that he would teach himself not to stutter.

"A teacher told my mother that I was an incurable stammerer, and that I'd never be able to speak," Venturi recalls. "My mother asked me what I was going to do, and I said, 'Well, I'm going to take up the loneliest sport I know of -- I'm going to take up golf.' I walked from the house to Harding Park and hit my first golf balls."

Harding Park was a nearby public golf course where Fred Venturi played and where he formally introduced his son to the game at age 13. On young Venturi's first full round at Harding Park, he shot a dismal 172. Fortunately, Venturi says, he's also stubborn. Giving up never occurred to him.

Harding Park had a six-hole practice facility that became Venturi's second home. "You could go to a green and it was almost your green if you got there first," he says. "You could practice and chip and pitch and do all kinds of things. It was nothing for me to spend 6, 7, 8 hours straight -- hitting golf balls."

While he was hitting those golf balls, he was teaching himself something else as well. "I was alone, trying to teach myself to speak, making speeches and talking to myself and working on the rhythm of my game. It was a long, long time," he says.

Venturi had to keep bringing money into the house as well. He'd go to school, then to the golf course to practice, then to an ice cream parlor where he fit his homework around customers. When he was 13, he watched Byron Nelson beat Ben Hogan by 19 strokes in the San Francisco Open. He began saving up for Nelson clubs and trying to emulate Nelson's style.

As he advanced in high school, Venturi discovered he had several athletic gifts, in addition to his earlier knack for impromptu boxing. He played basketball and baseball, but no other sport ever had the pull that golf had. In 1948, Venturi won a trip to Ann Arbor, Mich., for the first-ever U.S. Junior Amateur. He lost to Dean Lind in the final match, but the competition made quite an impression. "I saw the way people lived there and the travel and what you could do with golf," he says.

In fact, Venturi turned his back on a career in big league baseball at age 18 when he declined a draft offer from the Yankees. "Baseball was good, but of course there was no money in it," he says. "And there was the traveling with other people all the time. I played center field, which again was a perfect spot for me because I was by myself out there. But then I saw what golf could do, and I realized that you couldn't be good at both of them, so you might as well pick one. I just quit baseball, cold turkey. Never took it up again, never looked back."

When Venturi did dream about his future, his dreams often included winning the U.S. Open. He never dreamed he'd speak well enough to broadcast it as well.

"When you're really good, son, they'll tell you."
Venturi enrolled in San Jose State University with the intention of becoming a dentist. As he won more golf tournaments, he was introduced to Ed Lowery, who owned one of the nation's largest car dealerships. Lowery gave him a job selling cars, and he also introduced him to his idol, Byron Nelson.

Nelson gave Venturi his first formal lessons and helped shape his game. At 21, Venturi won the San Francisco city championship and played in the America's Cup against Canada and Mexico. The next year he was a member of the U.S. Walker Cup team that defeated England in Marion, Mass.

Because of his stammer, Venturi came off sounding like a cocky young man. "When somebody asked me who I thought would win, it was much easier to just say me," Venturi recalls. "I didn't want to embarrass myself. I wasn't a very popular person because I gave short, quick answers without explaining the reason for the answer."

Venturi's father -- a man of few words himself -- told him not to worry about it. " 'If you believe you're right, son, you don't have to make excuses,' he said. 'Just do what you have to do.' "

Venturi's father also cautioned his son against bragging. "I was coming home from a tournament and telling him how great I was," Venturi recalls. "He shook his head and said, 'When you're really good, son, they'll tell you.' "

Venturi graduated from San Jose State in 1953, and he was inducted into the army in January 1954. His golf career in the states had to be put on hold, as Venturi was shipped to Korea and became a member of the infantry. He was later transferred to a location in Austria, near the Russian border. While in Austria, he practiced with balls he had painted red and green to stand out against the snow, and he earned the rank of sergeant.

After almost 18 months overseas, Venturi returned to the states and sought Nelson's help with a swing that had gotten off kilter. Venturi and his wife had a baby boy, Matthew, born in 1956, and his automobile sales were going well. The 24-year-old's golf game was going so well that he received a special invitation to The Masters Tournament in Augusta from the committee of past champions.

