Twelve dollars, 50 cents.
Long ago, for that sum, San Diegans could play 20 rounds of golf a month at a new course.
The place was called Torrey Pines.
The whole setup seemed surreal to a newly arrived, golf-loving transplant from the Midwest who worked the second shift in San Diego’s aeronautics industry.
Sixty-plus cents per round?
On a long, gorgeous course, overlooking the ocean?
Dozens of trophies, medals and plaques later, Barry Robbins marvels at those weekdays that felt like vacation days.
“I was so blessed,” he says, laughing. “Torrey Pines. Beautiful. I’d play in the mornings. Then I’d go to work.”
The year was 1957. Thanks to a special city election, a former U.S. Army site was transformed into a public course north of downtown San Diego.
For local golfers, the bargain rate that applied to Torrey Pines also applied to Balboa near downtown.
An older track that served up views of San Diego Bay, Balboa was shorter than Torrey but no slouch. One morning in 1943, Sam Snead fumed after losing a match there. Eager for redemption, “Slammin’ Sammy” came back in the afternoon, then went out in 28 and back in 32. The 60 still stands as a course record.
Robbins caddied as a teenager in Indiana and taught himself how to play. A natural, he made his high school team as a junior.
Though life alongside the Ohio River had advantages, his dad contemplated a move to San Diego with his wife and daughter and asked Barry if he’d join them.
“I hate these drab and dreary winters,” the son replied.
“So, we scooted out here,” says Robbins, who, with his dad, drove their 1953 Ford sedan to downtown San Diego.
Now 88, Robbins shakes his head. “I’ve been lucky,” he says.
He met his wife, Tricia, in San Diego. They’ve been married 54 years.
He won dozens of local golf tournaments. Among his favorite victories, which include San Diego city titles, were the three Torrey Pines club championships he won in the 1960s and others at Mission Trails near Lake Murray.
A scrapbook Tricia kept includes scorecards that confirm several of the 19 aces Barry carded.
Working for Ryan Aeronautical had its thrills, too.
Robbins assembled circuit boards that would accompany Apollo 10 astronauts to the moon. He met those astronauts when they visited the Kearny Mesa plant where Robbins worked.
“We touched fingers,” he says. “How about that? The same fingers that went to the moon with our circuit boards.”
Robbins and Torrey Pines were more compatible than Robbins could’ve guessed when he was caddying in Indiana.
He grew eight inches after his junior year, adding distance to his drives.
Long off the tee with his persimmon-wood MacGregor driver, the 6-foot-1, 200-pounder could reach Torrey’s par-5s in two shots.
Such was his ball-striking consistency that a hustler backed out of a match minutes before they were to tee off.
Robbins found out the hustler had snuck a look at Robbins’ clubs, seeing the sweet spots were worn thin.
Robbins won championships at other clubs, including Navajo and Tecolote Canyon. He reveled in the fierce competition at Stardust in Mission Valley, where the onlookers included a 16-year-old club employee named Phil Mickelson.
Both Robbins’ golf passion and form proved enduring, enabling him to shoot his age many times.
“You can’t describe Barry’s swing. But let’s put it this way: the ball gets in the hole,” said Mike Maio, a local 25-year PGA teaching pro. “He has a great short game — a phenomenal short game.”
A scratch golfer might as well be an alien life form to most people who’ve held a golf club.
Robbins’ wife is the more relatable spouse when it comes to golf.
Hitting a bad shot decades ago, amid a round in Santee, Tricia promptly stretched out on the fairway and mock-pleaded Barry to “just run over me” with the golf cart.
It’s a memory they’ve laughed at many times.
Sunday, at their care home in El Cajon, they’ll be watching the Farmers Open’s final round at Torrey Pines.
Robbins won’t let the PGA stars have all the fun. He plans to return soon to Cottonwood, the El Cajon course where he plays one or two rounds per week. Getting around on two replacement knees, he’ll be eager to take money from a rotating group of a dozen playing partners.
“It’s in the blood,” he says, smiling. “Golf is unlike football and basketball. You can still play it when you’re this old.”
