A Little Bit Like Home

Shaking Hands with Sam Snead

The interview took place on a beautiful September afternoon in 2001 at The Greenbrier in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. If you have never been there, The Greenbrier feels less like a resort and more like a piece of American history tucked into the mountains. Golf has been part of that history for generations, and few names are more closely tied to the game than Sam Snead.

The interview had been arranged ahead of time by the resort’s public relations staff. They suggested we meet at Sam Snead’s at The Golf Club, the restaurant overlooking the course. What surprised me most was how casually the arrangement seemed to happen. Sam was simply a regular there. The afternoon was quiet. We sat at a table with a view of the course, and the only other person present was the PR representative from The Greenbrier. A few minutes later, Sam Snead walked in.

He was eighty-nine years old at the time, but there was nothing fragile about him. He looked like a man who could easily have told you he had already played nine holes that morning and planned to play nine more later that afternoon. I stood to shake his hand. It was a firm, natural handshake. That hand had spent a lifetime wrapped around a golf club, guiding one of the most famous swings the game has ever known. For a moment I found myself looking at it, realizing I was shaking the same hand that had held a club through eighty-two victories and decades of golf history. I wondered how many people had shaken it over the years without ever thinking about that. When we started the interview I asked him to introduce himself to the listening audience. He grinned and said, “Well, folks, this is old Slammin’ Sammy.”

His voice was strong for his age, with just a little gravel in it and that unmistakable Virginia drawl. What struck me most during the conversation was how sharp he was mentally. There were no long pauses searching for answers. He leaned forward when he spoke and leaned back in his chair when a story made him laugh. And he clearly loved telling those stories. He talked about growing up in Virginia and becoming a caddy as a boy, the beginning of a career that would lead to eighty-two PGA Tour victories and seven major championships.

But when Snead talked about the game, statistics did not seem to interest him nearly as much as competition. “When I played golf with them,” he said, “I wanted to kill them.” He laughed when he said it, but the meaning was clear. The competitive fire that drove him through decades on the tour had not faded. He spoke often about Ben Hogan and the rivalry they shared, explaining that Hogan was the one player he respected the most because he believed he could beat him.

One of his favorite stories involved playing golf with President Dwight Eisenhower. Snead said the president struggled with his swing because he stood too straight over the ball. Finally Snead offered the kind of advice you might give any playing partner. “Mr. President,” he said, “you’ve got to stick your rear end out.” The Secret Service agents nearby were not amused. Snead said they rushed over to remind him he was speaking to the president of the United States. “I said, ‘Well, you’ve got one, he’s got one, I’ve got one. Everybody’s got one.’” Eisenhower, he said, laughed the entire time.

At one point Snead talked about how much the game had changed since he began playing professionally in the 1930s. Prize money was far beyond anything he could have imagined during his career. “Can you believe people now are winning tournaments making a million dollars?” he said. “I just can’t believe all of this money.” By comparison, Snead’s total career earnings were less than seven hundred thousand dollars.

The conversation lasted quite a while and never felt rushed. No one interrupted. No one came over asking for pictures or autographs. It was simply a quiet afternoon at a table overlooking the course with one of the greatest players the game has ever known. At the time it felt like just another interview.

The following spring I heard the news that Sam Snead had passed away just a few days shy of his ninetieth birthday. Like many people who followed the game, I paused and thought about the career he left behind. Eighty-two wins. Seven major championships. A swing that golfers still study today.

But I also thought about that quiet afternoon at The Greenbrier. Somewhere in a recording from that day is the voice of Sam Snead leaning toward a microphone and introducing himself the only way he knew how.

“Well, folks,” he says, “this is old Slammin’ Sammy.”

Tom Brand writes about life, family, faith, and the occasional afternoon when a simple interview turns into a memory that lasts a lifetime. As best he can tell, this conversation was the last interview Sam Snead ever gave. More stories can be found at ALittleBitLikeHome.com.

The interview took place on a beautiful September afternoon in 2001 at The Greenbrier in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. If you’ve never been there, The Greenbrier feels less like a resort and more like a piece of American history tucked into the mountains. Golf has been part of that history for generations, and few names are more closely tied to the game than Sam Snead.

The interview had been arranged ahead of time by the resort’s public relations staff. They suggested we meet at Sam Snead’s at The Golf Club, the restaurant overlooking the course. What surprised me most was how casually the arrangement happened. Sam was simply a regular there. The afternoon was quiet. We sat at a table with a view of the course, and the only other person present was the PR representative from The Greenbrier. A few minutes later, Sam Snead walked in.

He was eighty-nine years old at the time, but there was nothing fragile about him. He looked like a man who could easily have told you he had already played nine holes that morning and planned to play nine more later that afternoon. I stood to shake his hand. It was a firm, natural handshake. That hand had spent a lifetime wrapped around a golf club, guiding one of the most famous swings the game has ever known. For a moment I found myself looking at it, realizing I was shaking the same hand that had held a club through eighty-two victories and decades of golf history. I wondered how many people had shaken it over the years without ever thinking about that. When we started the interview, I asked him to introduce himself to the listening audience. He grinned and said, “Well, folks, this is old Slammin’ Sammy.”

His voice was strong for his age, with just a little gravel in it and that unmistakable Virginia drawl. What struck me most during the conversation was how sharp he was mentally. There were no long pauses searching for answers. He leaned forward when he spoke and leaned back in his chair when a story made him laugh. And he clearly loved telling those stories. He talked about growing up in Virginia and becoming a caddy as a boy, the beginning of a career that would lead to eighty-two PGA Tour victories and seven major championships.

But when Snead talked about the game, statistics did not seem to interest him nearly as much as competition. “When I played golf with them,” he said, “I wanted to kill them.” He laughed when he said it, but the meaning was clear. The competitive fire that drove him through decades on the tour had not faded. He spoke often about Ben Hogan and the rivalry they shared, explaining that Hogan was the one player he respected the most because he believed he could beat him.

One of his favorite stories involved playing golf with President Dwight Eisenhower. Snead said the president struggled with his swing because he stood too straight over the ball. Finally Snead offered the kind of advice you might give any playing partner. “Mr. President,” he said, “you’ve got to stick your rear end out.” The Secret Service agents nearby were not amused. Snead said they rushed over to remind him he was speaking to the president of the United States. “I said, ‘Well, you’ve got one, he’s got one, I’ve got one. Everybody’s got one.’” Eisenhower, he said, laughed the entire time.

At one point Snead talked about how much the game had changed since he began playing professionally in the 1930s. Prize money was far beyond anything he could have imagined. “Can you believe people now are winning tournaments making a million dollars?” he said. “I just can’t believe all of this money.” By comparison, Snead’s total career earnings were less than seven hundred thousand dollars.

The conversation lasted quite a while and never felt rushed. No one interrupted. No one came over asking for pictures or autographs. It was simply a quiet afternoon at a table overlooking the course with one of the greatest players the game has ever known. At the time it felt like just another interview.

The following spring I heard the news that Sam Snead had passed away just a few days shy of his ninetieth birthday. Like many people who followed the game, I paused and thought about the career he left behind. Eighty-two wins. Seven major championships. A swing that golfers still study today.

But I also thought about that quiet afternoon at The Greenbrier. Somewhere in a recording from that day is the voice of Sam Snead leaning toward a microphone and introducing himself the only way he knew how.

“Well, folks,” he says, “this is old Slammin’ Sammy.”