Venturi made history at The Masters in 1956, but not necessarily the way he would have liked. He shot a 66 to take the first-round lead, then went 69-75 to take a four-stroke lead after three rounds. Tradition dictated that the leader be paired with former champion Nelson in the final round. Tournament officials thought that pairing Venturi with his mentor Nelson might result in a hollow victory, so he was paired with Sam Snead, whom Venturi had chosen himself. Venturi made six bogeys on the back nine. After hitting 15 greens in regulation, he finished with an 80 and lost to Jackie Burke.

Venturi was devastated -- and determined. He finished eighth in the U.S. Open and began preparing for the U.S. Amateur. He was knocked out in the first round. He began to contemplate turning professional, which he did after playing in the America's Cup. Venturi made his professional debut in the 1957 Bing Crosby Pro-Am, but his first official PGA Tour victory came in the St. Paul Open in August, where he tied the tournament record. He also won the Miller Open. By the end of 1957, Venturi had been voted Rookie of the Year, and he'd finished as the 10th-leading money winner on tour that year, an especially impressive feat considering that he'd accumulated those winnings in the mere four months he was eligible.

Venturi began 1958 in a big way. In a span of six weeks, he won the Thunderbird Invitational, the Phoenix Open and the Baton Rouge Open. Prize money and endorsements came pouring in. He won two more tournaments in 1959, and he and his wife had their second son, Timothy.

In 1960, Venturi had another shot at The Masters. He shot a 73 in the first round, a disheartening six strokes behind Arnold Palmer. Venturi improved to a 69 in the second round and was only two shots behind Palmer. By the end of the third round, he was only one shot back. It had become a three-man race with Palmer up one and Venturi tied with Dow Finsterwald. Venturi was paired with Finsterwald, and they were even going into the final hole. Venturi made par on the hole and Finsterwald bogeyed. As Venturi took the lead into the clubhouse, the situation looked good. Palmer was on No. 16 and needed two birdies to beat him, not an easy task at Augusta. Palmer charged up the hill, whacked in two birdies and knocked Venturi off by one stroke.

Venturi went on to win the Milwaukee Open, giving him 10 tour victories and a total of $157,000 in official purses. He also garnered additional endorsements, but what he had really wanted was that green jacket. It was not to be.

The Ken Venturi Guiding Eyes Classic golf tournament, now in its 20th year, provides funds to turn cute little puppies like this into trained professionals.

"I asked God to give me one more chance."
Not satisfied with his success so far, Venturi kept up his rigid practice regimen. Then a string of disasters began. A car Venturi was riding in was broadsided when another car ran a red light. None of his bones were broken, but he had several torn muscles.

He altered his swing and began to play in pain. His game deteriorated. He missed shots he would have made a few months before. He went the entire 1961 season without winning a tournament.

In January 1962, a searing pain in his back and chest left him unable to swing a club. His doctor told him it was back spasms and prescribed rest. Venturi tried all types of treatments, but rest was not an option, he thought. He had to keep playing to protect the many long-term contracts he had. He kept altering his swing to accommodate the pain. Venturi kept trying to play, but his form was terrible and he was always in pain.

In '63, Venturi's skills seemed to have abandoned him. In frustration, he frequented the practice range less and the bars more. His earnings tumbled. He lost endorsement contracts. For the third consecutive year, he failed to qualify for the U.S. Open. He stopped getting invited to tournaments. It seemed his career was over.

In September of that year, Venturi was at a bar on Geary Street in San Francisco, drinking Jack Daniels. The bartender was Dave Marselli, who knew Venturi and was a former football player from the University of San Francisco. Hesitant to give Venturi another drink, Marselli instead gave him a lecture on how he was ruining his life. Venturi got the drink, downed it and threw the empty glass in the trash. "I give you my word," he told Marselli, "I will not have another drink until I win again."

Venturi started showing up on the golf course again. His injuries had had a chance to heal, and he practiced relentlessly. He got out notes Nelson had made on his swing, and he practiced some more.

He was heartbroken when he didn't receive an invitation to The Masters, but he had decided he was going to put his game together for one more shot at the Tour. Regaining his confidence would be the hardest part. No one called to invite him to tournaments. He was reduced to asking for sponsor exemptions to play.

