Lee Trevino is out on the manicured grounds of his expansive French-colonial mansion in North Dallas when a visitor is admitted through the front gate. TAt the moment, he's thinking of doing the same to a beaver that has been taking chunks out of his property.
"All my life living around here, never seen a beaver," says Trevino, who turns 70 on Dec. 1. "I've been doing research on them, but it's been hard to find him. I know one thing: He never stops working. Tough little dude."
Trevino could have been describing himself, for no golfer has ever come farther on industriousness and grit. After picking cotton in Texas fields when he was 5 years old, dividing his golf baptism between the caddie yard and the range, beating all comers on a par-3 course with a taped-up Dr Pepper bottle, and then becoming a man in the Marines, Trevino joined the tour at 27, a folk hero in the making. In his second year he won the 1968 U.S. Open, the first of four times Jack Nicklaus finished second to Trevino in a major. Trevino would win 29 times, including six majors, on the PGA Tour. Amid the success, he lost two fortunes and then lost his game after being hit by lightning. But he fought back with a second act that included winning 29 more tournaments on the Champions Tour.
These days, Trevino plays only a few tournaments and shoots over par more than he's under, but he's more engaging and entertaining with fans than ever. His focus is on his wife of 26 years, Claudia, and their children, Olivia, 20, a drama major at Southern California, and Daniel, 17, who lives at home and is on track to play college lacrosse.
Golf Digest prompted Trevino's mercurial mind to reflect on such things as his Dickensian background, Nicklaus, Tiger Woods and occasional golf partners George W. Bush and Condoleezza Rice. In the process, Trevino issued an impromptu manifesto on the state of golf. He also had a message for Paul Goydos, who in defending the current era of players opined that "there are 10 Lee Trevinos" on tour today.
"Tell him you were at my house," Trevino said with a smile, "and you tell him to send me the list of the 10 guys out there who have won six majors and 29 tournaments. Give him my address."
Golf Digest: What's the story on this house?
Lee Trevino: I was meant to be in this house. I grew up about five miles from here. I used to rabbit hunt around these creeks as a kid. This house was built in 1939, same year I was born. And we'd come down here, see this house, and we thought it was a castle. Never seen anything this big. Now I'm back to my roots.
Those roots included a lot of tough times. Is it hard for you to look back?
I never think of yesterday. Can't do anything about it. I'm a positive guy. When you really deep down look at it, we go to bed every night, get up every morning, stay here for 70 or 80 years, and then we die. What the hell are we doing? Claudia taught me the answer: Those two kids. To make them the best people, so they'll be productive, help others.
Have you left competitive golf behind, mentally?
Oh, yeah. I left that quite a while ago. When I realized I couldn't win, that took everything out of it.
What was the caddie yard like back then?
We had about 80 caddies at Glen Lakes Country Club. I lived right next to the course, across from the seventh hole, in a little house with my grandfather, my mother, my uncle and my two sisters. No running water, no electricity. There were a couple of white caddies, maybe three Mexican kids. Everyone else was black, all from Second Avenue, because that was the only place blacks could be in Dallas at the time. Sometimes, three or four of them would come over and sleep on our porch so we'd be first off in the morning.
My mentor at Glen Lakes was a guy called Cryin' Jessie. I took care of him until he died about four years ago. He was a caddiemaster around here forever, but when I was 8 years old, he took me under his wing, taught me how to caddie, kept me out of trouble, made sure nobody messed with me.
You were a good caddie, and you beat the other kids in golf. Did it occur to you that you might have special ability?
Hell, no. When you're poor, you know nothing about the future, you know nothing about the world, nothing that goes on outside 300 yards around you. S
But you were good at everything you did?
I thought that was just the way you were supposed to be. In those days, nobody ever told me "Good job" or gave me a compliment. You did it until you did it right.
Why were the Marines so important to you?
The Marine Corps was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Back when I went in, they tested to see if you were tough enough to be a Marine, and to stay there. So they would beat you up all the time. The drill instructors would hit you with sticks, and they'd kick you, they'd knock you down. I got hit in the jaw the first 15 minutes I was there. One of the drill instructors said I wasn't being still. We were standing at attention, and it was the receiving hall in San Diego. And the guy hit me right in the mouth with his fist. Knocked me down. I got back up and just stood there, at attention. It wasn't going to discourage me. I'd been hit harder than that at home.
The thing is, I was looking for discipline. A lot of kids today who end up getting in trouble and going to jail, they actually want discipline. See, discipline is actually attention, you know what I'm saying? That's what I lacked. If they told me I had to go back in the Marines now, hell, I'd love it.
