White Fang and the Golden Bear

by Joe Wessel

  This book is dedicated to Louis Joseph Wessel—Renaissance Man, Navy Man, Best Friend, Loving Father, and Leader of the Wessel Band!

  Copyright © 2019 by Joe Wessel and Bill Chastain

  Foreword © 2019 by Jack Nicklaus

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Qualcom Designs

  Cover photo credit: iStock

  ISBN: 978-1-5107-4016-7

  Ebook ISBN 978-15107-4017-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Foreword by Jack Nicklaus

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Anticipation

  Chapter 2: Louis Joseph Wessel

  Chapter 3: Off to War

  Chapter 4: Home, and Broadway

  Chapter 5: Nicklaus and White Fang Come to Be

  Chapter 6: Exposure to Golf and on to Team Sports

  Chapter 7: Alcoholics Anonymous

  Chapter 8: Hanging with the Miami Dolphins

  Chapter 9: High School to Prep School

  Chapter 10: FSU Early Years and the Golden Bear’s Son

  Chapter 11: Fired as a Junior

  Chapter 12: Golfing with the Golden Bear’s Son and White Fang

  Chapter 13: Block That Kick!

  Chapter 14: Coaching Decision

  Chapter 15: Looking for Work and Finding a Girl

  Chapter 16: Notre Dame

  Chapter 17: Coping and Overcoming

  Chapter 18: On to the NFL

  Chapter 19: Out of Coaching

  Chapter 20: Rediscovering White Fang

  Chapter 21: East Lake, then First Taste of Augusta National

  Chapter 22: Golfing with the Golden Bear at Augusta National

  Chapter 23: Papa Joe’s Final Years

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Insert

  Foreword

  by Jack Nicklaus

  MY FATHER WAS MY BEST friend. I know how lucky I was to have had a special relationship with him.

  I think my sister got a little bit of the short end of that deal. That didn’t mean he loved her any less. But I was the apple of Dad’s eye, and he spent a ton of time with me. He introduced me to every sport. We threw the ball together. We shot baskets together. We kicked the football together. We played golf together. We hit tennis balls together. Whatever, that’s what we did.

  Dad taught me a lot of things. There was a right way to do things. Like you wanted to be a good sport. If you lost, it wasn’t the end of the world. You have to deal with whatever hand you’re dealt. And, you kept your word. Your word is your bond. He also taught me how a father was supposed to act, so I tried to do the same thing with all of my kids. He taught me to introduce my kids to things and let them make up their own minds. I didn’t want any of my kids to play golf just because I wanted them to play golf. I wanted them to play golf if they wanted to play golf. I’d introduce them to the game, but I didn’t actually try to encourage them too much. I thought it was pretty difficult being my son from that standpoint. And if they ended up wanting to play, then that would be a great choice on their part. Well, it turned out that three of the four boys became golf pros. Steve did not. But Steve was almost as good a golfer as the other three. It made me very happy that my sons wanted to play, just as my dad was happy that I enjoyed the sport on my own terms.

  Dad was a great athlete. He’d even played pro football for the old Portsmouth Spartans, who are now the Detroit Lions. I didn’t know it at the time, but Dad had wanted me to play football, too. You know, I quit football, and he never told me he was disappointed. He just supported what I wanted to do. And so that’s sort of what I did with my guys.

  Obviously, Dad was a heavy influence in my life. He passed away far too early, at 56 of pancreatic cancer. He missed a great part of my career. But he got to see probably seven or eight major championships. I think about him every day.

  A component of this book originated from the fact that one of my sons gave something away. My kids used to give all my stuff away. And that’s ok.

  I had obtained one autograph during my childhood, that of Harvey Haddix. Most remember him as the guy who pitched a perfect game for the Pittsburgh Pirates before losing the game in extra innings. When Harvey played for the Columbus Redbirds, I got his autograph on a baseball. I was 6 or 7 years old. I had kept that ball on my dresser my entire life. Then one day, I came home from a trip, and the baseball wasn’t on my dresser. I wondered what happened until my son Steve, who was about 15 at the time, came in and said, “Oh Dad, our ball went in the lake, so we used this one.” He showed me the Haddix ball, and, of course, it was a mess. The autograph was gone. But that’s what kids do.”

  Funny that White Fang would be one of the items he’d give away years later.

  Obviously, a putter’s probably the most important club in your bag. You really have to have a good feel for your putter. If you’re not comfortable with what you’re using, you’re out of luck. You have to have confidence in what you’ve got. If you don’t have confidence in it, you’re not going to use it very well. I had that one putter I used for years, a George Low Wizard heel-shafted putter. I won fifteen of my majors with it. But there were times when all of a sudden it felt different. I wasn’t making any putts, so I’d put it down and putt with something else and have success. White Fang became one of those alternative putters.