Venturi says his job is to give the television audience insight into what the golfer is thinking as he plans his strategy.

Late one night, he asked God to give him one more chance to use his golf talents. "I made a promise when I was at my lowest ebb," he recalls. "I asked God to give me one more chance. I asked him to give me my game back one more time, and then I promised to find a way to give back to others."

His play improved, and he acquired a last-minute sponsor's invitation to the Thunderbird Invitational, where he took third. Convinced that his luck had turned, Venturi went to Franklin Hills, where he qualified for the U.S. Open by three shots. It had been four years since he had qualified for the Open -- and four years since he had won a tournament.

"My God, I've won the Open!"
The 1964 Open was at Congressional Country Club in Bethesda, Md., only a short drive from Washington D.C. Washington's summers often feel like something out of Dante's Inferno, and this one was a scorcher.

Venturi opened with a 72, four shots behind Arnold Palmer. In the second round he shot a 70, but he was still barely in the hunt. Tommy Jacobs had the midway lead at 136, and Palmer was only one shot back.

On the way out of the club, Venturi opened a long letter from a priest who'd been advising him. The letter was a mighty motivational speech in a small envelope. Father Frank Murray's words were full of encouragement. Not encouragement to do well, but to win. "If you would win the U.S. Open, you would prove to millions of people that they can be victorious over doubt and struggle and temptation to despair," Murray wrote. "Your success would be a world of encouragement to everyone!"

Back then, the third and fourth rounds of the Open were played on Saturday. Venturi and his partner Raymond Floyd had an early tee-time. They went off unnoticed, as the crowd was waiting for Jacobs and Palmer. Venturi got his birdies early and the two leaders faltered. Venturi was leading the Open by the turn. He played well until he reached the 15th tee. There he began to shake uncontrollably. The heat had caught up with him, and Venturi, accustomed to the cooler clime of San Francisco, hadn't thought to stay hydrated. He bogeyed 17 and 18 to finish the round at 66, still only two behind Jacobs.

John Everett, M.D., a member of Congressional and chair of the Open's medical committee, came to look at Venturi, who was trembling, pale and despite the heat, not sweating at all. He also instructed Venturi to drink ice tea and water and to take salt tablets. Everett advised Venturi to drop out. Venturi never once entertained the idea.

He stumbled out onto the course and teed off. Everett accompanied him, giving him still more fluids and an occasional wet towel. Joe Dey, executive director of the USGA, also walked along with him. Venturi concentrated on just one shot at time -- he was too exhausted to think of anything else. The thermometer continued to climb.

Normally a fast player, Venturi moved up the fairways like he was crawling. He parred the first five holes, bogeyed the sixth and birdied the ninth, leaving him two shots ahead at the turn. He continued to play well, while Jacobs was making bogeys. Venturi birdied the 13th and was ahead by four strokes when he reached the 18th tee.

As 25,000 incredulous fans watched, Venturi hit a perfect drive down the middle of the fairway. As he walked to the green, he held his head high. He lined up his putt and struck the ball. Venturi was sure he knew how the putt was supposed to break, and that's how he hit it. But then the ball seemed to defy the laws of physics, he says. "It was as though somebody upstairs turned it and plunked it right in the hole. It was destiny."

Venturi watched the ball in amazement and uttered his now famous exclamation, "My God, I've won the Open!" He had come back. He had achieved his moment. God had kept his part of the deal. Venturi would now keep his.

"I went for two years without anyone ever asking me."
In addition to the prize money, Venturi now had money from endorsements and appearances. He also had tournament invitations. He won the Insurance City Open in July and the American Golf Classic at Firestone Country Club in Akron, Ohio, in August.

Venturi also had a new perspective on success. At the American Golf Classic, he signed autograph after autograph. "A woman with her young boy had waited and waited for me," he recalls. "I kept signing, and when I got down to them, she said, 'You must be very tired of doing this.' I shook my head and summed it up for her. 'No, madam,' I said, 'I went for two years without anyone ever asking me.'"

He finished in the money in the St. Paul Open and the Whitemarsh Open. In November, Venturi was named PGA Player of the Year. Sports Illustrated named him Sportsman of the Year, an honor Venturi found incredible in an Olympic year.

