Allen Driving Past Records

Maurice Allen


Tallahassee, FL – Maurice Allen carries about a dozen clubs to the golf range. They’re mostly drivers because those clubs have driven him to the top.

“I’m doing the long drive tour right now,” said Allen, a FAMU alum. “Doing very, very well. Sitting 10th in points standing so far this year.”

Allen, who ran track at FAMU, is a professional long driver.

“It’s wierd. It’s wierd,” Allen said. “I’m still starstruck by it. I’m still getting used to the whole thing.”

He discovered he had this ability two years ago.

“My friend Steve Harrison, who used to own Golf Xcetterra around here, bet me that I wasn’t athletic enough to hit a golf ball, not knowing that I grew up around the game of golf,” Allen said. “And I hit a 7-iron about 230 yards.”

Allen’s swing generates power with record-breaking club speed. He once topped 161 miles per hour. His shot averages about 370 yards.

“Not even close to a technique,” he said. “I just figure stuff out as I go along.”

His swing may not be technically sound, but his style is just as sharp.

“Swag is everything. You can’t do anything without style,” he said.

This September, Allen will captain the U.S. Long Driving team.

“I just can’t wait until Mexico and then get ready to go to the Long Drive Championships,” he said. “So, just getting ready, man. Big season coming up.”

Atlanta golfer goes long — really, really long

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution


Maurice Allen backswing

The white sign with “Big Dawg” painted in red sits 318 yards away. Maurice Allen, wearing white pants, black shirt and white hat, pushes a pink tee into the ground and picks up his white-shafted driver with the gleaming dark blue head.

Allen begins his swing. The club head climbs the clock face, as golfers call it. Starting at 6 p.m. it goes past nine, past 12, past 3 –  when will he stop? –  until it reaches five, almost all the way back around his body.

Then the anger is unleashed. The club begins its journey back around until it punishes the golf ball. The sound is different. It’s a sharp crack with an echo, much different from the thuds and curse words often heard on the driving range. A few of the range rats look up after Allen’s drive. The ball screams into a sky so hazy it’s white, easily clearing the sign, coming to a violent stop in a bank of green kudzu that rests some 20 yards further away.

“How far did that go?” someone asks.

“355, 360,” Allen answers dismissively, unhappy with the rocket-shot anyone else on the range would have traded their new $400 driver for.