VISIONARY
TOUCH
The craftsmanship and
imagination of Bob Vokey
and Roger Cleveland have
revolutionized the wedge
industry | by STEVE EUBANKS
There was a time when wooden drivers
with pool cue-sized heads and clubfaces
marked by grooves looked as though they
were carved with a pocket knife. Irons were
devoid of utilitarian markings and clubs
sported crafty names like cleek, mashie,
jigger, niblick and spade. Steel shafts coated
with brown sleeves resembled the hickory
sticks that were a mainstay of the game for
centuries, and some had cowhide wrappings
that would nominally pass for grips today.
The reaction of most young players to the
equipment used in the early days of Byron
Nelson and Ben Hogan is no different than
what the pilot of a 747 might feel like before
climbing into the Wright Flyer.
But there is one club in the bag that causes
most golfers to smile when they see it, not
because of how different it looks, but because
of how little it has changed over the years.
Whether it is the old Wilson R20, its sleeker
and more refined cousin, the R90, or the
husky Walter Hagan with a hosel the length
of a large man’s finger, sand wedges of old still
elicit comments like, “Wow, that looks pretty
good,” or “I could put that club in play today.”
That’s partly because from the moment
Gene Sarazen welded a metal flange onto the
back of his spoon in 1932 and promptly won
the British and U.S. Opens, wedge design
36
has become more art than engineering, with
increased attention given to feel and finesse
rather than facts and figures.
You don’t see major club companies
advertising the 15 extra yards you’ll gain
from their latest wedge, nor will you see
them adding titanium inserts, white paint
or racing stripes to their newest models.
Instead, the good ones employ master
craftsmen, individuals who have been in
the business for decades, who have devoted
themselves to the subtle nuances of the
short game and who can build a wedge for
any idiosyncrasy, grinding and tinkering
until it is perfect.
Two of those industry veterans have
become so synonymous with the short game
that their names eclipse the companies that
employ them. You don’t, for example, hear
of anyone playing Titleist wedges—they play
with “Vokeys,” named for the man who built
them, Bob Vokey, 74, chief wedge designer at
Titleist since 1996.
The same is true at Callaway Golf,
where Roger Cleveland has become more
of an adjective than a proper noun, as in “I
play the X Hot driver, X Forged irons and
Cleveland wedges.”
EVOLUTION IN ENGINEERING
Between them they have more than a century
of manufacturing expertise, although neither
started out making wedges full time. In
1979, Cleveland founded the company that
still bears his name, Cleveland Golf, with
an eye toward building replica clubs from
VIRGINIA GOLFER | NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2013
Bob Vokey and Roger Cleveland (inset right), pictured
with PGA Tour player Alvaro Quiros, have cornered the
market on wedges, thanks to continued enhancements
and their focus on fitting golfers with the right
equipment based on their swing characteristics.
the golden era of the 1950s and ’60s. Vokey,
meanwhile, played baseball, hockey and semiprofessional football for the Quebec Rifles
for several years (“I had a great view from
the bench,” Vokey says). In 1976, he opened
Bob’s Custom Golf Shop at Fallbrook (Calif.)
Country Club in San Diego County.
Vokey later went to TaylorMade and
Founders Club during the time metal drivers
were being introduced, while Cleveland sold
his company to Rossignol, the French ski
manufacturer, in 1990 and moved to Callaway.
Both dabbled in drivers as Vokey
shepherded Titleist into the metal club era
in helping to launch the manufacturer’s
titanium 975 driver, while Cleveland made
traditional drivers at his company. But both
noticed something interesting when they
went out on the PGA T to sell their wares.
our
w w w. v s g a . o r g
VOKEY: TITLEIST; CLEVELAND: CALLAWAY GOLF
N
Nothing illustrates the
passage of time like
rummaging through a
60-year-old golf bag.