Concentration and Discipline

“These [golfers] who play the circuit now,” he said, “they all have to take a week or two off every now and then. They all get jaded with it, as you do with anything. That’s really the reason I quit playing in competition. I’d made up my mind even before I got around to 1930 that if I ever found a convenient stopping place, I was going to do it.

“In tournament golf, and particularly in an Open championship, you take an awful lot of mental punishment. Golf is played at such a slow pace that you don’t have an opportunity to work off steam in physical activity. Playing around that golf course in four hours, you get so weighted down by the strain and the responsibility and the difficulty of concentrating that you just wish to goodness you could hit a careless shot—just hit the ball without thinking. And if you ever yield to that temptation you’ll always pay for it.

Mental Preparation

“I think that a lot of our younger pros and amateurs are over-impressed with amount of time and study they have to give to the making of a golf shot. They look to me like they try to take into consideration more damn things than they have to. I think they’re setting a very bad example for youngsters.

“I used to walk around a little bit on the green after I got the ball on there, but all I was trying to do was to tranquilize my breathing. Walking a good distance up to the green and making your way through a crowd of people requires a little exertion, and so I’d stall around a little bit just to get my breathing tranquilized, and get my mind back on the shot. But no more than that. Like old Alex Smith used to say, ‘Miss ‘em quick.’ If I ever took a second waggle, I might as well put the club back in the bag. I just couldn’t hit the ball.”

Focusing on the Job at Hand

“Fundamentally, there’s just one order of movement that is the most efficient method of hitting a golf ball. You hear an awful lot of talk about the modem swing differing from the swing of twenty years ago. It doesn’t at all, except in the minutest sort of detail.

“There’s just one basic way a man can hit a golf ball with full power and full efficiency, and it never will be any different as long as he’s just got two arms and two legs. You’ve got to wind up the trunk and lift the arms and cock the wrists. Then you’ve got to use those sources of power in a certain order—unwinding the hips, leading, unwinding the trunk, leading the downswing, pulling with the arms. The final uncocking of the wrists is the culmination of the blow. But you can’t be thinking about all those things and about where you want the ball to go. And where you want it to go is the most important.”

Sportsmanship

“One of the first questions everybody asks us in connection with our trip to see Bob Jones is, ‘How is his health?’ [No one who knows him ever calls him Bobby.]

“The answer is, ‘About the same.’ His trouble was caused by an injured vertebra at the top of the spine, the effect of which was a deterioration of nerve supply to his limbs. This resulted in an increasing atrophy, and pain in his arms and legs. Two operations some years back failed to correct the trouble.”

In time, this condition led to his paralysis and, eventually, his death. Shortly before his death, someone asked him about the state of his health. Jones’ response is one of those rare expressions of true courage, and is worth remembering in the dark moments we will all face.

“I will tell you privately it’s not going to get better, it’s going to get worse all the time, but don’t fret. Remember, we ‘play the ball where it lies,’ and now let’s not talk about this, ever again.”

Read “A Visit with Bobby Jones,” April 5, 1958 [PDF].

The Old Masters: Thoughts on Golf and Life from Bobby Jones The Saturday Evening Post

At the time of the article — 1958 — the Joachim (pronounced Joe-ACK-im) children included twelve girls and five boys ranging in age from 18 months to a 24-year-old.

The logistics of raising a family this large were impressive. The annual milk budget was $1,300 a year for milk (over $7,000 in 2010 dollars.) Getting roughly 50 meals a day out of one not-too-modern kitchen was strategically daunting. “But we have all the gadgets we need,” Rose (Mom) told the Post, pointing to her brood. Dad added, “And when they’re through, they don’t clutter up the kitchen. They go outside to play.”

That Dad was Jack Joachim, Sr., who made ends meet by holding down two jobs, one as a supervisor at the local telephone company, the other at a retail hardware business, where he was a partner. He mastered plumbing, electrical work and photography.

“When he took up something, he went all the way,” Marylyn reports. “He learned developing with the photography and built a warehouse as a darkroom studio.” Since there was a military base nearby, Jack Sr. was often developing up to 500 rolls of film a day, making his hobby a paying one.