  White Fang was a Bull’s Eye putter painted white. When I looked at it, it gave me a different look. I putted well with it, and I gained confidence from using it, even won a major using it, the 1967 U.S. Open at Baltusrol. You’re not going to win if you don’t have any confidence.

  I met Joe Wessel when he roomed with Steve at Florida State. They both played football, so they spent a little bit of time together and became good friends. Joe ended up playing a little bit of golf, so they shared some time from that side, too. Occasionally, I’d see Joe when I went to Tallahassee for games. I’d always liked him, and when he returned White Fang to me, I liked him even more.

  Getting White Fang back helped to facilitate a memorable outing. Joe Wessel had a special relationship with his father, a relationship that is the heart of this book. Being able to play a small part in their life together was something that brought me pure joy. I think that was a special day for Joe, and a special day for his dad. I hope you enjoy Joe’s account, as told by Bill Chastain, as much as I enjoyed partaking in it.

  Prologue

  PRIOR TO MY FATHER’S DEATH, every time we played a round of golf together, we’d sit down afterward, and inevitably, somebody would want me to cue up the White Fang story. “Tell it, Joe. It’s the best golf story ever.”

  Something similar occurred inside the Men’s Grill at the Palma Ceia Golf and Country Club in Tampa. I sat swapping stories with
my friend Doug Shields, when Bill Chastain stopped by our table. Doug introduced us and told me he was a writer. Doug calls everyone “Coach” and has a way with words, so he yelled out, “Coach, tell Bill the White Fang story! Bill, you won’t believe this story.” I told him the story, and that marked the beginning of this book’s journey.

  Dad had died a couple of months earlier. The sting of his death remained fresh. I missed him so badly that I physically hurt. My neighbor Ralph Barber had been pushing me to write a book, so I asked Bill if he might be interested in collaborating with me. The next day, Bill got back to me after he’d researched the White Fang story. Several articles had been written about how Jack Nicklaus got reunited with his beloved putter, White Fang, but those stories missed the larger backstory, which dealt with a special father-son relationship. Once I told Bill more about my father and our unique relationship—along with some details from my life—we agreed to work on this book.

  I first met Jack in Tallahassee, Florida, where his son Steve and I were college roommates. Steve and I played football for Florida State University. During that time, I learned that Jack cared about relationships and understood that relationships were more important than anything else. Relationships were about getting along and about engaging other people. Observing Jack made me think of my father’s work with Alcoholics Anonymous and how he guided other people. That’s what defines true servant leadership.

  In the years that would follow, when I became a husband and a father, how I saw Jack as a father meant even more to me. When I looked back and heard stories about what happened to Jack’s father and how he felt about his family, everything resonated with me. There were many similarities between my own father and Jack.

  Jack plays a unique role in this story. He ultimately punched the Augusta lottery ticket for my father and me. With approximately 29 million golfers in the United States and in Europe, there’s no telling what the odds were for any golfer to ever have the good fortune of playing a round of golf at Augusta National, home of The Masters. The place ranks among the top golf courses in the world, and with that rank comes exclusivity. Limited numbers of rounds on those pristine grounds are allowed yearly by its own members. Couple the odds of getting to play a round at Augusta with the odds of getting to play Augusta with Jack Nicklaus—a six-time winner of The Masters tournament—and the odds become astronomical.

  However, before the story of how we got to Augusta unfolds, we must uncover another story, one that should echo in the heart of any son or daughter who ever enjoyed a special relationship with his or her father.

  I’ve always felt that the life I lead reflects my dreams and my passion. My father had always enjoyed the fact that I had an affinity for sports, and ultimately, for coaching. He’d followed his passion to entertain and sing on Broadway, and he wanted me to experience similar joy. And I did, from growing up around the Miami Dolphins of the 1970s and early 1980s, to playing college football at Florida State University and eventually coaching in the college and professional ranks. Dreams do come true, and sometimes in the strangest of ways.

  My father gave me the ultimate lesson on how to be a leader through the discipline he dispatched and by the way he lived his life. Watching him and listening to him gave me an understanding of passion and hard work. You have to be an example to the people you lead. I have strived for that in my coaching career, in my business life, and in my personal life.

  Dad was a regional sales manager for McCormick & Company, but I think he always fell back on his Navy experience from World War II, where he learned about the hierarchy of leadership and being a stickler about details—doing things right.

  Along the way, I was exposed to many different coaches, including Don Shula, Bill Arnsparger, Howard Schnellenberger, Bobby Bowden, Jack Stanton, Mickey Andrews, Lou Holtz, and countless others. Coaching is all about getting people to buy into a philosophy, then getting them to execute the things that are needed for success, some of which they never thought possible. Both of my parents provided a foundation for that way of thinking. My mother taught English and always strived to have us speak correctly. You said you were “doing well.” You didn’t say you were “doing good.” That’s what we parents do, because we want our kids to be better than we were.

