White Fang and the Golden Bear

by Joe Wessel

  Their love of sports and basketball in particular continued after their college days, and it paired them up in a local basketball league. One night, Dad had nothing to do, and as a good brother would do, he went to watch his sisters play. Afterward, he asked his sisters to help him meet the blonde woman everyone called “Marge.”

  Dad’s sisters coaxed Marge into dressing up and going with them to a speakeasy at Normandy Isle in Miami Beach. They knew Dad would be performing that night. Dad became instantly smitten after being introduced to Marge. Anybody in the audience would have surmised as much by observing how he sang to her most of that night. They began to date, and they were married on January 4, 1957.

  Kids followed.

  My older sister, Margie, came in 1959. I was born in 1962. And my younger sister, Ann Marie, came in 1970.

  Dad continued to sing even after he had a family, balancing piano bars with a career as the regional sales manager for Nestlé followed by a thirty-plus-year career with McCormick & Co., which earned him the nickname “Spicey Joe.” “Spicy Joe” worked well with my nickname, “Tiger Joe,” which I acquired early in my childhood, when Esso gas stations came up with the slogan “Put a Tiger in Your Tank!” One of their promotions called for Esso stations to hand out a stuffed tiger if you filled up your gas tank. Once Dad filled up, I got the tiger. I guess I never parted with the stuffed animal, and that’s how I got the nickname “Tiger Joe.”

  Dad called on hotels and restaurants throughout the southern half of Florida. The job put him on the road a lot. In the summer, we’d go with him for a week or two on his tours. When he covered Orlando, the Ramada Inn in Altamonte Springs became one of our yearly stops. Naples was also one of our tour stops at the Kings Crown Inn on Vanderbilt Beach.

  Dad’s travel limited his family time. He wanted to maximize that time whenever possible and often mixed his love of the outdoors with his duties as a father helping to raise his kids. We did a lot of boating, fishing, spear fishing, water skiing, and our favorite, diving for lobster.

  Tinkering with things remained a consistent practice of his. He may not have been a licensed boat-motor mechanic, but what he learned in the war gave him enough knowledge to be dangerous. He faked the rest of it. Mechanical problems with the boat stranded us out in the Atlantic on many occasions. Usually, he could fix the problem, and we’d manage to get home. Other times, he couldn’t. When that happened, we’d have to wait around for somebody to tow us in. Sea Tow didn’t exist back then.

  You always got the sense Dad knew what he was doing and that he would get us home safely. I’d heard all the stories on the docks about bad things happening to boaters. In my mind, those stories happened to other people, not us. I never realized how dangerous our boating excursions were, because I had no reference. I only knew that Dad had served in the Navy. That qualified him to get us out of anything we could get into. Besides that, Dad was Dad. He’d probably get thrown in jail these days for taking out an eight- and ten-year-old some thirty-five miles from the coast on a boat with a single engine Evinrude 115, no cell phone, and a two-wave radio that rarely worked. But that’s what he did. He was a true sportsman. He loved the water, and we loved being out there with him.

  Dad’s tinkering wasn’t limited to mechanical issues. He’d tinker around the house, too, fixing pipes, toilets, or anything that happened to be broken. I don’t know if he faked his way through some of those projects or if he simply knew how to fix everything. He came off as the Home Depot man long before Home Depot. Once Home Depot did come about, Dad found a home away from home.

  Music always played in our house. I never knew a day when the turntable wasn’t running. It didn’t matter if we were working or just sitting around—Broadway show tunes blared around the clock. My Fair Lady, Camelot, Oliver—you name a show, and he probably cued it up on that old Hi-Fi. Those soundtracks became imprinted for a lifetime in my brain and heart. I gained a great appreciation for that music and loved the fact my father had performed many of those tunes on many occasions. His top ten Broadway plays: Camelot, Phantom of the Opera, Carousel, The King and I, Oklahoma, South Pacific, West Side Story, Candide, The Fantasticks, and Les Misérables.

  One of Dad’s more endearing qualities would show itself randomly. He might be in a conversation before suddenly breaking into song. For example, when he would advise me and my friends about women, which he did often, he would start belting out the lyrics to “I’m an Ordinary Man” from My Fair Lady. This type of behavior certainly brought a contrast to his aura as a stern disciplinarian. Those Catholic nuns would have laughed at even the suggestion of Dad being a disciplinarian given his behavior as a youth.

