Hensby's game comes in from cold
By GARY SHELTON
Published April 9, 2005
AUGUSTA, Ga. - Leaning there against the Cadillac, Mark Hensby looked like just another son of privilege. All he needed was a Roman numeral after his name.
He grinned, tanned and happy. His arms were folded against an expensive golf shirt, the storied clubhouse of Augusta National over his shoulder. Soon, he would drive out Magnolia Lane to his plush lodging.
When you think of a pro golfer, isn't this the picture that comes to mind? It is an upper-crust sport, is it not? Athletes here are born to mansions and raised on putting greens, and in between times, they have caddies to gather their toys. Isn't that the stereotype?
Nope, there are no pugs in this sport. No million-to-one shots. No Rockys, no Rudys. If you want to be a pro golfer, the easy advice is, it helps to be born rich and manicured often.
Either that, or you can follow the wacky, wonderful journey of a slightly stubborn, slightly chilled Aussie named Mark Hensby.
From here on out, he may be referred to as The Golfer You Love.
Even in the driving rain, isn't this a sight? A commoner is threatening to take over the mansion. Twenty-five holes into the Masters, and Hensby is within two shots of the lead. He Comes From the Land of 3 Under, Making Birdies in the Thunder.
The more you hear about Hensby's story, the more you may wonder who let him onto the hallowed grounds of the Masters. Nothing about him makes sense, including his dogged refusal to let the game drive him home. Hensby comes from a nongolfing family in a nongolfing town of a non-Masters-winning country, and yet he has chased this sport across all geography and all logic until he has found himself, amazingly, a success at it.
Consider this: Barely more than a decade ago, Hensby owned a battered Ford Scorpio. Driving it wasn't the problem. Sleeping in it was.
It was 1994.
It was Chicago.
It was winter.
Where does the run toward a major golf championship begin? For Hensby, 33, it began there, huddled in his car, buried beneath as many jackets as he owned, hoping the next night wouldn't be as cold as the last.
He would sleep as long as he could, then wake up and crank the car and, peeking through the iced windshield, drive it around the parking lot of the Cog Hill Golf and Country Club. When the car warmed up enough, he would turn it off, pile the jackets back on, and try to sleep as long as the heat held. An hour or so later, he would do it again.
"If there is something you really want to do," Hensby says, "you go to extremes to do it."
He was a crazy kid, of course. He had come to America earlier in the year to test his golf game, and he liked it. For a few months, he stayed with his friends, Ray and Julie Magill. But Ray and Julie went back to Australia. Hensby stayed.
Hensby worked odd jobs around Cog Hill. He caddied three days a week. He picked up range balls. He took his meals in the employee grill and showered in the public lockers of the club. For six weeks, he slept in the old Ford.
"There were times I would wonder, "What am I doing? Is this worth it?' "
Gee, you wonder. Do you think Phil Mickelson had the same experience? Davis Love III? Tiger Woods?
The beauty of the Hensby story, however, is the remarkable pluck of a player who wouldn't surrender. It didn't matter when the money grew tight or the weather turned cold or his game seemed to wander. Hensby had become gobsmacked by the sport, and he would not give it up.
Back in his hometown of Tamworth, his parents didn't seem to know the function of a golf club. His mother, Enid, played a little tennis. When Mark was young, he played a little rugby. But golf? The first time a neighbor suggested they play golf, Mark answered: "We don't play golf."
After that day, however, Mark did. He couldn't get enough. He played before school. He played after. Once, he slept on the roof of a clubhouse to get a start on the field the next morning. (By all accounts, it is more comfortable than a Scorpio.)
In some parts of Australia, you can find great golf. Greg Norman's back yard, for instance. In Tamworth, however, there was only so much Hensby could do. By the time he was 171/2, he began to work, and golf began to simmer. He delivered mail for a while. He washed dishes for a while.
Then he came to America. And, by golly, he wasn't going to get cold feet simply because he had cold feet.
One night, the security guards from the golf course tapped on his window and told him he couldn't sleep overnight in the lot. Once course director Tom Paxson heard about Hensby's plight, he let Hensby stay at his house.
"Some guy gave me $500 for the car," Hensby said. "I had just bought new tires for about $400, so that tells you what the car was worth."
In December, Hensby went home to see his family.
"He was stoney broke," Enid said from Australia. "I had no idea he was living in a car. I wasn't too pleased when I heard it. I just assumed he was staying in a motel. He sets his mind on something, and he's a determined young man."
Hensby talked to his brother, Darren. Darren decided to lend his brother $5,000 (about $3,000 in U.S. currency) as a stake. Hensby came back, played better, turned pro. He played on minitours and won a little money. Still, there was no reason for anyone to pay much attention.
Then came last year. Hensby had eight top-10 finishes, and he won the John Deere Classic. He won $2.7-million and earned his spot in the Masters.
"You never forget the struggles you went through," Hensby said. "I see guys in there who have never worked a day in their life, and I see the way they treat people. That's not right."
Back in Tamworth, in Enid Hensby's shop, the Trinity Coffee Lounge, the customers stop by regularly to tell a woman how her son is doing. With all of Norman's near-misses, the nation is ready for a native son to wear a green jacket.
After all, Hensby could always use another one.
Come next winter, he might have to sleep in his Mercedes, and he might need it to stay warm.