While playing in England, Venturi noticed the tips of his fingers were white, blistered and peeling. His fingers began to go numb. He sought out advice and treatment from several doctors, finally ending up at the Mayo Clinic, where the doctors diagnosed the problem as carpal tunnel syndrome. A well-known affliction in the '90s, it was basically unknown in the '60s. Venturi felt he had to show up at the Bellerive Country Club in St. Louis to defend his Open title, even though he knew he wouldn't make it past the first round. Once he had done his part, he entered the Mayo Clinic for surgery to improve his circulation.

The surgery helped, but it didn't completely fix the problem. It did give Venturi the chance to play on the victorious '65 Ryder Cup team, where he won a deciding point. At the end of the year, he was voted the winner of the Ben Hogan Award for Comeback Athlete of the Year.

Venturi signed a contract to do a six-week, five-minute radio golf program with a station in San Francisco, and he began practicing for the Lucky International Open at his old home course, Harding Park, where his father now managed the pro shop. Venturi wanted to do well on his old turf, in front of all his old friends.

Venturi shot a respectable 68 in the first round, but the next day the weather turned cold. His hands bothered him a great deal, but he used chemical hand-warmers and finished with a 68. A cold, driving rain the next day turned his hands numb. Play was called, and when the tournament resumed the next day, the weather had improved. Venturi finished the round with a 71. Venturi was tied with Arnold Palmer, four strokes behind the leader, Frank Beard. With nothing to lose, Venturi concentrated on beating Palmer. He birdied the 6th, 9th, 15th and 16th, then learned that he had overtaken the lead. As the hometown crowd cheered and Venturi's caddie (son Matt's godfather, Bud Allio) turned pale, Venturi brought in a 66. Beard finished one stroke behind him. Venturi had won on his home course. He had come back one more time. It would be his last PGA Tour victory.

"You were the best I ever saw."
Venturi's hands never improved much more, and they got much worse again in '68. He took a broadcasting job with CBS. Working with longtime golf producer and legend Frank Chirkinian, he began learning the business.

In 1970, he also had to have another surgery on his hands. Venturi's prospects for continuing his playing career seemed grim. His father offered to take him to the airport. "I was looking for something to give me courage," Venturi says. "My father gave me a hug and a kiss. And he said, 'Son, it doesn't matter if you ever play again.' I said, 'How can you say that?' And he said, 'Because, son, you were the best I ever saw.' "

That was all Venturi had ever wanted to hear. His work was done.

"I treat the player like I would like to be treated."
Following the surgery, Venturi's doctors told him he could play professionally, but he'd never play up to his standards. That was unacceptable. Venturi launched a successful broadcast career that's still going strong.

Venturi doesn't believe in rubbing a player's nose in his mistake, a trait he sees too often nowadays. "I treat the player like I would like to be treated," he says. "I can say that's a 'horrible, terrible shot' and not say those words by saying 'that's the only place he didn't want to be. Now he faces an impossible little pitch shot. You've got bogey for sure -- possibly double-bogey. He'd like to have that shot over.' He knows it was stupid and I know it, but you don't have to say it. I don't use the words 'choking' or 'miserable, stupid, dumb shot.' There's no need for that."

Venturi has taken some flack for his style. But that's fine with him. He knows what it's like to be in the player's shoes when things aren't going well. "The press has gotten on me sometimes and said I don't 'call it like it is.' I said 'You don't listen.' So I explained it to them. Some of them still didn't get it."

Venturi believes his job is to tell the viewers what it's like to be on the course at that moment, in that situation. He believes that so intensely he's turned down offers to broadcast other sports. "Like I told Don Drysdale, when it comes down to the 18th hole and you have to hit a certain shot, I'm going to tell you how to do it because I've been there. If it's the last half of the ninth and the bags are loaded, I want you to tell me what it's like because you've been there. I don't know. I've never been in a World Series."

"More than yesterday, less than tomorrow"
Along with golf and CBS, the other defining element in Ken Venturi's life has been his wife, Beau. He first saw her in 1963 in a Palm Springs restaurant where she worked. They didn't even speak for five years. They were finally introduced by Frank Sinatra.

