COUNT YOGI

"Simple game, nothing to it. If you pay attention and follow my infallible mental routine, the instant results will unleash your God-given, Creator-given talent hiding deep inside." That's what Count Yogi told me when I first met him.

The year was 1982. Four years earlier, Yogi's car was hit by a Los Angeles public transit bus. He was only just then getting his golfing legs back at the short Roosevelt public course in Griffith Park. High in the hills above Hollywood, the restless recluse was planning a comeback.

It turned out I'd met Count Yogi before without realizing who he was. We both used the same gas station near the entrance to Griffith Park. I sometimes observed and briefly chatted with what appeared to be an ancient hippie as he filled up his green Lincoln Continental. He was among the wildest looking characters in a city full of them. In fact, he was a dead ringer for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the controversial guru to the Beatles and other celebrities.  I was intrigued by this character, but never suspected for a second that he was a professional golfer and instructor.

Without my knowing it, Yogi was on his way to play golf after leaving the gas station, while I would then go to work for Crosby, Stills and Nash, a job that came my way after years of repairing and building guitars. As soon as I'd get to work, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash often would also head out toward Griffith Park with me for golf. Our VW van became a mobile clubhouse.

David Crosby wanted nothing to do with the game. Stills, a natural athlete, was quickly rebuilding his rusty golf skills, while Nash was a duffer by comparison to the rest of us. Graham did putt well, though. One routine day at Roosevelt saw Nash scoring like never before, and his swing was beautiful to watch, graceful, balanced and relaxed throughout. 

I was incensed. "You're taking lessons behind our back. Tell the truth". Nash told us how he was studying with an actual golf guru, Count Hilary Yogi, the greatest golfer of all ages. He flipped us his autographed copy of "Five Simple Steps to Perfect Golf," an instruction book and personal history written by Count Yogi. Going over Yogi's list of feats had me baffled. I had never heard of the guy, nor have many of you now reading this.

Yogi had been relegated to obscurity because he'd never joined the Professional Golfers' Association (PGA). One reason for this was probably his ethnic heritage. His paternal grandfather was a Bavarian-born Jew who is said to have married a daughter of Chief Gall, an important Lakota Sioux tribal leader who'd fought at the Battle of Little Big Horn.  Although Gall led his tribe back from Canadian exile to a reservation and cooperated with U.S. authorities thereafter, he also criticized Chief Sitting Bull for joining Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show, saying he would never allow himself to be exhibited like an animal.

Count Yogi's name at birth was Harry Montana Frankenberg, the middle name a tribute to where he was born.  He had  a  semi-dark complection, and looked "foreign," not "lily white." The PGA of Count Yogi's era was not an organization that supported and practiced ethnic diversity. It had a "Caucasian only" clause in its bylaws, mirroring the restricted policies of nearly all private country clubs at the time, many of which also banned members on the basis of national origin or religion. Ky Laffoon, a PGA touring pro in the 1930s and 1940s, was believed by some to be part Cherokee Indian, but he actually was not. In Chicago, as a young man playing in high stakes golf matches and otherwise, Yogi sometimes pretended he was a Brazilian named Xavier Montanez.

The apartheid policy for both touring and club golf professionals stood until 1962, when the great African-American golf pro Charlie Sifford teamed up with California's attorney general Stanley Mosk to successfully pressure the PGA into dropping its racist stance. All of this is part of golf's ugly side, one that is belatedly and thankfully falling away it. People are still aware of golf's image as an elitist sport, as illustrated by "Caddyshack" and "Tin Cup," two hugely successful movies that both spoofed the snobbishness still surrounding the game in some sectors.  

Besides the apparent ethnic ban, Yogi's lifelong efforts to disprove the PGA's and other accepted golf instruction methods didn't endear him to pro golf establishment. He was fanatic about his approach to golf technique, and much of his preaching fell on deaf ears, but many of his techniques have been slowly brought into the modern golf swing without any acknowledgment.

