Joe Louis, golfer. The words sound strange to those who remember Louis as simply The Champ. From 1937 to 1949, he reigned as heavyweight champion of the world. In his era, he was unquestionably the most admired and idolized athlete on the planet -- not just a sports celebrity, but an icon, a symbol of hope and pride for millions of African Americans, a symbol of strength and dignity for all.
Born to a family of Alabama sharecroppers who had migrated to Detroit, Joe Louis Barrow (he shortened his name when he started to fight) grew up in a large, close-knit, church-going family. His strength and talent were obvious from the start; his left hand, especially, was a lethal weapon. With a six-inch punch, he could lift opponents off their feet.
From the time he turned pro, Louis seemed invincible. His only loss until late in his career was to German fighter Max Schmeling -- and his trainer thought that his obsession with golf was one of the reasons for the upset. Ever since he'd been introduced to golf in 1935, Louis worked at the game with the same discipline that he brought to his fighting regimen. From the Schmeling fight on, though, his trainer put a limit to the amount of golf he could play while preparing for a bout.
Golf offered Louis an opportunity to step away from the demands of his very public life, and as his son, Joe Louis Barrow Jr., now National Director of the First Tee Foundation, says, "He just loved the game. It gave him a chance to compete and spend time with his friends. He had a wonderful sense of humor, too, and he could express it on the golf course. Outside of boxing, he had no greater passion than golf."
Louis spent hours on the practice range trying to control his powerful swing. He loved to hit the ball long, but he worked hard at the short game, too, and had surprisingly gentle hands. When he flubbed a shot, he didn't cuss or throw clubs. He'd just say, "Aw, Joseph."
Even though he often teed it up with celebrities like Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, and Frank Sinatra, Louis preferred to play with friends and the top black golfers of the day. In the cities he visited, he came to know which municipal courses were welcoming, and he and his entourage would show up regularly. He also liked to travel with a "personal pro," a golfer who not only gave instruction, but partnered him in money games. Some of the day's best black golfers, including Clyde Martin and Ted Rhodes, spent time on Louis's payroll.
Still, Louis was known for losing far more money than he won. But he wasn't the type to worry about nickels and dimes or, for that matter, hundreds and thousands. Early in his career, when the money was pouring in, The Champ gave it away almost as quickly as he earned it. His free-wheeling, free-spending generosity was part of his legend.
Louis became a major supporter of the United Golf Association, the black organization that ran tournaments across the country. He competed in UGA events as an amateur. In the 1940 Eastern Open, played in Washington, D.C., at Langston, the nation's first public course built expressly for black golfers, Louis teed it up -- and drew a crowd of several thousand. And in 1941, at Rackham, a public course in Detroit, he sponsored his own tournament, the Joe Louis Open. He put up the $1,000 purse, of course, but he also paid the entry fees and transportation costs for golfers who otherwise might not have been able to play. The tournament was suspended during World War II, when Louis was in uniform, but resumed after the war with a $2,000 purse.
One of Louis's ambitions was to win the most prestigious amateur title in black golf -- the amateur division of the National, or "Negro National," the centerpiece of the UGA schedule. After several attempts, Louis took the title in 1951.
By then, Louis was past his boxing prime. He'd announced repeatedly that he would concentrate on golf when he retired, but financial pressures kept him fighting until 1951. Still, he seemed to be pouring more energy into golf, and he became more outspoken about discriminatory practices in the game.
In 1952, Louis was invited to play in the San Diego Open, a PGA event, but Horton Smith, the PGA president, stepped in to remind the tournament committee that PGA by-laws prevented "non-Caucasians" from participating in officially sanctioned events.
Louis was outraged, and decided to go to San Diego and confront the tournament committee. In forcing the issue, he would make the PGA say to one of the most visible, admired, and beloved men in the country that, sorry, he couldn't play in the tournament.
The PGA recognized the crisis on its hands, and in an emergency meeting tried to work out a solution. Louis was allowed to play at San Diego -- as an exempt amateur -- though Bill Spiller, a black professional who had qualified, was not. A "Negro Golfing Committee" was formed, and over the next few weeks, this committee -- Louis, Rhodes, Spiller, and a few others -- succeeded in getting black golfers into PGA events in Tucson and Phoenix. The blacks were permitted on the course, but not in the locker rooms. The committee dissolved after the PGA requested it to determine the "morals and manners" of the black players to be eligible for PGA events
Nevertheless, Louis's leadership had opened the door. The Champ kept the pressure on, speaking to influential friends about exclusionary practices in golf. He'd put his prestige on the line -- and he had the eventual satisfaction of seeing the PGA change its policies in 1961.
Joe Louis died in 1981. By the end of his life, his money was gone and The Champ -- once such a perfect, powerful physical specimen -- was in a wheelchair. He'd waged a long and losing battle with the IRS, and his last post was as a greeter at a Las Vegas resort. Boxing had made him a public figure, honored and respected even in his decline. But much of his intimate life -- his days with friends, his best moments with his son -- was lived on the golf course, and he kept playing the game he loved most until he could no longer swing a club.