TupaTalk: How do you measure success?
So, what is success?
Bobby Jones has faded further each year from the golf consciousness.
If you’re younger than 20, he belongs to the generation of your great-great-great grandfather’s generation.
It’s been 94 years since he made his last major impact — as a player — on the sport.
Some might consider him arguably the greatest American, or even international, linkster of all time — certainly the top of the ladder of amateur competitors.
The Atlanta native could have made a million dollars — perhaps many million — in pro competition in the 1930s and 1940s.
But, at age 28 — in 1930 — the fighting little Hercules, who measured out at 5-foot-8, 165 pounds, Jones stepped away.
In that short span, he had won or tied for first in the Masters twice, had won the U.S. Open four times, had won the (British) Open three times, had won the U.S. Amateur meet five times and had won the British Amateur title in 1930 — he would make a few competitive appearances the next 20 years.
But, he never earned a nickel as a competitor.
For Jones, treating golf as a part-time diversion and maintaining amateur status was more important than the wealth he might have accumulated.
He called a penalty on himself in the 1925 U.S. Open — even though everyone, including his competitor, tried to argue him out of it.
Jones refused to yield. For him, principle and a clear conscience trumped over a title he felt he hadn’t really earned.
Jones would have a major impact on golf in other ways — as a course designer (including helping with the design of the Augusta National Golf Club) and an instructor. Those ventures did bring him an income.
He also helped found the Masters tournament and played in from 1934-48 — on exhibition status.
For Jones, success was in winning according to a strict interpretation to the rules and in retaining a love of the sport by avoiding the lure and pressure of professionalism. He turned pro on a tournament in 1930, not to make prize money but to be eligible to make instructional films and books.
He also would be directly involved in helping develop the first set of steel-shafted clubs.
During World War II, he worked in military intelligence.
As I reflect on the question of success, I’m reminded of a true story from my mom.
She recalled that on his 29th birthday, my dad literally sobbed and sobbed because he thought his life had been a failure — that he hadn’t accomplished what he had planned.
I’ve thought of that scene and have wished I could reach back in time and comfort him.
Age 29! I didn’t get my first full-time newspaper job until I was on the downhill roll to age 32.
My dad, who was a very good truck driver, lost faith in the future — a future that would see him become one of the top officers of a major trucking company in Texas.
He had big ideas — he wanted to be a rural-area sheriff and to own a ranch to help troubled boys.
This all from a man who never got out of elementary school — despite excelling in his studies — because his dad wanted him home to work on the dirt farm.
What is success?
I don’t believe success is an event — it is the fruit of a process of doing the right things.
Recently, I saw the name of the town of “Yerington”, which I assume is the one in Nevada.
It gave me pause.
Back during my ardent effort to get a newspaper job, the Yerington newspaper publisher invited me to an interview. The challenge was I had to drive about 600 miles each way.
I decided to do it while taking off just one night from my security guard job.
I intended to make the 1,200-mile roundtrip in less than 24 hours. My mom volunteered to drive along as a passenger to keep my company.
The trip there took longer — don’t they always — and I arrived in the early evening. The publisher came to the closed office to meet me and we spent around an hour together talking about the job and touring the small town.
When that concluded, I climbed back in my car and started immediately back for Salt Lake City. Mom helped me stay awake, even though I pulled into a rest stop and we both slept a couple of hours in our seats.
A couple of days later, the publisher sent my mom a letter — for some reason he had her address and not mine — to say they decided to hire someone else.
She was very upset. I was, too — but also, and I can’t explain it, felt an odd sense of encouragement because at least I had had a real chance.
It would be another a year-and-a-half before another Nevada newspaper hired me — one we had driven through on the way to Yerington.
This article originally appeared on Bartlesville Examiner-Enterprise: TupaTalk column: How do you measure success?
