Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1948-01-22

who were priv Henry McLemore.
legged to have him as q friend called
him, considered himself the worlds
greatest golfer. Oh yes, he knew
Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen, Jess
Sweetser, Ben Hogan and Byron
Nelson; in fact, he had played with
them scores of times. And his own
score, to my knowledge, had never
been better than 90. But he recog-
nized no master at golf. He consid-
cred himself possessor OF form and
style that was much superior, even
to those who outscored him by Is or
20 shots. s...
WOrth-Knowing People.
I met Mr.. Frank, as I have so
many gracious, lovely people,
through the Grantland Rices. Kate
and Granny know more people than
the census taker, and they are all
worth knowing. Mr.. Frank, as
was I, was frequent week-ender
at the Rices' summer home IN
Easthampton. Incidentally, one
would have to mush over the frozen
Arctic wastes, or machete ones way
through the Congo jungle, to find
two people more different than Mr..
Frank and me, especially at the time
we met, fifteen years ago, but ne
never let on that We stood poles
apart, and his handclasp was as
warm the day we met as it was the
last time we shook hands, long after
I had learned to quit looking for
my napkin ring In a restaurant.
I'll never forget the first time
we played golf together. 1t was at
the National at Southampton, a
club I'll define as being the near
est holy-of -holies that we have IN
American golf. 1t was an intimate
little tournament, and I was the
only fellow there who wasn't known,
internationally or nationally. A
pool was drawn the night before
with quite a bit of money in it
and Mr.. Crowninshield drew me as
partner. If we won, we would
win a stable chunk of money.
Mr.. Frank started teaching me
golf on the first tee.
my dear fellow, your left arm Is
not straight. My dear Henry,
do you think it possible to strike
the ball from the position which you
have assumed? Allow me to
suggest that you stand closer to the
I finally got of the first tee and.
after much travail, reached the f1rst
green. Here was where Mr.. Frank
really started teaching, because put
ting was closer to his heart than
the editorship Of Vogue, or the
French modernists. The fact that:
he three-putted SO consistently as
to raise the getting down in three
to an art, did not stop him from
coaching. Granny Rice tells me
that Mr.. Frank often felt 1t his duty
to coach Vardon on the finer points
Of putting. --... -,
But the most horrible thing
with us trying for quite a few hun
dred dollars-wass the way Mr..
Frank, after making his tee shot,
would run up the fairway and,
standing like lighthouse. warn me
Of the trouble that lay in wait Tor
a bad shot.
'Don't Hit 1t Here"
Henry" he would cry from 100
wards out, don't hit 1t here. There
is a bottomless pit from which you
will never emerge" Another wave
Of his hand and, "Over here Is a
desert. not a sand trap made by
man, but a waste on whose surface
l can easily distinguish the tracks
of camels and nomads. Hit it
straight, I implore you, hit 1t
straight"
Any golfer will tell you what I
did after such information. either
hit it into the bottomless quarry or
whacked a camel passing through
the sandy wastes.
Mr., Frank-and this would have
surprised those who thought OF him
as a proper observation-disclosures
ended a round by walking across
the 18th green on his hands. Keeps
my circulation in good shape" he
said by way Of explanation.
1t isn't too often that we miss
those who have gone on ahead Of
us. I'll say one thing-Saint Peter
had better be on his best behavior
when Mr.. Frank gets there. Else
Mr.. Frank might decide not to go in.
All of us who knew him miss him.
He was 50 nearly what all OF US
would like to be.
Distributed by McNaught Syndicate, Inc