In 1972, two years after his divorce was final, Venturi and Beau Painter were married. "I had known Frank for a long time, and I was going to have him be best man," Venturi says of Sinatra. "But he said, 'No, you can't afford the party I can throw, so I'll give the bride away.' I call him my father-in-law," Venturi jokes.

Beau Venturi passed away in July, just months short of their 25th wedding anniversary. "Good things always go by so fast," Venturi says. He still speaks of her in the present tense, as though he might turn around and find her. A calendar, stuck forever on the day she died, is in the living room. A framed photograph of Venturi with his beloved (and also recently deceased) yellow Labrador Geoff hangs in his office. Beau's handwriting on it reads, "To Dad, Happy Birthday, Love Geoff."

Venturi says Beau helped him raise his two boys and taught him not to be critical of others. The two of them enjoyed their home in Florida on Marco Island, where they went fishing and boating. Venturi also enjoyed playing golf with her. "She played very fast. That's how I like to play, too. She'd get up and hit that thing. Get that cart, and away she'd go. We had a great time. She shot in the nineties. She knew a lot about the game. People would ask me for lessons, and I'd say, 'Don't ask me, ask Beau.' "

When Beau passed away, friends from all over the world came to the funeral, Venturi says. "I don't know anybody who didn't like her. Everybody loved her."

When her obituary appeared in the paper, it appeared without her date of birth. Her tombstone on Marco Island is equally vague. "That's the way she wanted it," Venturi says with a smile. "She always said, 'Age is just a number, and mine's unlisted.' "

A globe made from Waterford crystal rests in Venturi's office. It says so much that he cannot: "To K.V., More than Yesterday, Less than Tomorrow, B.V." (as in, "I love you more today than I did yesterday and less than I will love you tomorrow").

"If you think you've got a bad deal in life, just look around."
When Venturi promised God he'd make good with his second chance, he meant it. He's been quietly helping people of all walks of life since.

"He's genuine, authentic and sincere," says Barbara Klimas, Venturi's secretary for the past 21 years. "He's also a private person. He's not going to tell you about all the good work he does because he's just not that kind of a guy."

In fact, tracking down all the charities Venturi works with would be impossible. There are so many. And there are so many for whom he does so-called "little things" -- like hosting golf tournaments and building buildings.

Venturi believes that charity work, like prayer, should be done in private with no thought for personal benefit. "If you want to pray, you pray in private. You don't have to go to a street corner and let everybody know that you pray. When you give, you don't have to let people know that you're giving, as long as you know yourself. Only two people have to know -- you and God."

One organization that's benefited greatly from Venturi's work is Guiding Eyes For the Blind in Yorktown, N.Y. Visually impaired individuals come from all over the nation to be paired with highly trained dogs who are then given to them at no charge. The average cost of each match -- including the breeding costs as well as training and boarding of both the person and the canine -- is $25,000. Much of the money comes from the annual Ken Venturi Guiding Eyes Classic, which celebrated its 20th year in 1997. He's made friends with many of the blind golfers, who return every year for their own championship.

"Ken remains closer than ever to the blind golfers and to his unrelenting commitment to the mission of providing Guiding Eyes dogs to blind men and women across the United States," says Barbara Felice, director of special events for the organization.

Venturi knows all about how the dogs work. He even went to the school years ago, blindfolded himself and underwent the same training as the visually impaired students. His own dog, Geoff, was a guide dog castoff of sorts because of his hip dysplasia. The dog adopted Venturi on a visit to the school 13 years ago.

Venturi's favorite causes run the gamut. He's host of the Loma Linda University Proton Charity Invitational golf tournament, which benefits the Loma Linda University Medical Center. He has buildings named after him at Camp Venture, an organization in Nanuet, N.Y., that operates programs and community residences for developmentally disabled children and young adults. He's involved with the ARETE Awards, which are given to recognize courage in sports. He's also involved with a golf outing in Ireland that benefits a home for mentally disabled people in County Kerry.

Venturi works with several local children who stutter, and he has also served as the national spokesperson for National Stuttering Awareness Week. He's also featured on the Stuttering Foundation of America's poster of 11 Famous People Who Stutter.

