 This is Jimmy Powers coming your way with another Grantland Rice story. Hey there, this is Jimmy Powers with another chapter from the Grantland Rice story, The Tumult and the Shouting. Today, in first person, I'd like to take you through the 1954 United States Open, the greatest test in golf. During the 54 Open at the famed Baldish Roll Course in New Jersey, one poor round knocked Hogan into a fifth place tie with Billy Joe Patton, the colorful amateur. A dark horse won that open, a fellow with a grim expression and a withered left arm, a product of the public links around his native stamping grounds, Utica, New York. The fellow's name, Ed Fergall, profound believer in the old adage, if at first you don't succeed, keep on shooting. I'd seen Fergall in tournaments around the map since 1945, the year he hit the professional circuit. The first time I saw him must have been during the winter of 45 in Los Angeles. I watched this sharp featured young fellow hit a few shots from the practice tee and noticed he met the ball like no pro I'd ever studied. He seemed to be doing everything with his right side as contrasted to the strong left side, which practically any good golfer features. Later I questioned Fergall about this strange manner of hitting a golf ball. Mr. Rice, he said, rolling back the sleeve of his left arm, I can't hit a ball any other way. Fergall's left elbow is frozen at something approaching a right angle and the muscle of the upper arm is non-existent. However, there is nothing the matter with his left forearm wrist or hand. When he was a youngster, Fergall fell off a swing in a playground, shattering the left arm. Unfortunately, surgery could do little to correct the break. That injury knocked me out of football, boxing, even baseball and basketball, continued Fergall. The doctor told me to try to strengthen my arm, perhaps by swinging a golf stick. That was my only competitive outlet and I've been swinging ever since. For the following eight years of tournament play, going into that 54 open, Ed had average competitive scoring rounds of between 70 and 71. That's real sound golf. But in all that time, the Polish American athlete had earned less than $15,000 in his biggest year, 1947. I finally decided the Fergall family needed more security and less rainbow chasing, Fergall told me recently. I decided to try teaching, but with this cock-eyed left arm, well, I wasn't sure how my pupils, if any, would react. The answer came from the Westwood Country Club in Clayton, Missouri, near St. Louis. I've been there for some time now. I've worked hard with my pupils, too, continued Fergall. From the start, I've been an exponent of the do as I say, not as I do, school. I haven't forgotten how important a straight left arm is for the average player, if he has a good left arm. But I've worked more with the hand action, which is even more important to a good swing, more important to a good hit. Let me say right here that Fergall really had to beat that ball a country mile at Ballas Roll. The course measured 7,050 yards, longest layout for an open. Besides, the turf was moist from heavy spring rains. It demanded bold hitting all the way. It was a case of attack, attack. You could never finesse a shot. Eight holes measured 450 yards or more. Long par fours for anybody, including Sam Snead. And it was that fairway shot, the payoff shot to the green on which Fergall capitalized with his favorite number three iron. In my mind, the key to Fergall's victory was that in 72 holes of scorching pressure, he never blew to a six, where many headliners scattered to sevens. I asked Fergall if he ran into the jitters at any time. Not until the final day, granny, he grinned. I was clicking along fine until the seventh hole. There I three-putted. Then on the eighth, another three-putt green. Walking to the ninth tee, I was steaming. Rounds of 71, 70, 71 to lead the pack. And now this. I hit a good number three iron on the ninth that slipped over the green a bit, but I got down in three. Then I had nine consecutive pars for the last nine holes for a 72 and jackpot. Being a sportswriter, I've covered the greats, the near greats, the fighters, and the flops down through the years. I've watched them score, yes, and I've watched a lot more fail in the clutch, but not for the lack of trying. To me, Ed Fergall is a shining example of the closing line of a piece of verse I wrote years ago. It ends with, the game fish swims upstream. Ed Fergall's battle to reach the top is one of those inspiring strokes along the way of the ancient green. It was a long drawn out fight in which full faith in himself finally carried to the top. Ed Fergall, a living lesson