{"product_id":"the-pro-isbn-9780307338044","title":"The Pro","description":"Butch Harmon is the world’s number one golf coach. He taught Tiger Woods through one of the greatest stretches of victories in golf history (and, perhaps even more conspicuously, did not teach Tiger Woods following his unprecedented run), as well as superstars like Greg Norman, Adam Scott, Fred Couples, Darren Clarke, Natalie Gulbis, and Davis Love III. How did he become such a legendary teacher and mentor? The answer is simple: He learned from watching his father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Harmons are the First Family of golf, and Claude Harmon, Sr., was the greatest of them all. His skill as a player, an innovator, a teacher, a devoted father, a loyal friend, and a peer of giants such as Ben Hogan has gone largely unappreciated by all but those who knew him best. In this book by his son, he finally gets his due. In \u003ci\u003eThe Pro\u003c\/i\u003e, Butch Harmon paints a compelling portrait of an era in sports before the emergence of big media and bigger money, and shows how the lessons he learned about life and golf at his father’s knee made him the man he is today.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Pro\u003c\/i\u003e is both a family and a golf memoir, as well as an inside look at what it takes to teach the Tigers of the world. It describes how Butch and his brothers, who are also teachers, transfer their father’s unique wit, wisdom, and philosophy to the next generation of golfers. Sometimes their advice relates to the game, sometimes they simply offer words of encouragement and motivation, sometimes they make pointed criticisms intended to shock their students into focus, and sometimes they try to impart simple advice about “walking around through life.” The Harmon brothers are teachers who share a special quality: All of their lessons are passed down from their father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMillions of golf fans know Butch Harmon; many are even familiar with his father and brothers. But never before have we been given such an intimate look at life among the legends of golf. \u003ci\u003eThe Pro\u003c\/i\u003e is the story of an extraordinary father and son that will resonate with anyone who has ever looked back on life and recognized the wisdom of their parents’ teachings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"Golf's hard,\" \u003c\/i\u003eDad would say, pointing a meaty finger at me as if he were about to reveal the secret of the Rosetta Stone. “Good golf is damn hard, and championship golf is something only a few will ever see. But that’s how it should be. If it were easy, everybody would do it. And where’s the fun in that?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom Butch Harmon, the world’s number one golf coach, comes the inside story of how he learned everything he knows about golf and life from his father, Claude Harmon, Sr. Both a family memoir and a reminiscence of growing up among the legends of sport, \u003ci\u003eThe Pro\u003c\/i\u003e is a portrait of one extraordinary family and the game that will carry their legacy for years to come.Claude “Butch” Harmon, Jr., was \u003ci\u003eSports Illustrated\u003c\/i\u003e’s Teacher of the Year in 1995 and is \u003ci\u003eGolf Digest\u003c\/i\u003e’s top golf instructor. An accomplished player on the PGA tour, he won the B.C. Open in 1971. Formerly coach to Tiger Woods and Greg Norman, his current roster includes Adam Scott, Fred Couples, Natalie Gulbis, and many other top players.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"If It Were Easy, Everybody Would Do It\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Golf is hard!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad used to lurch forward with his arms out as he made this   proclamation. While a little less than six feet tall, Dad was always   big, a thick man with broad shoulders and a wide neck. When he lunged   to make a point, he looked like a blitzing linebacker. His hands   would go wide as if he were about to make a tackle. Then he would say,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Golf's hard. Good golf is damn hard, and championship golf is so   hard only a select few ever comprehend it. It's a cruel game. Think   about it. A hundred and forty-four people play in the tournament, and   a hundred and forty-three of them are going to lose. That's tough.   The game chews you up, spits you out, and steps on you. It's those   who get up and dust themselves off that make it. But that's how it   should be. If it were easy, everybody would do it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad pounded this point home to me and my brothers on more occasions   than any of us can remember. He didn't always use the same words. One   of his favorite expressions, for example, was, \"Show me somebody who   is practicing for today, and I'll show you somebody who has no chance   of getting better tomorrow.\" This was another way of saying the same   thing. Golf is hard. It takes a lot of work. If you want to play good   golf, you had better be willing to put in long, hard hours, for an   extended period of time. And in many cases, you have to get worse   before you can get better.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My brothers and I knew he was right. To say \"golf is hard\" is like   saying \"the sky is blue\" or \"the world is round.\" It's axiomatic,   which made Dad's passion for repeating it seem odd at times. I wanted   to say things like, \"Yeah, sure, Dad, okay, it's hard, so what does   my spine angle look like at impact?\" But he would never let us forget   the point. Dad made sure we understood that golf was not a game you   ever perfected. The moment you thought you had golf whipped, the game   slapped you down and embarrassed you. Conversely, whenever you were   ready to quit forever, a good thought and a good round came along and   sparked the smoldering ember of hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He also drummed the message that golf was not a game of steady   progressions. You don't get 10 percent better in the first six months   and 10 percent better every month after that. Nor was it a game where   results tied directly to one component, like talent or repetitions.   