One of Venturi's most recent roles is spokesperson for Give Kids the World, an organization that enables children with life-threatening illnesses to visit Disney World. One night in September, Venturi was struck by the Muse and got up to pen a poem for the organization. Give Kids the World has made a videotape of him reciting his poem for a public service announcement.

All this work with people who've had it rough always makes him feel grateful, he says, talking about the dying children whose last wish is to see Mickey Mouse. "If you think you've got a bad deal in life, just look around," he says.

Venturi and Jim Nantz make a great pair in the broadcast booth. The keep the atmosphere light prior to going on the air, and they're always ready with high jinks that enterain the CBS technical crew.

"It's a great honor to be able to sit next to Ken Venturi."
Weathering this difficult year has been made easier for Venturi with the help of his many friends, as well as his sons and their families, Klimas says. "He loves to fish, and he loves to play golf. It's hard for him though, because he's so good, to find people to play with so he can enjoy it. And he has his buddies on the island, to whom he's just 'Ken.' "

Although he lives far from Marco Island, one of those buddies is friend and CBS colleague Jim Nantz.

"Sitting next to Ken Venturi 20 weeks a year is like sitting next to your best friend," says Nantz, who's worked closely with Venturi since 1986. "We cherish each other's company, and we respect each other as broadcasters. We're very close."

Nantz, who is the network's lead anchor for much of its sports coverage, including Olympic broadcasts, college football, NCAA basketball and U.S. Open Tennis, travels frequently but always seems to have time to call Venturi. The two of them play practical jokes on each other, and they call each other 'Jimmy' and 'Kenny.'

"He's a delight," Venturi says of Nantz. "He's knowledgeable and enthusiastic. We never step on each other's toes. He's a delight to work with."

Nantz has been the anchor for the network's golf coverage since 1994, and he and Venturi team up to bring viewers the golf season from The Masters in April to the PGA Championship and the World Series of Golf in August.

Nantz graduated from the University of Houston, where he played on the golf team and roomed with Fred Couples. Nantz also recalls the impression Venturi made on him as a young man.

"It's a great honor to be able to sit next to Ken Venturi," he says. "I grew up watching him on television. I never dreamed I'd meet him, let alone be his partner in the broadcasting booth."

"Ken exemplifies the spirit of Old Tom Morris."
"Ken exemplifies the spirit of Old Tom Morris because he has a passion for the game and all it has to offer," says Paul S. McGinnis, CGCS, GCSAA president.

GCSAA's highest honor, the Old Tom Morris Award is given to an individual who has shown a lifetime commitment to the game of golf and who has helped mold the welfare of the game in a manner and style exemplified by Old Tom Morris, the legendary greenkeeper and professional at the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews in Scotland. Morris, who also designed and built golf clubs and balls, was one of the top golf course designers of the 19th century, as well as a four-time winner of the British Open.

Previous winners of the OTM award have included Ben Crenshaw, Tom Fazio, Byron Nelson, Gene Sarazen, Patty Berg and Arnold Palmer.

"Quietly, unassumingly, behind the scenes, Venturi's done a lot to benefit the game of golf and those who are less fortunate," McGinnis says. "He has brought the game to people around the world, and in the process, always supported superintendents and recognized their management and environmental achievements."

Other parallels between Venturi and Old Tom Morris have been easy to make, McGinnis says, noting that Old Tom was also known for his kindness to others and his golf prowess, qualities that Venturi is known for as well. Venturi enjoys building and shaping golf clubs, and he once had his own golf club design business.

Like Venturi, Old Tom Morris' spirituality was an important part of his essence. Always a devoted believer, Morris also turned to God in the dark moments of his life, which in Morris' case included the deaths of his wife and children.

Like Old Tom Morris, Venturi imparts his knowledge of the game to others. His "stroke savers" on television and in books have helped duffers from all walks of life. He's given assistance to many a professional golfer, including PGA Tour pro John Cook. Venturi won't charge for lessons. If someone insists, they usually end up writing a check to one of his charities.

"How can I charge when Nelson only charged me five cents?" he asks. "I asked him how I could repay him, and he said, 'Be good to the game and give back,' " Venturi recalls. "I've given it to others, and hopefully, someday they'll find somebody to give it to as well."

