Unveiling the Secrets of Hickory Golf: A Journey Back in Time
A century-old revelation awaits!
"Swing smooth." Those were the words that ignited my curiosity, leading me on a journey into the heart of a bygone era in golf.
I embarked on this adventure, preparing to step into the 2025 U.S. Hickory Open, a golf tournament that demands a step back in time, requiring equipment from a pre-1935 era. Little did I know, this experience would teach me more than I could have imagined about the evolution of the game.
As I unboxed my hickory clubs, a set of five irons, a wood, and a putter, I felt a sense of skepticism mixed with intrigue. These clubs, with their aged grips and shafts, told stories of a different time, a time when golf was an ancient game with a unique charm.
The weight of history was palpable as I gripped one of the irons, an AG Spalding & Bros. Kro-Flite Sweet Spot, a relic from 1927. It was a reminder of a world where Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic and Babe Ruth reigned supreme. It was a world my great-grandfather, James A. Flaherty, would have known.
But here's where it gets intriguing: despite their historical significance, these clubs felt like instruments, not mere artifacts. The difference was in how they were used, and that's what I was about to discover.
There's an entire community, a subculture, dedicated to the art of hickory golf. These enthusiasts swing their unique clubs—cleeks, mashies, and niblicks—names long forgotten, replaced by the numbered irons of today. They dress the part, donning knickers, flat caps, and ties, embracing the fashion of a bygone era. And they have a point: why worry about modern golf's complexities when you can embrace the simplicity of the past?
I reached out to Gary Krupkin, the tournament director, and discovered an odd qualification process: all I needed was a pulse and the means to get to Hot Springs, Arkansas. Krupkin's words echoed in my mind: "Everyone here, there's got to be something a little off about you to want to play the game this way."
That's when I met Bruce Markwardt, a 74-year-old retired purchasing veteran from Ford. Bruce, an antique golf club restorer, became my guide into this world. His workshop, a haven for old clubs, was a testament to his passion.
Bruce's restoration process was a work of art. He removed rust, sanded shafts, and applied fresh stains, bringing new life to these old clubs. Each club was unique, with its own story, its own character. Some had familiar groove patterns, while others had mysterious dimples.
I wondered about the journeys these clubs had taken. Each had been new at some point, advertised as the next big thing, bought by someone hoping to improve their game. They were passed down, sold, forgotten, and found again, only to end up in my hands.
But the real test was in hitting them. Bruce's advice was simple: "Take your handicap and add 50%. That's your hickory handicap."
I paid Bruce and set off, my hickory bag resting next to my modern clubs. Swing smooth, I thought. How hard could it be?
The story of hickory golf is one of evolution and change. In the game's early days, Scots used ash and hazel for their clubs. But in the 1800s, North American hickory became the preferred choice, known for its flexibility, durability, and reliability. By the early 1900s, with golf's rising popularity, steel shafts were legalized, marking a turning point.
The transition was gradual, but inevitable. Golfers like Billy Burke and Johnny Fischer, with their steel-shafted clubs, signaled the end of an era. Hickory clubs, once the standard, became obsolete, their millions of numbers fading into history.
Hot Springs, Arkansas, too, had its own unique story, a city that thrived in the 1920s with its gambling halls and racetracks. It was a place where Al Capone and Babe Ruth walked its streets. Today, it's a city with a hidden past, a past that could have made it America's freewheeling destination, not Las Vegas.
As I arrived at Hot Springs Country Club for my practice round, I was met with a diverse group of golfers. I expected a serious, stuffy atmosphere, but instead, I found a community that was eclectic, offbeat, and welcoming. Krupkin, the ringleader, smiled, knowing that this event was more than just a golf tournament.
Krupkin, an attorney by day and vice president of Sara's Secret by night, found his way into hickory golf by chance. He saw it as a pure form of the game, free from the technology that modern clubs offer.
Some clubs felt comfortable, while others were a challenge. The brassie, my driver, felt good, but the rest required adjustment. I learned that hitting a hickory dead-on the sweet spot was a symphony of sensations, but rush the swing, and you're left with a painful reminder.
I arrived for the tournament, dressed in my brown knickers, feeling a mix of excitement and embarrassment. I was about to step into a world that was both familiar and foreign, a world where golf was played with a unique set of rules and a unique community.
My first hole was a par-3, and I felt the weight of expectation. I swung, and the result was a squirrelly shot, a reminder that hickory golf demanded precision and focus.
I thought back to Jeffrey Havelock's words: "Every club is different. You need to adjust." Modern clubs offer a margin of error, a luxury hickory clubs don't provide. Mishit a hickory, and you're left questioning your very existence as a golfer.
Over the next two days, I wondered why anyone would choose this path. But as I spoke to the hickory golfers, I realized it was about more than just the game. It was about community, about finding a unique outlet, and about embracing a different way of playing.
Tracy Joneson, a relatively new hickory golfer, found his way through a lonely hickory club, a Charlie Brown Christmas tree of sorts. Dave Koenig, from Des Moines, found a social outlet, a community of like-minded individuals. Chris Hawes, a Canadian, discovered a business opportunity, a way to bring others into this unique world.
And then there was Nelson Ford, a former Under Secretary of the Army, who found a hickory 5-iron and a putter on a bench near the 17th hole. He never looked back, knowing that a pure shot with a hickory was a feeling like no other.
The hickory golf community is a diverse one, with an estimated 10,000 golfers worldwide. It's not about being polished or uppish; it's about being a hobbyist, a pack rat, a tinkerer. It's about playing the game as it was intended, a pure and simple form of golf.
But there are divisions, with different associations having different qualifications. Some welcome replica clubs, while others demand originals. It's a tug-of-war between innovation and tradition, a battle that can get heated, as I learned from the story of the Ohio vs. Michigan hickory tournament.
Most hickory golfers, though, just want to find each other, and that's what makes this community so unique. It's a community of individuals who are a little off, but in a good way.
After my rounds in Hot Springs, finishing 28th out of 38 in the men's open division, I was left with a mix of emotions. I had a beer, and I considered the future of my hickory golf journey. Was it something I wanted to continue? The answer was maybe.
As I reflected on my experience, I realized that playing with hickory clubs was about more than just rejecting modern technology. It was about embracing the challenge, about playing the game on your own terms. It was about swinging smooth, about feeling the weight and the torque, and about knowing that every swing, every shot, was on you.
In a world where modern golf clubs are constructed from space-age materials, where amateurs hit longer than ever, and where historical courses are becoming obsolete, hickory golfers find solace in the soft, low-compression balls of the past. They don't need a rollback; they've already found their way back.
And that's the beauty of hickory golf. It's a reminder of a simpler time, a time when golf was about precision and focus, a time when every swing mattered. It's a reminder of what it's like to play without pretenses, to swing smooth, and to feel the pure joy of a well-struck shot.
A month after the Hickory Open, I met Bruce again, and I played with my hickories. It was a humbling experience, a reminder that history doesn't forget, and neither should we. Swing smooth, I reminded myself. It's a lesson I won't soon forget.