During Count Yogi's younger days, pro golf tournaments were far from the big money events they are today, and traveling from one tournament to another was often an ordeal. Becoming a full-fledged PGA pro back then required a five-year apprenticeship as an assistant, the duties of which often included cleaning clubs and shoes for country club members.  During this time, Yogi was a successful businessman in Chicago and owned several retail and wholesale enterprises besides an indoor golf school and training center, so not being affiliated with the PGA did not thwart his efforts the way it would later in his career.

Yogi contented himself with giving golf lessons and playing in and winning many local Chicago golf tournaments and challenge matches, at times defeating PGA pros in these competitions  He supported women's golf when considerable opposition existed to ladies playing the game. He cited small-statured  female champions as proof positive that strength and power weren't prerequisites for good golf. In addition, he was among the first to teach blind and disabled people how to play golf. In so doing, he displayed his humanitarian side of trying to help others and also disproved common golf teaching axioms in the process.  

Harry Frankenberg became Count Yogi after moving to Los Angeles from Illinois in the late 1940s. He taught golf at Bob Hope's Toluca Fairways, giving lessons to celebrities as well as everyday people. At times, he wore Hindu turbans, robes and capes while playing golf. He won local tournaments sponsored by the Universal and MGM movie studios, but when he tried to play in the 1950 Western Open held at Brentwood Country Club, the PGA sent a telegram forbidding him to compete, this after he'd shot the lowest qualifying round score and also after filing a PGA application  endorsed by two Class A PGA members, who were former (1947) PGA champion Jim Ferrier and future (1953) PGA champion Walter Burkemo. According to Yogi's own account, the Australian-born Ferrier was the only golfer to beat him in match play competition. Burkemo, a Michigan-based club pro whose success against the tour professionals was a factor in changing the PGA Championship's format from match to stroke play, became Yogi's lifelong friend and supporter.

Yogi's inspiration for his Hindu golf wardrobe may have been Korla Pandit, a handsome early star of local Los Angeles television. Wearing a bejeweled turban and other Indian garb, Pandit played romantic organ music on TV as clouds and other etheral background scenes were projected behind him. Despite impersonating a Hindu mystic, Pandit was actually a fairskinned African-American named John Roland Redd. Before coming up with the Korla Pandit idea, Redd had been a jazz musician in St. Louis. When he first came to California, he initially took on a bogus Hispanic persona, using the name Juan Rolando. 

Count Yogi eventually toured the nation as a trick shot performer, using prop clubs and awkward playing stances to further disprove commonly believed golf theories about the golf swing.  Even if had been allowed to join the PGA, there was no lucrative Champions Tour back then for golfers over the age of 50.  Becoming a golf entertainer kept the Count in the game, maintaining him on the fringes of the pro golf scene. Sometimes his trick shot exhibitions were booked as an added attraction at big golf tournaments. Internet postings from those who witnessed Yogi's shows and exhibitions years ago all acclaim him as a both a great golfer and entertainer.

This brings us back to the putting green at Griffith Park when Graham Nash asked me to turn around,telling me that this was my lucky day. "Count Yogi is walking right toward you now." he said. Turning, I saw my gas station buddy. With the long hair and beard,  he looked nothing like the photographs of the dapper, smooth swinging Count Yogi pictured nine years earlier in "Five Simple Steps to Perfect Golf." Nash introduced me to Yogi and my life changed forever. 

It made sense for Yogi to ally himself with Graham Nash, for he'd been attracted to the entertainment world ever since he moved to Hollywood from Chicago after World War II. Besides teaching at Bob Hope's golf course, the Count had also worked as a golf pro for Mickey Rooney at a resort hotel in Downingtown, Pennsylvania that Rooney was affiliated with. Yogi had also given golf exhibitions for Elvis Presley in Tupelo and Nashville, and had performed at one of heavyweight champion Muhammad Ali's press conferences.