  I think his approach came from being a perfectionist and having a drive to become better in everything he did. Do everything 100 percent and complete a task the right way. He pounded that approach into us, I think, because of an awareness about how much discourse he had created for his mother. Never would he let his kids behave the way he had. He operated more in a mode of “Do as I say, not as I did!”

  Dad delivered reminders that he indeed was the family’s disciplinarian, and he wasn’t hesitant to deliver suggestions about how things might go if I chose to go astray. For example, sometimes he’d give me a horse bite (which is pinching, using all four fingers and thumb) really hard on my hamstring before saying, “That’s for nothing. Wait until you do something.” Other times, he would walk by me and hit me in the arm, offering the same comment. And believe me, that worked. I thought twice before I stepped out of line!

  Even though he was a disciplinarian, I never doubted his love for me. Some things weren’t expressed back then. You just knew it.

  CHAPTER 5

  Nicklaus and White Fang Come to Be

  DAD WASN’T MUCH OF AN athlete, though he loved golf, so I’m sure he watched the 1967 U.S. Open at Baltusrol Golf Club in Springfield, New Jersey.

  Jack Nicklaus had gone to Baltusrol feeling lost. He’d struggled during the first half of the 1967 golf season.

  Part of the blame could be directed to his decision to start moving the ball from right to left—a draw, rather than his familiar left-to-right power fade.

  Yes, he’d won the Crosby tournament at Pebble Beach early on, but the “Golden Bear” didn’t have much to show for the rest of the season. Particularly frustrating was not making the cut at Augusta National, the first time in his professional career that he had not advanced to the weekend play at The Masters.

  Heading into the second major of the season—the U.S. Open at Baltusrol—Jack had won just $31,321. Arnold Palmer had almost tripled him by making $91,213 to that point.

  Public sentiment allowed that Jack held the status as the top golfer in the world. Another sentiment said they clearly favored Palmer with their adoration, which became apparent during the 1962 U.S. Open at Oakmont, when Jack won his first and only U.S. Open (to that point) in a playoff against Palmer. By 1967, “Arnie’s Army” still represented a large contingent even though Palmer’s last major title had been a win at the 1964 Masters.

  Palmer limped into Baltusrol favoring a muscle spasm in his hip. And he’d given up cigarettes again after experiencing dizziness and shortness of breath during the 1967 Masters.

  Though Jack had begun to find his swing by going back to the power fade, he had not putted well in 1967. You drive for show, you putt for dough. If he wanted to have any chance of winning the U.S. Open, he knew he had to sink some putts.

  Earlier in his career, Jack had been told his putter wasn’t heavy enough, so he had made a change while at the 1962 Phoenix Open, going from a Ben Sayers blade putter to a George Low Sportsman Wizard 600 model. That George Low would be in Jack’s hands when he won fifteen majors and seventy-eight titles around the world.

  But the George Low putter simply wasn’t working for him during that period in 1967, prompting him to pack plenty of putters prior to leaving for Baltusrol the week before the tournament to play a practice round. Along with that extra baggage cam
e the hope that he could sort from that collection a putter that felt right—a flat stick that became a magical wand in his hands, empowering him to drain putts from anywhere. Having such a feeling would not only help his putting, it would help his entire game. When a player didn’t putt well, he pressed to hit the ball closer to the hole, so he could have a chance of sinking the putt. Putting well brought a carefree feeling of knowing that just hitting the ball onto the green would give him a shot at making a birdie. Jack understood having that feeling, because he’d felt that way plenty of times in the past.

  Jack found himself on the putting green following a practice round. Fellow professional Deane Beman, a longtime friend and later the PGA Tour commissioner, putted alongside him and introduced him to a Bull’s Eye putter. Jack began to sink putts, creating a connection. Something about the putter just felt right in Jack’s hands.

  Beman did not give Jack that putter, but he hooked him up with Fred Mueller, a friend of his to whom he’d given one of the putters. Mueller let Jack use it. The only difference between the putter Beman used and the one he’d given to Mueller was the color of the head, which Mueller had painted white to reduce glare.

