Relax? How can anybody relax and play golf? You have to grip the

In the quiet fields where champions of the green have tested their nerves against silence and distance, there stood Ben Hogan, a man forged in discipline and precision. He once uttered a jest, yet within it lay a truth wrapped in iron: “Relax? How can anybody relax and play golf? You have to grip the club, don’t you?” To many, it was humor. To the wise, it was a parable. For Hogan spoke not only of golf, but of the balance between ease and effort, between control and surrender, that all men must wrestle with.

What is it to grip the club? It is to acknowledge the weight of responsibility. One cannot play by letting the club fall freely from the hand. A hold must be taken, a choice must be made, and strength must be applied. Yet in gripping, there is also the danger of gripping too tightly—of turning discipline into rigidity, of suffocating the very motion that brings forth grace. Hogan’s question is not a denial of relaxation but a reminder: relaxation cannot exist without the tension of responsibility, and responsibility cannot bear fruit without a measure of calm.

The ancients themselves knew this struggle. Think of the tale of Odysseus, who steered his ship between Scylla and Charybdis. To relax too much would have meant surrender to the whirlpool, but to grip too hard in fear would have driven the ship into the monster’s teeth. His survival depended on the same paradox Hogan alludes to: knowing when to hold firmly, and when to let the current guide. Thus golf, like life, is a passage between extremes—between tension and release, between control and surrender.

Hogan, through his words, revealed the secret of mastery. He knew that relaxation was not the absence of effort, but the harmony of effort with ease. The hand grips, yes, but the grip is measured. The body strains, yes, but not beyond its flow. To play golf is to understand that true calm is found not by casting away the club, but by holding it with the strength of discipline and the grace of balance.

The story of Hogan himself is proof of this teaching. After a near-fatal car crash in 1949, doctors doubted he would walk again, let alone play. Yet through fierce will, he returned to the course, gripping his club with hands that bore pain, yet with a soul that had learned patience. He did not “relax” in the common sense, for his path was lined with suffering. But he found within suffering a steadiness, a way to hold fast without breaking, a way to balance strength with serenity.

What lesson, then, must we draw? That life demands both the grip and the release. We cannot simply drift without purpose, nor can we crush every moment with anxious force. We must learn to hold responsibility firmly, yet with wisdom enough to allow life’s natural flow. Whether in work, in love, or in struggle, too much force strangles, and too little abandons. Balance is the art.

So let Hogan’s words echo as a counsel to the generations: do not seek a life without strain, nor a life of endless tension. Grip the club of your duties. Hold your ground with strength. But in the holding, find the measure that allows breath, motion, and grace. This is the path not only to playing golf, but to playing the game of life itself.