One golfer might hit five hundred balls a day for a decade and never   break par, while another might put his clubs away for months and   shoot in the sixties in his first outing. Champion golfers were those   who had talent on top of spending endless hours on the practice tees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I knew all of this--all the Harmon boys did--but knowing that the   game is unyielding, unfair, unpredictable, unsympathetic, and unaware   of who you are and what you shot yesterday, and accepting such truths   are two different things. Plenty of times, I wanted the quick fix,   the magic potion that would make my game better by noon. My father   had little patience for those, like me, who looked for easy answers.   \"The tip-of-the-day pro is the one I want to be playing against,\" he   would say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He also had little use for anyone who thought the golf swing had to   feel \"good\" or \"natural.\" My youngest brother Billy, who as a   teenager was one of the best junior players in the country, used to   argue with Dad about how a change \"felt.\" When Dad tried to change   Billy's grip to keep him from hitting an occasional hook, Billy said,   \"Dad, it doesn't feel right.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My father snatched up the ball and club and held both within inches   of Billy's face. \"You see that ball?\" he barked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes, sir,\" Billy said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"And you see that club?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yes, sir.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, that ball and that club are inanimate objects. In-an-i-mate!   The ball is only going to do what the club makes it do, and the club   is only going to go where you swing it. Neither of them gives a damn   how you feel.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I never heard him use that kind of language with any students whose   last names weren't Harmon, but he was always most direct when   appraising our games. If we opted for the easy road instead of making   the fundamental changes necessary to get better, he would let us know   about it in his own special way. Once he was watching Billy on a day   when our youngest brother thought his swing couldn't get much better.   Each shot was solid, and the balls were flying long and straight on a   perfect trajectory. He waited for Dad to say something like, \"Wow,   you're really hitting it great,\" or \"That swing looks perfect.\" When   no praise came, Billy finally asked, \"What are you thinking about,   Dad?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad said, \"I'm thinking about P. T. Barnum, and the Ringling brothers.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This put Billy in a bind. He wanted to know what Dad thought, but he   knew the Ringling and Barnum reference was a precursor to a dig. So,   my brother took a deep breath and said, \"Okay, Dad, what about them?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, you know, Barnum and those guys travel over to Africa to get   these elephants for their shows. They get them young, spend time with   them, and train them.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Yeah?\" Billy said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, those they can't train, they ship back to Africa.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Still waiting for a point, Billy said, \"So?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad shook his head and said, \"I've got no place to send you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This didn't sit well with my brother, who felt like he was hitting   the ball as well as he had all season. \"Why can't you say something   positive?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I can when you do something positive. As long as you jerk the club   to the inside on your takeaway [a swing flaw Billy fought throughout   his playing days], it doesn't matter how good you hit it today,   you're never going to be a golfer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Billy wasn't thrilled, but Dad couldn't have cared less. The swing   wouldn't last, so as far as Dad was concerned, it didn't matter how   well Billy hit it. If he was unwilling to sacrifice the good feeling   of a solid shot today for the hard work and bad shots that were bound   to accompany a much-needed swing change, then he was like an   uncoachable elephant. The fact that the swing worked once in a while   was of no consequence. If you couldn't repeat it under pressure, as   Dad assured Billy he could not, then it didn't matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When my brother Craig was getting ready to qualify for the U.S. Open,   Dad took him out to the West Course at Winged Foot to see his game.   Craig felt pretty good about himself. He'd been practicing all   summer, and he had talked about how this was his year. He even felt   confident enough to challenge our father to a little game. Craig   played as good as he could and shot a seventy-one. Dad, well into his   fifties at that point and suffering from the early stages of   arthritis, shot a seven-birdie round of sixty-five.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Craig couldn't believe it. \"Dad, I just played as good as I can play   and shot seventy-one,\" he said. \"I didn't think there was a   sixty-five out there. How'd you do that?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad put his arm around Craig and said, \"It's really simple, son. Some   people have it, and some people don't. I have it. You don't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad had it because he worked at it his entire life. He also knew   better than most how hard and cruel the game could be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Born in Savannah, Georgia, in 1916, a place and a time when strict   social structures shaped the young and old alike, Dad was raised a   courtly southern gentleman. Savannah had rebounded after the Civil   War quicker than other southern cities because of the port access it   provided much of the eastern United States. It also maintained many   of the rigid mores of the Old South. John Calvin had preached at the   town's first Methodist church at the center of one of the city's   antebellum squares, and his puritan code continued to dictate   behavior at every level. In the nineteen-twenties, Savannah men still   stopped walking and tipped their hats to passing ladies who,   themselves, never ventured outdoors without headwear and dresses;   young girls were thrown balls when they made their social debuts; and   young boys like my father studied piano and sang in glee clubs. Elite   women drank tea