Venturi is flattered at the comparisons to Old Tom, and he's deeply honored by the award. "I was fortunate enough to have won PGA Player of the Year. I was Comeback Athlete of the Year. I was Sports Illustrated's Sportsman of the Year -- those are all nice awards. But the Old Tom Morris Award recognizes a lifetime commitment to the tradition of the game. I am deeply honored and grateful to be chosen, and I will respect the award as long as I live."

Venturi also respects the work of those bestowing the award. "I have always been a fan of the superintendents," he says. "I give credit everywhere I can. To me, they're one of the unsung heroes of the game, and I've known that since I was a kid at Harding Park, a public course where I used to cut greens and work with the superintendent."

A full member at 22 golf clubs all over the world, Venturi says he trusts superintendents to do their jobs without feeling the need to meddle, and he thinks others should too. "The biggest fear I would have as a superintendent would be the man who sits behind a desk for 25 years and then is voted onto the green committee and overnight 'becomes' an agronomist. Those are the people who scare me."

Venturi also acknowledges that he sees the best courses in the world, on the days when they look their best.

"It's a joy to see a place like Winged Foot and to look at it from the tower and the shots from the blimp. I take my hat off each week I can and find some way to give thanks to the superintendent and their entire crew."

"He's the one everybody looks to when they start the business."
Venturi is an excellent choice for the Old Tom Morris Award, says two-time Emmy Award-winning sports commentator Jack Whitaker, who began co-hosting CBS golf events with Venturi in the late '60s. "I think Kenny might have had even more shots than Old Tom," he jokes. "Kenny is a very multifaceted gentleman. He's a marvelous golfer, of course. His winning the U.S. Open is one for the ages and something we still take great lessons from," Whitaker says.

"As a broadcaster, I think he has brought an awful lot to broadcasting golf. He loves the game so much, and he feels it so much and he's very generous with his information," Whitaker says. "That's something you don't find always in athletes who come into the announcing booth. Sometimes they want to keep it all to themselves, and often they can't express themselves. But Kenny does both, and he's so generous with that information that he makes you a better broadcaster."

In his 31 years of broadcasting, Venturi has seen several generations of great golfers come and go.

Venturi's contribution to the game has been extensive, agrees CBS sports broadcaster Gary McCord. "He's been around all facets of the game. He's been on the air for 30 years, so he's seen it all. He's said it all on the air. He's the one everybody looks to when they start the business."

Lance Barrow, coordinating producer of CBS' golf coverage, says Venturi's impact on him has been immeasurable. "I started 23 years ago with CBS Sports and worked for Pat Summerall. Ken Venturi was a CBS Sports announcer and analyst, and Ken just kind of took me under his wing. He's almost like a father figure to me. Not only has he helped me television-wise, he's also helped me in life. That's just the kind of man he is."

Barrow, who inherited the reins from Chirkinian, says he appreciates Venturi's input. "He's always there to help. He's always there to counsel if you need it. He's there to give you advice and tell you when you're doing right and when you're doing wrong. He's a very caring person. He goes 100 mph, and his time's very valuable, but he always has time to talk to someone, to say hello to someone."

Venturi's value in the broadcast booth is a direct outcome of his experience, Barrow says. "What's unique about Ken's broadcasting style is that, not only did he know Ben Hogan and Byron Nelson, but he knew them as very close friends. Not only did he compete against Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus and Cary Middlecoff, but he also beat them. And, since he's been around for more than 30 years doing television, he's seen Jack Nicklaus come along. He's seen Tom Watson come along. Now he's seeing Tiger Woods come along. He's lasted through many generations of golfers."

In a year in which he lost his beloved wife, his longtime mentor Ben Hogan and even his dog, Venturi remains positive. He draws on the wisdom of many years, many triumphs and more than a few defeats. He has taken his place in the record books, and he's a chapter in golf legend. He's one of the last traditionalists who recalls Nelson and Hogan when they were at the peak of their games. He plays it as it lies, values shot-making over eye-popping distance and believes that golf is more an inheritance to pass down than simply a sport.

He'll be remembered, not as the amateur who almost won The Masters, not as the young pro whose promising career was cut short, but as Ken Venturi, the man who kept amazing the golf world with his courageous comebacks. That's all he ever asked for.

Kay Hawes is GCM's senior associate editor.