Riviera Country Club, the grand old dame of Los Angeles golf, is hitting a rather impressive milestone: 100 years. It’s a place so steeped in golf history, it practically has its own little museum out back, filled with dusty trophies and the ghosts of questionable fashion choices. But this centennial calls for a toast, maybe with something stronger than a Gatorade, to "Hogan's Alley."
Why the nickname? Well, Ben Hogan, a man whose competitive spirit could out-drive a nuclear-powered Calloway, practically owned the joint. In one ridiculous 18-month stretch, he snagged two L.A. Opens and a U.S. Open there. That's more wins than some players get in a lifetime of trying, and frankly, it makes me feel a bit inadequate about my own golf achievements (which mostly involve finding new and exciting ways to hit the ball into the woods).
Of course, no discussion of Riviera's past is complete without mentioning the legendary rivalry between Hogan and Sam Snead. Sam, never one to mince words (or just let Hogan take his sweet time), famously quipped about Hogan's putting pace, "There were one-cigarette putts and two-cigarette putts." I’m pretty sure Hogan could smoke a whole pack just lining up a shot. You can just picture it: Hogan meticulously studying the line like it held the secrets to the universe, Sam tapping his foot, probably already on his second cigarette and contemplating what he'd have for lunch.
Their most dramatic showdown, the one you see in all the grainy black-and-white photos, came in an 18-hole playoff just 11 months after Hogan’s near-fatal car accident. Talk about coming back from the rough! Despite leading for a good chunk of it, Hogan ultimately fell to Snead in that playoff. But as any golfer worth their salt knows, you’re only as good as your next shot, and Hogan certainly proved that, going on to win another U.S. Open later. He was basically golf's version of a phoenix, minus the feathers and the whole dying thing.
Riviera’s current custodians, the Watanabe family, have treated the course with the care of a prize-winning bonsai tree, which, let’s be honest, is probably more valuable than my car. Noboru Watanabe himself, an 86-year-old lifelong golfer, even serenaded guests at the centennial gala with a piano performance. He’s proof that age is just a number, and a little bit of storm flirting (with the golf gods, that is) can lead to divine alignment – a sentiment any golfer can appreciate when facing a tricky approach shot that looks like it’s being guarded by a squadron of angry squirrels.
So here’s to Riviera, a century of birdies, bogeys, and brilliant golf stories that probably involve more tantrums than we're letting on. May its fairways remain true, its greens continue to test the patience of golfers (and their increasingly exasperated playing partners), and may it keep serving up the kind of drama that makes us all want to pick up a club.