Yet you dropped out of school in eighth grade. Why?
I was pretty smart, but I had no support cast. Nothing at home and nothing at school. Everybody was from a farm, and if you didn't come to school, nobody gave a damn.
When you got out of the Marine Corps, golf was your main thing. At the time did you have a long-range plan?
No, I didn't know anything about the tour or that you could make a living playing golf. I saw Jack Nicklaus at the 1963 PGA that he won at the Dallas Athletic Club, but I had never heard of him. I was just trying to beat the guys I played with at Tenison Park. I wasn't winning much money, but I was paying rent and having a good life. I think the most I ever won in one day was less than $100.
It was success to me, but it made me like Dracula: Once I tasted a little bit of blood, I wanted more. I guess I was smart enough to understand that if I was going to get more, I was going to have to give more. Getting out there and doing it. Mastering it. Figuring it out on your own. And the more I practiced, the more I could see the improvement. In leaps and bounds.
How so?
Because I learned how to teach myself. When you're doing something really well, if you don't have it on film where you can see it, you'd better be able to close your eyes and see it, so you can dissect why you're doing that. I didn't have any film, so my stuff was all in my mind. See, if something happened to me in the middle of a tournament, I didn't have to call Butch Harmon or somebody to say, "What am I doing wrong?"
When I learned a shot, I wanted to know why. And I would test things in practice until I knew exactly why. That's how I earned my confidence.
What's so remarkable is that because you stayed around Dallas, you never really tested your game against the best players. You got out on tour by qualifying for the 1967 U.S. Open at Baltusrol and finishing fifth. As soon as you did, you had great success, ending up as the Rookie of the Year. Were you surprised?
I didn't know what to think. For a long time I had this doubt that I belonged because of where I came from. And I would hear a lot of pros say I couldn't last with that swing. My safety net that I fell back on was work.
What's your main memory of winning the 1968 U.S. Open at Oak Hill?
Oak Hill, it was kind of like playing at home in Dallas. No one noticed me; no one cared. They actually thought I was with the grounds crew. When I finished playing the first day after shooting 69, I sat by the practice green in a golf cart drinking a beer, and not one person came by to say hello, how you doing, nice round or anything. They had no idea who I was. Hell, I had only 13 clubs in my bag -- I carried only one wedge.
Winning the 1971 U.S. Open at Merion, beating Nicklaus in a playoff, changed your self-image?
That was the pinnacle, the turning point of my career. When I beat the best in the world -- not only tied him in four rounds but then beat him in a playoff -- that was when I actually believed in myself for the first time: 1971.
Jack says you were the toughest to play against head-to-head because he knew you were always going to be in the fairway. Could you sense he felt that way?
No question. That can wear on you. I didn't make a lot of mistakes. But really, it was reverse psychology. That's why I beat him. Because every time we'd lock horns, I know he was thinking, No way this guy should beat me. No way do I want to lose to this guy. And that's all he's thinking about. Me, I'm not thinking about anything. I'm not supposed to beat him.
How did you deal with tournament pressure?
Pressure was never really there for me. It was there, but it wasn't. Where I came from, and where I'd gotten, I was playing with house money.
You're close with comedian George Lopez.
George and I grew up a lot alike. His dad left him when he was, like, 1. It wasn't a happy childhood. And George has kind of been like me, went on his own for most of his life. Where I was playing and hitting balls on the public courses, he was doing comedy on the street corners and the little bars.
We're currently witnessing the greatest sustained run in history. You're a big fan of Tiger Woods. Why?
This guy is it. He is I-T. He is No. 1. Nicklaus was my man. I always loved Nicklaus' game. But Tiger, I study him. I love the way he plays.
We've both done the same things. Played golf, hit balls. Win a tournament, then out there Monday morning pounding them sumbitches. Win another tournament, out there another Monday morning. Messing with clubs, working on this, working on that. Finishing a practice session, going home and all of a sudden saying, "Oh, I just thought of something," and going right back out there. I did that a lot.
What was the thing you guys did better?
Because we learned the game differently, on bad grass and good grass and a lot of bad lies, we had more shots. When we got those manicured golf courses, the game seemed so easy. That's what happened to Johnny Miller when he'd go crazy low in the desert. So I don't think the best players are as complete today, simply because they didn't have to learn what we had to learn. Being a shotmaker was a forced necessity. Today's golf laboratory is sterile. It doesn't call for anything.