Yogi observed that the times were a' changin', and he had the foresight to reach out toward the rock music scene. Unfortunately for him, his timing with Crosby, Stills & Nash was poor. They hadn't appeared in concert for years and were in the middle of extensive and costly recording sessions for a reunion album. Today, classic rock stars such as Alice Cooper, Eddie Money, Huey Lewis and others are regulars in PGA pro-am events. In 1982,  the rockers would've been viewed as undesirable longhaired ruffians by golf officials, tournament sponsors, and broadcast networks. Entertainers who hosted PGA golf tournaments in the 1980s included Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Danny Thomas, Jackie Gleason, Andy Williams, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Glen Campbell. However, today only the Hope tournament remains as a posthumous tribute to its namesake. 

Yogi was over age 65 when I met him (his exact birthdate remains a mystery), and he still could easily score below par playing two 9-hole rounds at executive length Roosevelt. When we played at regulation length golf courses, Yogi played at even or slightly below par. Apart from age, Yogi had been in a debilitating automobile accident, was battling arthritis in his hands, and may have been developing the early stages of a cancerous condition that led to his death several years later. When Yogi would appear to tire physically in the latter stages of a round, I noticed he would make a partial swing with a 4-iron instead of playing a full 7-iron, and still knock the ball pin high on the green. It was uncanny and so was Count Yogi. His recovery shots from bad lies were equally amazing.

I never have seen anyone putt as well as Yogi did. I saw him one-putt so many greens it nearly gave me vertigo. Count Yogi played golf with a Rasputin-like zeal.  He would tell me, "If you want to play like me, imitate me. Be like me. I play perfect golf and so can you." Although he was far from modest and continually boasted of his skill and success as a golfer and instructor, Yogi was a perfect gentleman on the course, keenly aware of proper golf etiquette, and he dressed impeccably, wearing cufflinked shirts when playing.

Even though Count Yogi was probably 35-40 years older than me I could never beat him. I grew up in Moon Township, Pennsylvania near Pittsburgh, and I played golf in regional high school competitions.  Twenty years later, I improved beyond that after taking lessons from Yogi. Despite this, it wasn't enough for me to win a round of golf against the Count. He was so consistent it was sickening. I could count the precise number of seconds it took him to go through his pre-shot address routine until he hit ball. He never varied from it, believing that developing the mental side of golf was more important than sheer physical skills. "I play with an infallible mental routine and have ever since I was a little boy," he'd say. "I don't play with my hands, my wrists, my arms, my age or my strength. I play with 100% brain."    

Despite the raw deal he'd received from golf's ruling classes, Count Yogi's love for the game itself remained unchanged. He firmly believed that playing golf could improve one's physical health and mental attitude. He kept his golf instruction simple and basic so that golfers would not become overly confused and would swing in a more natural way, emphasizing mentally controlling the clubhead. Next to "simple game, nothing to it," one of the Count's favorite catch phrases was "health first!" He believed that golf should be a fun outdoor activity for one and all, and he adamant ly believed that able-bodied golfers should walk the course rather than ride in carts.

Yogi is putting in Paradise now, having never consistently cashing in like the PGA Tour stars.  As an outlaw of the established golf organizations, he lived and died giving the average Joe a shot at being a perfect shotmaker through his lessons and books. By his own estimate, he personally taught over 20,000 people how to "Golf a la Yogi."  As a trick shot performer, he humorously entertained audiences while performing 7000 hyperactive but informative shows all over the country. He had a map of the United States displayed on wall in his home with pins marking all the cities and towns he'd performed in, logging some two million automobile road miles in the process. 

In 2005, George Peper and his research assistant Mary Tiegreen released their book, "The Secret of Golf".  In it, they explore 47 innovators of the hidden game. The last chapter is titled "The Greatest Golfer You've Never Seen...Count Yogi."  Now;, the world will hear and see more of the "greatest golfer of all ages," as he billed himself on the side of his automobiles. Count Yogi's simple instructions to follow his infallible mental routine are gateways to finding one's true game.