The unlikely story of how I met Robert Harrison, longtime PGA pro at Brentwood CC

CONFESSION: I’m a pack rat, a collector, a dreaded hoarder. My no-car garage is proof positive that I’d rather let rodents and spiders have their way with my disused treasures — cracked cellos, boxes of unread books— than haul them to a landfill and bid the junk farewell.

Did I mention golf clubs? I’ve got wedges till Tuesday, dozens of drivers and rusting sets of obsolete irons. I just can’t seem to part with my once-trusty Zevo driver, my Titleist AP2s or my slick-handled Ray Cook putters.
Pathetic.

So, what was I doing recently out of utter boredom? Trolling one of my favorite online auction sites to see what manner of uselessness I could pick up for a dime on the proverbial dollar. Did I not have enough iMacs and air fryers or kitschy mid-century lamps to last a lifetime?

But then, there they were in all their glory: a full-to-bursting bag of “vintage” golf clubs in a handsome brown leather bag. I hit the bid button faster than a skulled chip shot and opened the festivities at a princely five bucks. There the offer stood for a full week until the final gavel was struck.

The motley array of 50-year-old clubs came with an aluminum, fold-open stool and a red shag-bag stuffed with well-weathered golf balls —yellowed Kro-Flites, Slazengers and Maxflis — relics of the game as once played and the very brands I grew up on.

A HAPPY TURN

Here is where this potentially sad and tawdry tale takes a happy left turn. Upon closer inspection, I found a full set of forged Power-Bilt irons, four putters and half dozen pristine, Citation persimmon woods. Not a bad haul for a fiver — they’d look great gathering dust next to the giant, papier-mache frog in the garage!
Don’t even ask.

Then I admired the well-preserved leather bag, proudly embossed with a Brentwood CC logo, and adorned by a beige plastic bag-tag that read: “Bob Harrison, PGA Golf Professional.” That caught my attention to be sure. I fired up the Google and steered over to LinkedIn, where I found the esteemed gentleman in question, still listed as “golf pro emeritus” and instructor at the venerable westside club. I sent him a brief note of introduction and heard back from him the very next day.

Mind you, it was with some trepidation that I shared news of my bargain basement find — I didn’t want Mr. Harrison to know that someone in the family had possibly disposed of his once-reliable money-makers without telling him. He proved bemused and even curious, inviting me for coffee and a chat at the club, to see what details he could add to this turf-covered Raymond Chandler story. Had he beaten Snead or Trevino with these clunky irons during his four years on the tour, circa 1961? Or rolled in a downhill 40-footer for the trophy with the PowerBilt Momentum flatstick?

Wherever they’d been, I was overjoyed to strap the mystery bag onto awaiting golf cart the next day, where Brentwood’s beloved pro of 59 years greeted me with a hearty handshake and welcoming smile.

THE GAME’S BETTER DAYS

Nestled into leather chairs in the clubhouse boardroom, we got down to the business at hand, pondering the orphaned clubs that had brought us together. “I used to play PowerBilt before I started the tour and went with MacGregor,” Harrison said, pulling out a 3-iron and turning it slowly in his hands. When he eyed the pristine persimmon driver, a light went on: he remembered hitting a mammoth, 307-yard drive with it one morning in Baltimore, earning entry to his first pro tournament without having to play the Monday qualifier.

“I remember doing an interview at the time,” Harrison laughed, “and I said I won the long-drive contest with a piece of furniture and a balata ball — those things weren’t meant to fly forever, but if you caught it solid it would take off!”

The still-athletic, silver-haired pro then opened a bulging scrapbook and unspooled some colorful tales of matches with Arnold Palmer and ChiChi Rodriguez (“Chi-Chi believed in himself 1,000 percent, knew what he wanted to do and how to do it, and did it quite often”). But he mostly wanted to convey his boundless appreciation to Brentwood CC for his 59-year tenure, and to his wife, Lissa, whom he married shortly after giving her a lesson there some 49 years ago.

“As for those clubs, they were unforgiving and difficult to hit squarely,” he said with a measure of pride. “With modern technology, the sweet spot is so big — and with the ball coming off the face like it does — I used to say you can’t buy distance, but you can now! Hey, but the main thing is to have a good time – did you hear birds chirping, were you happy to be on a golf course and not in a hospital operating room? That’s the bottom line, not whether you broke the course record.”

One day in the not-too-distant future, some fool like myself will offer me five measly dollars for the selfsame bag of clubs at a long-overdue garage sale. But he won’t have had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman of the old school named Robert Harrison. I’d say I got my money’s worth and then some — a time machine journey to the game’s better days. You can’t put a price on that.

“The motley array of 50-year-old clubs came with an aluminum, fold-open stool and a red shagbag stuffed with well-weathered golf balls.”