To The Moon

Picture this: it’s February 6, 1971, and astronaut Alan Shepard is standing on the moon’s dusty surface, about to take a swing that would echo through history. This wasn’t just any golf shot—it was the first extraterrestrial drive, courtesy of a custom Wilson Staff Dyna-Power 6-iron. The story of how this club came to be, and how it ended up on the moon, is a delightful mix of ingenuity, rule-bending, and a touch of cosmic fun. Let’s tee off into the tale.

The idea didn’t start with Shepard—it began with a comedian. Bob Hope, the legendary entertainer, visited NASA in the late 1960s and took part in a moon gravity simulation. While goofing around, he grabbed a golf club to steady himself, sparking a lightbulb moment for Shepard, who was already a golf enthusiast. As the commander of Apollo 14, the third mission to land humans on the moon, Shepard saw an opportunity to blend his passion with his profession. Why not hit a golf ball in one-sixth gravity? It’d be a stunt for the ages—and a chance to show the world that space exploration could have a playful side.

But this wasn’t a casual whim. Shepard, the first American in space back in 1961, was a meticulous planner. With Apollo 14 set to launch on January 31, 1971, he needed a club that could make the trip. NASA, however, wasn’t exactly thrilled about turning a scientific mission into a golf outing. Weight limits were strict, and every ounce mattered. So, Shepard got creative.

Enter Jack Harden, a golf pro at River Oaks Country Club in Houston, Texas. Shepard approached Harden with a challenge: help him design a golf club that could fit into the Apollo 14 mission’s tight constraints. The solution? A Wilson Staff Dyna-Power 6-iron head—nothing fancy, just a solid, reliable clubhead weighing about half a pound. But they couldn’t take a full club. Instead, they hatched a plan to attach the 6-iron head to an existing piece of lunar gear: a collapsible aluminum and Teflon tool used for scooping moon rocks.

This wasn’t a backyard DIY job. Harden and Shepard took their idea to NASA’s Technical Services division at the Manned Spacecraft Center (now Johnson Space Center). The techs got to work, precision-engineering the connection between the clubhead and the sampling tool. The result was a Frankenstein of a golf club—functional, lightweight, and just weird enough to work. The 6-iron head was detachable, so Shepard could stash it separately and assemble it on the moon. Oh, and the golf balls? Two of them, standard-issue, tucked into his sock for the ride. NASA might’ve frowned on the idea, but they didn’t explicitly say no—so Shepard went for it.

Here’s where the story gets a little cheeky. With the clubhead and balls ready, Shepard faced a logistical hurdle: getting them aboard the Lunar Module Antares. The official payload was all business—scientific instruments, cameras, and sample bags. A golf club didn’t exactly fit the vibe. So, Shepard pulled a classic move: he smuggled the gear in his personal kit, hiding the 6-iron head and balls in a sock. It wasn’t high-tech espionage, just a guy with a dream and a knack for bending the rules. By the time Antares touched down in the Fra Mauro highlands on February 5, 1971, the contraband was safely aboard.

Fast-forward to the end of the second moonwalk, February 6. Shepard and his crewmate Edgar Mitchell had spent hours collecting rocks and setting up experiments. With the mission winding down and the world watching via a grainy TV feed, Shepard pulled out his secret weapon. He attached the 6-iron head to the sampling tool, transforming it into a lunar golf club. Dressed in a bulky spacesuit, he couldn’t exactly take a full swing—his mobility was limited, and the suit’s stiffness made it a one-handed affair.

He dropped the first ball and took a whack. Shanked it. The ball skittered into a nearby crater, barely a few yards away. “That was a little bit of a slice,” he quipped, his voice crackling over the radio. Undeterred, he lined up the second ball and gave it another go. This time, it soared—well, as much as anything soars in lunar gravity. Shepard claimed it went “miles and miles,” but later estimates pegged it at about 40 yards. Still, in one-sixth gravity and with no atmosphere to slow it down, that’s a respectable drive. The moment was pure theater, a lighthearted cap to a grueling mission, and it beamed live to millions back on Earth.

The custom 6-iron didn’t stay on the moon—Shepard brought it back, a trophy of his cosmic escapade. Today, the original clubhead resides at the USGA Golf Museum in Liberty Corner, New Jersey, a testament to one of golf’s wildest chapters. A replica, donated by Shepard in 1975, sits at the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum. The golf balls, though? They’re still up there, lost somewhere in the lunar soil, waiting for some future astronaut to stumble across them.

Shepard’s lunar swing wasn’t just a gimmick. It showed that even in the high-stakes world of space exploration, there’s room for humanity—for humor, curiosity, and a good story. The custom 6-iron, born from a comedian’s jest and built with a pro’s know-how and NASA’s precision, turned a scientific mission into a cultural moment. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the best ideas come from thinking outside the box—or, in this case, outside the planet.

So next time you’re on the fairway, gripping your own 6-iron, spare a thought for Alan Shepard. He took the game farther than anyone ever had—literally—and proved that even on the moon, a little swing can go a long way.