Jack Joachim is still around at age 93. “I have to go to the gym for an hour each day just to keep up with him,” his daughter, Marylyn jokes. He joined some of the kids on a trip to Italy when he was 89. He still drives and family members take him to dinner and a movie every Friday. Jack Sr. has a home health nurse, “but sometimes the nurse has a hard time catching him,” according to his daughter (well, one of the daughters).

The Joachims at breakfast. The menu: cereal (cold in summer, hot in winter), milk, juice, toast, jam.

He still enjoys photography and is “on his fifth digital camera.” The kids call him the Gadget Man. And yes, the 93-year-old patriarch can use a computer. He can get frustrated with it (like the rest of us) but the kids help him with e-mails.

At the time of the article, the parents had “coped with about every problem that mothers and fathers can face, including the tragic death of a son who was struck by an auto.” Since the article, there were two more births, so the child count was a total of 20.

The extended dinner table pictured in the article had to be custom-made, Bill notes. A carpenter came to the house and met the Joachim’s specifications of “three feet wide and ten feet long.” Sometimes, a young classmate of a Joachim child would slip in for a meal. “Nobody noticed an extra body or two,” Bill says.

A new baby in the house was nothing out of the ordinary, according to the article. One time, Mrs. Joachim went to the hospital for a day to treat a minor ailment. Upon her return, a bored child yawned, “Well, what did we have this time, mamma?”

Son Bill, now 60 years old (“I was number 12”), reports a Joachim family appearance on the TV show I’ve Got a Secret. The host was Harry Morgan that week, since Garry Moore was on vacation (“We think he saw us coming,” quips Bill). But the trip to New York, where they were “treated like royalty,” was a memorable treat to the wide-eyed Biloxi children.

Some of the complications of a large family still follow the siblings. “Someone will talk to me, and obviously they know me, but I don’t know them,” Bill says. When he asks them to jog his memory, “they’ll say, ‘I went to school with your sister.’” (Word of advice when talking to a Joachim: be specific.)

Today, the “kids” range in age from 49 to 75. And some have as many as five children. Three have retired from the same phone company that employed their father for 46 years (“When you find a good horse, keep riding it,” says Bill). One owns a successful cookie and chip distributorship, and one is an executive with a major insurance company. Most remain in the Biloxi area. “We’re all still speaking to each other,” Marylyn jokes. They get along great and happily share in helping dad out.

Jack’s many interests also include motorcycles. “He always went all out,” said daughter Marylyn, “Of course it had to be a Harley.”Photo courtesy of the Joachim family

Do they have family reunions? we asked. “More like mild riots,” Bill says. They get a church or other public gathering place, since this much of a crowd is too much for most homes. This usually happens Christmas Day, which happens to be Dad’s birthday. Although sadly, Rose Joachim passed away in her 80s, she is fondly remembered on the family website. Through the website, the children dote on Jack Sr. A photo of “Paw Paw” in a classic car bears the caption, “A true classic…the car’s nice too.” We agree and we’re happy to be able to say to Jack Joachim, along with the rest of you Superdads out there: Happy Father’s Day!

View the original 1958 article, “How to Bring Up a Multitude” [PDF].

Father’s Day Times Seventeen The Saturday Evening Post

I’ve always been curious about how Americans really feel about royalty, and, like Alice in Wonderland, I got “curiouser and curiouser” when King Saud of Saudi Arabia came to the United States recently and got a classic concrete-and-steel cold shoulder from New York’s sky line and New York’s mayor. Was New York speaking for America?

I was in a convertible, coasting along Hollywood Boulevard. Beside me in the driver’s seat was Frank Hanrahan, an old Georgetown chum and an ex-FBI agent. Frank looks stern. Frank looks distinguished. Frank has never been known to play a practical joke since coming to Los Angeles. This is important, as you’ll soon see.

Bright-eyed and unaware, we were on our way to an afternoon gathering of Frank’s friends in the Hollywood hills, when “Great screaming Teddy bears!” (or something like that) exclaimed Frank. “With those sunglasses on, you look just like an Arab sheik!” This was not surprising, as both my parents are Lebanese, but right then I knew my moment had come.

“Do I look like an Arab prince, maybe?” I prodded Frank.

“Whaddya mean? Whaddya mean?”

“Do you think I could pass for an Arab prince with your friends?”

Frank gently braked the bathtub and pulled up to the curb. He squinted at me in the glaring California sunshine. “Say something in ‘prince,’” he said finally.