on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and every house of means   had a drawing room with brandy, Cognac, and fine cigars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    My father was born privileged. His father, Eugene Harmon, had gobbled   up farmland in Georgia and Florida for tract housing. When the   American troops, the \"Doughboys\" came home after World War I, my   grandfather offered them affordable housing and a fresh start on   life. He and my grandmother, Willa, became affluent socialites in   Savannah, and they joined the Savannah Golf Club, the second-oldest   golf course in America. It was founded in 1794. I don't know if they   joined because of my dad or simply because belonging to a golf club   was what well-heeled Savannah residents did in those days, but   neither of my grandparents played golf. In fact, the only member of   their immediate family who took an interest in the game was my father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Young Claude not only showed an interest, he displayed an amazing   aptitude at an early age. Stories still circulate about my father's   playing prowess as a boy--stories that have certainly been   embellished, as I haven't found a living soul who saw him play in   Georgia. Still, he must have shown some skill. When my grandparents   moved to Orlando in the twenties, where Eugene owned most of the land   surrounding what is now Dr. Philips Drive, The Bay Hill Club, Sand   Lake, and Universal Studios, they joined two golf clubs so my father   could continue to play. With cuffed sleeves, cotton knickers, and a   dandy tie and touring cap, Dad walked the central Florida fairways   swinging a hickory-shafted mashie from the A.J. Spalding \u0026amp; Brothers   company and dreaming of playing the game like Francis Ouimet, Ted   Ray, Harry Vardon, Walter Hagen, or that other young golfer from   Georgia who was just coming into his own, Bobby Jones. At thirteen   years of age in 1929, he had wowed the central Florida golf faithful   by shooting an improbable round of sixty-three in an exhibition with   Walter Hagen and Gene Sarazen. He also won the Florida high school   championship and the national championship of club champions as a   teenager. I can only imagine how his skills and dreams might have   played out if the Depression hadn't hit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    No one in my family knows for sure how my grandfather lost it all in   the crash of 1929. It's likely that he, like most real estate   speculators, woke up one morning to find his stocks worthless and the   banks that held his cash and mortgages padlocked shut. Tenants   couldn't pay rent, so many simply loaded their belongings and slipped   away. Tax liens came due, banks foreclosed, and by the time Bobby   Jones, my father's boyhood idol, captured the final leg of his famous   Grand Slam, my grandfather was broke. My father found himself at the   doors of the Dubsdread Golf Club, hat in hand, applying for a job as   a caddy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"The game doesn't know who you are,\" Dad said for years, never once   referencing his upbringing. \"That ball and club don't know your name,   and there's no room for a resume on the scoreboard. There's space for   a name, and there are boxes just big enough for numbers. If the   numbers aren't low enough, nobody's going to ask how you did it, and   nobody's going to care who you are. You don't get extra credit   because your name is Harmon or Hogan or anything else. The game   doesn't care.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When it came to golf, Dad treated everyone the same because he knew   the game would do the same. It was the great equalizer. In one of the   first lessons I ever saw him give to the King of Morocco, he offered   a variation of the same speech he'd given Billy on the range the day   my brother didn't like the \"feel\" of his new grip. His Majesty took a   few tenuous practice swings with a crowd of security guards,   diplomats, ambassadors, and aides nearby. Everybody was nervous. Dad   finally said, \"Now, Your Majesty, before we get started I want you to   know one thing: that ball and that club don't know that you're the   King of Morocco. All these people know, but that ball and club don't   know and don't care. The only way that ball is going to go anywhere   is for that club to move it. The only way for the club to hit it is   for you to swing it properly, no matter who you are.\" The King   appreciated Dad's candor, and they became lifelong friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Whether you had everything or nothing, whether you had come from   privilege and fallen into poverty or come from nothing and risen to   greatness, the game treated you the same, and so did my father. When   Dave Marr was a skinny nineteen-year-old kid from the oilfield plains   of Texas, Dad hired him as a $250-a-month assistant pro who lived in   an apartment over the locker room. That didn't stop Dad from inviting   Dave down to Seminole, the famous Palm Beach golf club built by E. F.   Hutton and designed by Donald Ross where Dad spent his winters. Dave   stayed with our family just as any friend of Dad's would, regardless   of his name or station in life. Many years later, Dave told the story   of going to lunch at the Seminole clubhouse with Dad one afternoon.   \"It was a table of twelve, and Claude was the center of attention,\"   Dave said. \"He told one golf story after another and had everybody   spellbound. After lunch, I said, 'Claude, who was that eating with   us?' He said, 'That fellow on your left was Henry Ford. The guy next   to him was the Duke of Windsor, and the fellow on my right was   Marshall Field.'\" They were all the same in Dad's eyes. Good, bad,   serious, or novice, they were all golfers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Dad must have done an adequate job caddying as a kid. One summer he   saved $86, a mighty sum for a Depression-era boy, and he couldn't   wait to get home and present the cash to his father. My grandfather   smiled, patted Dad on the head, and said, \"I appreciate the   sentiment, son, but you keep that money. We need a heck of a lot more   than eighty-six dollars.\"","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304033177829,"sku":"NP9780307338044","price":14.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307338044.jpg?v=1767741085","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-pro-isbn-9780307338044","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}