  After making the equipment change, Jack shot an 8-under-par 62 the following week in his final practice round at Baltusrol. At the time, he’d never shot a lower round in the United States, though he’d once shot a 62 in Australia.

  The good news for Jack came in the satisfaction of shooting 62. The bad news came in the fretting that followed. Had he wasted his best effort during a practice round?

  Baltusrol first hosted the U.S. Open in 1903. Willie Anderson won the championship that year with a 308 on the Old Course. Baltusrol’s Old Course hosted one more U.S. Open, and the Upper Course hosted one. The Lower Course first hosted a U.S. Open in 1954, then again in 1967, which proved to be the fifth time the historic site hosted the tournament recognized as the national championship.

  IBM introduced a computer-generated scoreboard at this U.S. Open, allowing the gallery to better follow the action through instant updates, rather than having to be dependent on results via hand-delivered messages.

  On the first day of the tournament, amateur Marty Fleckman, a three-time All-American at the University of Houston, shot a 3-under-par 67. A thunderstorm then interrupted play, preventing fifteen players in the field of 150 from finishing the opening round. Golfers have long joked about pulling out a 2-iron when lightning begins to strike, because not even God can hit a 2-iron. In reality, players aren’t that cavalier. They headed for the clubhouse at the first hint of lightning.

  Jack completed his round before the interruption, posting a 71, a score many would love to have in a U.S. Open. Yet relative to the 62 he’d shot in the previous day’s practice round, 71 felt disappointing. He’d made just one birdie and needed thirty-five putts to complete his round. Jack’s 62 saw him make eight birdies and use just twenty-eight putts.

  Sweltering temperatures for the second round prompted the placement of cold water at each tee. Palmer noted: “I didn’t want to start drinking too much, because I knew that once I started, I’d never stop.”

  Obviously, they didn’t know much about hydration at the time.

  Ben Hogan said that even Texas weather felt cooler than what they were experiencing at Baltusrol, prompting the surly golf legend to comment: “Hot? Hell can’t be any hotter. I’ll check that out one of these days.”

  Despite the heat, a record second-day crowd of 20,819 showed. Thirty would be treated for heat exhaustion by the Red Cross. Those who remained standing saw Fleckman shoot 73 and fall to fourth place, while Jack recovered to shoot 67, placing him second.

  Afterward, Jack told reporters that he’d weighed 207 pounds when he teed off. By his estimate, he’d sweated off seven pounds after eighteen holes, leaving him at about 200 pounds. Guzzling sweet tea proved to be the perfect tonic for helping his recovery from being out in the heat.

  Putting led the way for Jack’s four-shot improvement in the second round. Critical among those putts was the ten-footer he’d sunk on the par-3 No. 4. If Jack had missed that putt, he would have been two over for the day and three over for the tournament.

  Jack managed two birdies on the front to card a 33, followed by three birdies on the back side. Feeling at home with his new putter, Jack had needed just thirty-one putts to navigate Baltusrol’s treacherous greens.

  Palmer led the tournament, and he’d needed just sixty-three putts in two rounds. Both Jack and Palmer were striking the ball well and probably would have gone crazy low had Baltusrol’s greens not brought such a mind game to the field. Still, neither Jack nor Palmer had three-putted during the first two rounds.

  Palmer had never led the U.S. Open after two rounds.

  Heading into the third round, defending champion Billy Casper trailed by one shot. The 1966 U.S. Open had been held at the Lake Course of the Olympic Club in San Francisco and witnessed Casper’s miraculous comeback that saw him fight back to tie Palmer, who had led him by seven strokes heading into the back nine on Sunday. That forced an eighteen-hole playoff the following day, which Casper won.

  Jack and Palmer were paired together for the third round. They had not been paired in a group during a major tournament since the 1962 U.S. Open at Oakmont. Jack vs. Arnie had an odd effect on the heavyweights. Both seemed to compete as if involved in match play rather than competing against the scoreboard. In short, being matched against each other affected both adversely.

  According to Sports Illustrated, Jack recognized the effect they were having on each other and told Palmer on the eighth tee: “Let’s stop playing each other and play the golf course.”

  Jack finished the third round with a 72, which meant he would head to the final round tied with Casper and Palmer for second. Fleckman had rallied to lead the tournament by a shot.