“Ycsss—sank—you—very—mush,” I hissed haltingly.

Frank’s unblinking stare brushed over my face with light, inscrutable finger tips. “We’re in,” he said, and roared into gear.

Frank drove to a house where his friends — none of whom had ever before seen the author — were watching a football game. Frank entered first and prepared his friends.

“Look folks, I’m in a little bit of a spot. I met a Saudi Arabian prince—”

“A prince?”

“King  Saud’s son. I met him at a party some Egyptian friends of mine threw in Beverly Hills the other night. He wants to see how Americans really live and he asked me to show him around town. I’ve got him out in the car and—”

“Right now?”

“Now. So look. I’m gonna bring him in. Now don’t panic! He’s a regular guy and he doesn’t want any fuss made over him. Just remember to address him as ‘your highness.’ But one thing — be casual!”

Blatty entered the room like a slumming prince.

I hastily spotted the most imposing chair in the room, marched over to it like Yul Brynner imitating Sir Cedric Hardwicke, and sat down, curling my fingers around the arm rest as though the chair were a throne, and, so help me, I felt majestic, even though I was wearing desert boots, Bermuda shorts and a loud, peppermint-striped shirt.

“Do you like football, your highness?” asked Denny Owen, a rugged college footballer.

“Foutball?”

“Ah—don’t they play football in your country?”

“I—sink—no.”

“Well…” and he good-heartedly launched into an explanation of the game. This seemed to ease the tension considerably, and someone else asked me if I would like a beer. I gave him the royal “oui” and Denny and Frank went into the kitchen.

I overheard their conversation:

Denny: “Cripes. I can’t hardly stand it! A prince! Here! And watchin’ the Rams on TV!”

Frank: “Take it easy, will ya, Denny? He’ll hear you.”

Denny: “What’s the deal on the candy stripe shirt, huh, Frank?”

Frank: “Oh, he’s just trying lo be one of the boys. Here, give him his beer.”

Denny: “A can, Frank—a can? We gotta give it to ‘im in a glass!”

Frank: “Nah, he’s a regular guy, I tell ya.”

Denny: “Well. O.K.”

And at this point I turned on my thro— er– chair, and saw rugged Denny carefully wiping and rubbing the top of the beer can with the tail of his clean white shirt.

Meanwhile, the Rams won the game, the TV was turned off and everyone became convivial. I learned later that some of the people in the room rather sided with the Israelis in the Arab-Israel dispute, but they were warm and friendly, and never gave a sign of their feelings. They were even suggesting nightclubs that they thought I should visit, places like the world-famous Mocambo.

Blatty was the toast of Hollywood that week. He appeared on talk shows and variety shows. He was invited to private dinners with movie stars. He succeeded beyond his most cynical dreams. The charade climaxed when Blatty got a chance to match his imposture against one of the country’s best fake princes.

One night a noted Hollywood publicist invited me along to an evening at ‘Prince’ Mike Romanoff’s. And thus it was that in the cool of the evening, ‘prince’ met ‘prince,’ ingenious imposter met up-and-coming challenger.

Entering Romanoff’s restaurant, accompanied by a studio publicity agent, Blatty seated himself with noble aplomb at a table. Within minutes, ‘Prince’ Romanoff hovered into view.

“Well, hello there,” he smiled genially, coming up to us.

“Hi, Mike. . . . Uh— your highness. Prince Kheer, may I present his highness, ‘Prince’ Romanoff?”

“How are you?” I murmured.

“A pleasure,” said Romanoff.

“His highness,” said the publicist, “is from Saudi Arabia. You know. King Saud’s son.”

“Oh. Of course, of course.” For one memorable, tremendous moment, Romanoff’s gaze locked with mine. It was toe-to-toe and there was silence in the arena.

The moment passed.

“Uh—by the way, your highness,” said the publicist, “there’s something I think you ought to know. I mean, I think I ought to tell you.”

“Iss what?”

“Well. “Prince’ Romanoff— he isn’t really a prince.”

Our shrimp cocktail had arrived.

“Iss what?” I demanded.

“They say he’s not a prince. Everyone knows it. But we like him so much we go along with the gag. No harm done.”

I put down my shrimp fork. “But iss not prince! ”

“Yes, but—”

“Sorry. I am insult.” And rising majestically, I strode out of the dining room, out of Romanoff’s and out of my life as a prince, because, brother, I believe in quitting while you’re ahead!