  Once I got out of football and into business, the bells started going off when others would comment about the people I have met, the places I have been to, and the experiences that have formed and guided my life. I can look back and say they’ve all helped to form the person I am. No person is more responsible for who I am than my father, Louis Joseph Wessel.

  CHAPTER 1

  Anticipation

  October 2003

  SITTING ON THE BACK PORCH of Firestone Cabin at Augusta National, my mind raced. I reflected on my life and considered the possibilities of the next day.

  I had a downhill view through the pine trees of the No. 10 fairway thanks to a bright moon. Temperatures were in the 50s, and the wind whistled through the pines. The forecast for the next day was clear and in the 60s. Perfect golf weather.

  Although the azaleas weren’t blooming in the fall, the visualization of a full accompaniment of the signature flowers sat in my brain, just not in my nose. I’d played in baseball stadiums and I’d coached and played in football stadiums, but golf is a different sport altogether. When you play a course, you can go out and do exactly what the pro did, a month after or a day after he finished a tournament. Golf has that capability. And you can play the exalted venues where legends are formed or dismantled. Augusta National is such a venue.

  Firestone Cabin sat in the middle of a semicircle of newer cabins at Augusta National. The famed Butler Cabin sits off the 10th tee near the 9th green. Everybody in the cabin slept that night except me. Among those sleeping were my father; my college roommate, Steve Nicklaus; and Jack Nicklaus—the Golden Bear, who happened to be Steve’s father.

  I felt as though I’d experienced a reversal of roles, putting my seventy-seven-year-old father to bed like I’d tucked in my kids before treating them to the circus the following day.

  Three years earlier, a friend offered me tickets for a practice round at The Masters. I accepted and brought my father with me. We drove from Tampa and back the same day. What an experience! Dad remained in a state of awe watching the practice round and some of the par-3 tournament. We walked a lot; he’d been in good shape then, and the fibrosis hadn’t taken its toll yet. Dad commented at one point, “Man, the TV doesn’t do this place justice.” He couldn’t believe the course’s elevations. Augusta National’s beauty captured him, sending him back to his days of tending to his orchids on the side of the house.

  Right in his wheelhouse.

  No doubt, Dad walked off the course that day thinking he’d never see the place again, much less ever have an opportunity to play the course. Yet now I found myself, perched on the brink of stepping inside the ropes to play Augusta National, and privy to doing so with my father, my college roommate, and the golfer hailed as the best to ever play the game. How would I handle the treacherous greens? Amen Corner? I wanted morning to arrive. I wanted to tee off. I wanted to putt on the immaculate greens. I just didn’t want the night to end.

  White Fang would be picking up the check.

  Had that magical putter not brought comfort to Nicklaus for a fleeting moment during his storied career, my Augusta experience would never have come to fruition.

  CHAPTER 2

  Louis Joseph Wessel

  HURRICANE SEASON IN THE ATLANTIC proved to be particularly feisty in the summer of 1926. When you lived in Miami Beach like my grandparents, Louis and Esther Wessel, you had to pay attention to such things.

  On July 22, 1926, the National Weather Service reported the first hurricane of the season. Reports of another tropical depression forming on July 29 prompted a decision by my pregnant grandmother to travel by train to Dubuque, Iowa. She could have her baby surrounded by a large Bertsch clan, thousands of miles from the possibility of hurricane
devastation.

  The previous year, my grandparents had lost their first, Patrick, due to complications from the birth. Given the fact the only hospital near where they lived was inland, along with the lingering heartbreak from the loss of Patrick, the precautions they took were understandable.

  On August 14, 1926, Louis Joseph Wessel came into the world in a hospital in Dubuque. The decision to temporarily relocate proved to be a wise one. Eleven tropical storms took place in, or around, the Atlantic that year. Among those, the “Great Miami Hurricane” arrived on September 18.

  The nastiest part of that historic storm saw Miami Beach get hit with a ten-foot storm surge that sent water from the Atlantic Ocean as far as the City of Miami, leaving several city blocks covered by water. According to the Red Cross, 372 people died in the storm and another 6,000 were injured. The estimated cost from the damages inflicted amounted to $105 million, according to the National Weather Service, which notes that in today’s dollars, damages from that storm would equate to approximately $164 billion.

  Two months after my grandmother had given birth, the weather in the Atlantic settled, and she boarded a train to Miami Beach to be reunited with my grandfather. It was there that they would raise my father, along with the other nine children that followed. My grandmother gave birth to ten kids in twelve years, including one set of twins.

  My grandfather worked in the construction business, a less than ideal business after the Depression hit. Difficult circumstances, both physical and economic, followed. Though my grandparents weren’t poor, they were far from wealthy. They made do with little spending money.

  Dad always described my grandmother as a queen, noting that everybody always talked about her gregarious nature and generosity. Despite the family’s circumstances and tight living conditions, my grandmother would insist that they could find room for a visitor if he or she needed to stay overnight. Somehow, she would manage to find a place for them to sleep while also finding enough food to feed them.