  The heat had continued to scorch Baltusrol during the third round, though 92 degrees registered four degrees under the high from the second round. Still, the Red Cross continued to be busy, treating twenty-five spectators for heat exhaustion. Taking a proactive approach, they handed out 1,500 salt tablets during the third round as compared to four hundred the previous day.

  Because, like today, the United States Golf Association’s system made its pairings based on the order of scoring, Fleckman and Casper were paired up for the final round. Fleckman stood at 209, and Casper had been the first to post 210, leaving Jack and Palmer—also at 210—to once again be paired up for Sunday’s round.

  That’s when Jack got busy, getting locked in from the start. Using the putter that acquired the nickname “White Fang,” Jack sank a twelve-foot birdie putt on the third hole, a four-footer for birdie on the fourth hole, and a thirteen-foot birdie on No. 5. After making bogey on No. 6, Jack sank birdie putts of twenty-two and twelve feet on the seventh and eighth holes, respectively. Jack three-putted the tenth hole, then played the remaining eight holes without a bogey while sinking birdie putts of four feet on No. 13 and five feet on No. 14. On No. 18, Nicklaus found trouble after hitting his tee ball into the rough, which he followed with a fat lay-up shot using an 8-iron. That left him 230 yards from the pin. But a well-struck 1-iron eased any anxiety by leaving him twenty-two feet from the pin. With White Fang in hand, he sank the putt for birdie to finish with a 65, good for a U.S. Open record-setting five-under 275. Hogan had held the record since 1948 when he fired 276 at the Riviera Country Club in Los Angeles.

  Palmer shot 69 to finish four shots behind Jack. Casper came in at 72, while Fleckman blew up, shooting 80, which meant he would not become the first amateur to win the U.S. Open since Johnny Goodman in 1933.

  Jack won four additional PGA Tour titles using the Bull’s Eye before the putts quit dropping, prompting him to change putters and retire White Fang.

  CHAPTER 6

  Exposure to Golf and on to Team Sports

  AS DAD STARTED WORKING AND raising a family, he joined The Country Club of Miami. Golf immortal Bobby Jones was the architect fo
r the complex that had two 18-hole courses—East and West—along with a par-3 course that no longer exists.

  The National Airlines Open used to be held there. Attending those tournaments with Dad, I got to see the likes of Jack Nicklaus, Lee Trevino, and Gay Brewer play. That helped fan the flames for my interest in the sport.

  The clubhouse sat on a big hill with a grandiose entrance, at least it was to an eight-year-old in 1970. Moving to the back, the club had a cafeteria and a huge bar—remember that’s back when the two-martini lunch and happy hour were all part of day-to-day life. That bar overlooked a practice putting green, which sat between the East and the West courses. Among the many lakes and creeks on the course, there was a small creek that ran alongside the eighteenth green on the East course. I refined my talent for catching fish at that creek using bread balls on a hand line to reel in bream, blue gill, and bass. Fishing got easier when I got my first Zebco the next Christmas.

  The house of Jackie Gleason (known as “Ralph Cramden” on “The Honeymooners”) stood next to the eighteenth hole of the West Course. The “Great One” represented Miami Beach, and his u-shaped, single-story house ranked as one of the largest built on the course. I’d never seen a bigger house at the time. Ranch-style had been popular with most of the old Florida homes. People didn’t think having to supply air conditioning for two floors would be practical, because hot air rose. Other weird theories existed about why a single-story house worked better in Florida than a two-story.

  I’d see Gleason out on the course from time to time, or in his backyard. Later, Dad took me to one of his shows, which were filmed at the Miami Beach Auditorium. Gleason’s final variety series featured sketches from “The Honeymooners,” along with marquee guest stars—an Ed Sullivan-type show. I didn’t really get Jackie Gleason back then. Now his humor kills me.

  It was in this environment that Dad introduced me to golf. Knowing that Dad loved golf motivated me to play the sport and try to improve. In retrospect, I can see where it afforded him the chance to share an activity with his son and to have something in which we could compete against each other. Watching him hit balls at the driving range brought me a sense of wonder. How could anybody be so strong? When he made contact, an explosion followed. The flight of the ball would start low, then reach its peak until I could no longer see it. I’d think, Gosh, I’d love to be able to hit the ball like that.