With that snub, that out-royaling Hollywood’s most famous ‘royal,’ Blatty returned to life as a commoner.

An Author Tries the Royal Scam for Fun The Saturday Evening Post

Read the rest of this article, “They Gamble on Offshore Drilling,” published May 28, 1955 [PDF].

They Gamble on Offshore Drilling The Saturday Evening Post

He knew that, at his age, his career was in the ‘now or never’ stage, and it seemed this season was the one that would make it ‘now.’ Through May, Cerv was leading the American League in home runs and RBIs while batting .344 with the Kansas City Athletics’ (now in Oakland).

Then, fate struck.

On May 17, Cerv was rounding the bases trying to score against the Detroit Tigers. As he rounded third, he knew the throw was going to beat him to home plate. There are only a few things a baseball player can do in that situation. One is try to slide below or jump over the tag by the catcher. Unfortunately, at 6 feet and 220 pounds, agility was not Cerv’s forte. This left him one option—lower his shoulder and run head-on into the catcher to jar the ball loose.

Base runners make this decision to this day. It is a scary situation: the catcher is standing still, concentrating on trying to catch a ball often thrown from all the way across the field, while an opposing player is running at him full speed, with every intention of knocking the ball — and the daylight — out of him. (This is why the catcher is typically the stoutest and strongest player on the team.)

In Cerv’s case, it did not work out. Not only was he tagged out, but the collision left him with a broken jaw.

Bob Cerv (right) fractured his jaw in this home plate collision with Detriot Tigers catcher Wilson.

Doctors said he would be out for six weeks, but Cerv was having none of it. He was back three days later. After six weeks playing with his jaw wired shut, Cerv was still batting .310 and leading the American League in home runs and RBIs.

The Saturday Evening Post covered this story in 1958, and we recently caught up with Cerv, for a follow up interview.

Not surprisingly, he is still going strong. “I may be 85, but I still have a pretty strong brain,” Cerv says.

He recalls that season like yesterday, especially eating with his jaw wired shut: “That was my best season. I hit 38 home runs, finished third in hitting; RBIs and runs, and beat out Ted Williams to start in the All-Star Game. I remember when I first had to eat after I broke my jaw. We got a ½ pound of steak, green beans, and potatoes, threw it all in a blender, and I had dinner through a straw.”

Although he was with the Kansas City A’s in ’58, he spent the beginning and end of his career with the Yankees, playing with all-time greats like Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, and Yogi Berra, to name a few. He still stays in touch with the ones that are still around. “I just saw Yogi recently,” says Cerv. “Our birthdays are only a week apart. I was born on May 5, and he was born May 12.”

Cerv was Roger Maris’ roommate when he hit home run number 61. Cerv and Maris often roomed together, because the Yankees’ manager didn’t understand Maris’ personality and wanted Cerv, the seasoned veteran, to help him figure it out. “Roger asked me ‘Why are you my roommate now?’ when I first roomed with him,” recalls Cerv. “I told him, ‘To tell the truth, the skipper wants to know what makes you tick.’ We were best buds after that.”

Free at last: Cerv could open his mouth, but sore jaws forced him to forgo the sirloin steak he craved.

Cerv also recalls playing with another Yankee legend, Billy Martin. “He was a ballplayer. A little hotheaded, though. He didn’t take any crap.” Many New York fans know this is true. Although Martin played with the Yankees on several World Series teams, he is best remembered as the fiery manager who got in umpires’ faces, got angry with veteran players (especially Reggie Jackson), and won games.

Although his playing days are long over, Cerv still reminisces about his time in the big leagues and compares his experience to players today. “When I signed, it was for $5,000.” Obviously, a little less than what players are making now. “Pitching was the name of the game back then. There were only eight teams in the National League and eight in the American, so teams stockpiled the very best pitchers,” he said. “That was also before they lowered the pitching mound. If you got a hittable pitch across the middle and fouled it off, you screwed up.”

After baseball, Cerv became a family man. He has 10 children, all of whom went through college, 32 grandkids and 10 great-grandchildren (with one on the way). He currently resides in a quiet condo in Nebraska.

Read Bob Cerv’s original 1958 article, “I Played Without Eating” [PDF].

A True Tough Guy The Saturday Evening Post