That his first marriage ended, in 1929, was no surprise. Like his father, young Hughes was a devoted philanderer--and he wasn't above using his playboy powers to his benefit on the course.
Sometimes, as his opponents got ready to putt on the eighth green a few paces from his villa, Hughes would give a cue and a naked ingenue would appear on his balcony to distract his rivals. Another story of gamesmanship has a Texas hustler battling Hughes in a big-money match: The two were all square on the 18th fairway, with 7-irons in, when Hughes shrugged and said, "Well, I guess this is for the whole $50,000." It was cab fare to the millionaire, but not his opponent, who overcooked his approach and added to the mogul's fortune.
Hughes spared no expense to improve his game. At 6-foot-3 he was a scrawny 130 pounds, so he hit the mats many mornings with a wrestling coach in an effort to strengthen his arms. By 1930, movie producer Hughes was hiring film crews to record his practice sessions. They shot him from countless angles, below and above--as Hughes became the first man to fasten a camera to a blimp for the purpose of recording golf.
Hangers-on praised Hughes for his consistent swing. The only opinion that mattered, though, belonged to Gene Sarazen. Their friendship was one of opposites' attracting. The diminutive Squire was outgoing and quick-witted; the lanky Hughes was withdrawn and suspicious. Yet they bonded on and off the course. "We'd go to a truck stop for dinner so he could wear sneakers and no tie," Sarazen told GOLF MAGAZINE in 1988. The pair agreed to a trade: flying lessons for golf tips.
It was a clear November day in 1929 when Hughes took off from Los Angeles in his Sikorsky with Sarazen as his co-pilot. As they climbed above the coast, the sight of an abandoned beach sparked a discussion about sand. For Hughes, the stuff suggested isolation; for Sarazen, sand meant bunkers, the bane of his game.
While Sarazen complained about his sand play, Hughes compared bunker shots to a pilot's defeating drag as he lifted off the runway. Hughes pointed to the flaps along the wing and gave Sarazen an in-flight demonstration of aerodynamics. The golfer returned to his workshop and added solder to the sole of his niblick until it glided through sand like a wing through the clouds. Thus was born the sand wedge. Sarazen, who would go on to win seven majors, made three prototypes and gave one to his friend. Hughes would have used the club for the last time in 1939, when he quit the game for good.
Why did Hughes give up golf? One story has him walking away after Willie Hunter, Riviera's famed pro, told him he would never be a champion. Perhaps Hughes simply lost interest as he turned his attention to test-piloting military planes. We do know that Hughes was never the same after a fiery plane crash in 1946, when his chest was crushed and his body badly burned. A codeine-addicted Hughes began to withdraw from the world, and from the game he had loved. He was now obsessed with germs. That year, he threw out his clubs and clothes, convinced they were contaminated with syphilis. Over the next 20 years, Hughes became a shattered, reclusive shell of a man. He wore tissue boxes for shoes, took to storing his bodily waste in glass jars and drafted lengthy memos on the proper way to open tin cans.
Sometimes, as his opponents got ready to putt on the eighth green a few paces from his villa, Hughes would give a cue and a naked ingenue would appear on his balcony to distract his rivals. Another story of gamesmanship has a Texas hustler battling Hughes in a big-money match: The two were all square on the 18th fairway, with 7-irons in, when Hughes shrugged and said, "Well, I guess this is for the whole $50,000." It was cab fare to the millionaire, but not his opponent, who overcooked his approach and added to the mogul's fortune.
Hughes spared no expense to improve his game. At 6-foot-3 he was a scrawny 130 pounds, so he hit the mats many mornings with a wrestling coach in an effort to strengthen his arms. By 1930, movie producer Hughes was hiring film crews to record his practice sessions. They shot him from countless angles, below and above--as Hughes became the first man to fasten a camera to a blimp for the purpose of recording golf.
Hangers-on praised Hughes for his consistent swing. The only opinion that mattered, though, belonged to Gene Sarazen. Their friendship was one of opposites' attracting. The diminutive Squire was outgoing and quick-witted; the lanky Hughes was withdrawn and suspicious. Yet they bonded on and off the course. "We'd go to a truck stop for dinner so he could wear sneakers and no tie," Sarazen told GOLF MAGAZINE in 1988. The pair agreed to a trade: flying lessons for golf tips.
It was a clear November day in 1929 when Hughes took off from Los Angeles in his Sikorsky with Sarazen as his co-pilot. As they climbed above the coast, the sight of an abandoned beach sparked a discussion about sand. For Hughes, the stuff suggested isolation; for Sarazen, sand meant bunkers, the bane of his game.
While Sarazen complained about his sand play, Hughes compared bunker shots to a pilot's defeating drag as he lifted off the runway. Hughes pointed to the flaps along the wing and gave Sarazen an in-flight demonstration of aerodynamics. The golfer returned to his workshop and added solder to the sole of his niblick until it glided through sand like a wing through the clouds. Thus was born the sand wedge. Sarazen, who would go on to win seven majors, made three prototypes and gave one to his friend. Hughes would have used the club for the last time in 1939, when he quit the game for good.
Why did Hughes give up golf? One story has him walking away after Willie Hunter, Riviera's famed pro, told him he would never be a champion. Perhaps Hughes simply lost interest as he turned his attention to test-piloting military planes. We do know that Hughes was never the same after a fiery plane crash in 1946, when his chest was crushed and his body badly burned. A codeine-addicted Hughes began to withdraw from the world, and from the game he had loved. He was now obsessed with germs. That year, he threw out his clubs and clothes, convinced they were contaminated with syphilis. Over the next 20 years, Hughes became a shattered, reclusive shell of a man. He wore tissue boxes for shoes, took to storing his bodily waste in glass jars and drafted lengthy memos on the proper way to open tin cans.