in the many ways that can be used successfully by those who have gotten the tougher breaks from fate. During the winter of 1954, I spent six weeks in Los Angeles and took in one of my favorite tournaments, the Los Angeles Open. Nearly half the field was made up of gimlet-eyed shooters of under 30. Those aren't men who have battled their way up through the caddy ranks and who have finally scraped together enough money or backing to make the big winter tour. These aren't the younger editions of the Hogan's and Snead's who, as juniors, lived on a diet of ulcers and table scrapings trying to hold on somehow while stabbing for the rainbow. No, these are the peach-cheeked college kids, boys who have traveled through the luxury of a college education on the strength of a groove swing and a four-year golf scholarship at many of today's big universities. I am certain that young Mike Suchak, whom I consider one of the bright young stars of the future, had football, not golf, on his mind when he matriculated at Duke University in the late 40s. Endowed with a terrifically husky build, this kid brother of Frank Suchak, a Pitt's great 1937 tackle, played great football. Young Mike also discovered he could blast a golf ball a country mile. And for two years, he's been blasting it to the consternation of the rest of the field. My own introduction to the newest breed of pro golfer occurred around 1951. I was in St. Petersburg, Florida on my annual jaunt through the baseball camps. Staying at the vanoy while in St. Pete, I usually took breakfast in my room. That first morning, my order was delivered by a young blonde giant with a Hollywood profile. He was as enthusiastic as he was polite. All he talked about was golf. We became quite chummy. It seems the youngster was hopping bells when he wasn't attending classes at the University of Miami, where he was riding along on a golf scholarship. His name was Al Besselink. By the size of you, I think you'd be of more use to my close friend and your football coach, Andy Gustafson, I said. Well, Mr. Rice replied, bellhop Besselink. Football is all right. But the way I look at it, my future is golf, all golf. I'm ready and willing to gamble anything I own except my clubs on my game. And somehow I expect to make that confidence pay off. Well, you could have knocked me over with a small truck the following year when I scanned the first round lists at the Augusta Masters tournament. Lo and behold, there was Al Besselink slamming birdies at the entire field. No, Al didn't stick up there. He blew in the third round, as I recall. But Besselink decidedly had arrived and should carve out a big future for himself in this dog eat dog pro circuit play. Jean Littler, the reddish blonde is in his early twenties, but make no mistake. Here's another big threat to the middle and old guard who came to play. Following his release from the Navy in September of 52, the West coaster was without so much as a warm up swing. He jumped into and won the national amateur, perhaps my favorite tournament. In January 1954, Littler won the San Diego Open with a 14 under par total for 72 holes. He must have reflected that the silver cup he received was indeed a lovely thing, but it was hard to eat. At any rate, he turned pro and is hot on the heels of the more established pro names. Littler's second place finish to Ed Fergal in the 1954 Open proved conclusively that this boy has the necessary goods. Hottest foreign prospect since Bobby Locke is, of course, Australia's Peter Thompson, who became a professional in 1949, while still in his teens. Stocky and solid under fire. What I've seen of Thompson, I like. What I especially like about young Peter is that despite his unquestioned physical power, he hits the ball well within himself. In other words, he's learned early the lesson that direction, not distance, is the big payoff in this game. That's usually the last thing that the youngsters are willing to learn. Bud Holcher is another of the young timers to be kept in mind. So it looks as if youth will be served in golf as in any other sport with the possible exception of croquet and Chinese checkers. The big money up there for the grabbing is the lure and I wouldn't be surprised to see the total purses pushing a cool million in a few more years. A far cry from the nickel and dime tournament of the late 1930s. Only race horses eat from a deeper trough. Yes, money talks in golf. So does the I'm unbeatable attitude that today's youngsters carry with them from the first tee. Well, that's about it for today. So until our next session with Grantland Rice's best seller, the tumult and the shouting, this is Jimmy Powers transcribe saying so long.