My Jim Thorpe Secret

I see that three-time PGA Tour winner Jim Thorpe has been sentenced to a year in prison for tax evasion. A sad story, to be sure. One which reminds me of another story – a confession of sorts, something I've never told a soul ...

Years ago I used to volunteer as a marshal at the Greater Milwaukee Open (GMO, R.I.P.). It was a small tournament even then, but early on a Thursday or Friday morning, the course was all but deserted. That was the scene one morning as Thorpe and his powerful forearms strode onto the tee at the 12th, a short par-4 in the outer reaches of Brown Deer Golf Course, and into the presence of Marshal Zim and maybe a half-dozen spectators. We privileged few then watched in amazement as the graphite shaft (no doubt somewhat primitive by today's standards) on Thorpe's driver splintered on his downswing. The clubhead made glancing contact and the ball squirted about 45 degrees to the right, traveling perhaps 50 yards into a grove of trees. If there had been any kind of a crowd there, it surely would have struck someone. (Photo: Some other guy named Jim Thorpe, who also appears to have had powerful forearms. Wikimedia Commons.)

     While the players and caddies scratched their heads and tried to figure out what happened, I in my stylish marshal shirt and matching cap, along with a couple enthusiastic fans, scurried over to see where the ball ended up. As we scanned this forgotten area of the course – surely only some weekend hacker had ever hit a ball there before – one of my helpers gave a quiet shout: "Here it is!" I looked up, in horror, to see him proudly holding the ball, apparently assuming Thorpe would be entitled to some sort of equipment-malfunction do-over.

     "Don't pick it up!" I whisper-yelled, prompting the perp to drop the ball immediately. Clearly, he respected my authority – or sensed and feared my rising panic.

     As a deputized marshal, I was the law in those parts. I had sworn an oath (well ... not really, but I vaguely recall signing some forms). Yet the last thing I ever wanted was to actually have to do something, especially if it could affect the course of play. Sure, holding up the little QUIET PLEASE sign gives one a feeling of power, but as Spider-Man says: "With great power comes great responsibility." And responsibility is something I've always shied away from (ask anyone!). Yet there I was with a situation on my hands.

     So what did I do? I leapt into action – and by that I mean I kept my mouth shut. No one saw what happened, and if I had told someone, there would have been a delay. We might have had to summon a rules official, who would then have to find his way to our remote corner of the course and issue a judgment. My nightmare. Instead I assumed my well-practiced marshal stance: legs shoulder-width apart, arms raised, palms out in mock-authoritative fashion. Stand back, everyone! Marshal at work here! Everything's under control! Picture Barney Fife quieting a crowd on Main Street Mayberry – without the crowd. (Photo: TVLand.com)

     After a moment, Thorpe, his forearms, and his caddy strode purposefully toward us. A bead of flop sweat rolled down my temple as I shushed the imaginary gallery, but Thorpe never even looked up. He made quick work of the matter, whacking the ball between some trees and into the fairway without much thought or fanfare. Almost as suddenly as it gathered, the storm passed.

     Is there a penalty for unknowingly hitting a golf ball that a fan picked up, when the act was subsequently covered-up by a spineless marshal? If there is, Thorpe signed an incorrect scorecard that day and should be retroactively disqualified posthaste! But let's not kick a man while he's down; instead let's agree to keep this to ourselves, OK? All six of us.
     As for me, I'm still haunted by my dereliction of duty that day. O, the sleepless nights I've endured! Isn't my guilt punishment enough? If you're reading this, Mr. Thorpe (ha ha), please forgive me. If I could take your place in that prison cell I would. Well ... not really.

     And please, dear readers, I beg of you ... hold your accolades for my belated self-penalty call. I'm no Mark McGwire. Besides, to paraphrase Bobby Jones, you may as well praise a man for not evading his taxes.