by Joe Wessel
No doubt, I experienced a period of adjustment. Like the nature of the calendar. I did the same amount of work in business that I did while coaching, but the workload was spread out over a longer period of time.
When I coached, July and August were really busy, then the season started and my hours remained intense before easing up in January.
During the weeks, in the NFL, you are packed in on Monday through Thursday, with Friday and Saturday being very light days. In college, you were packed in from Sunday through Thursday, too. And you had to sandwich recruiting visits into the equation, too.
Once I began at HomeBanc, I continued to arrive to work early, and I still worked late, but all of my work wasn’t compacted into a six- or seven-month span.
I didn’t really think about it while I was coaching in college—and I probably would have been a nervous wreck if I had—but my livelihood depended to a large extent on the performances of kids who were eighteen to twenty-one. At the time, I think I just considered it part of the gig. I didn’t think about all the changes that were going on in a kid of that age. Succeeding in football was just a part of who they were, and their performances, the performances that affected my livelihood, could be altered by breaking up with a girlfriend, or having bad news from home.
The NFL brought a little different climate, which obviously was more business-like. The players were older, they were paid a lot of money, and they knew they were paid to perform, like a business. But when you cut to the chase, your livelihood still depended on young men and their performances during a sixty-minute game. Even the smart players make dumb decisions on the football field from time to time. Sometimes you’d shake your head and wonder why in the world a player had done something so stupid. But the game moves fast. Decisions have to be made in a split second. That kind of pressure makes for a lot of bad decisions. Coaches get blamed for those decisions, and, ultimately, those decisions can cost a coach his job.
Dealing with females in the workplace actually presented me one of the more difficult transitions when I left coaching. Coaches are dirty sailors. Once in the workplace, I had to alter my vocabulary. Instead of an F-bomb, you had to be more like Bobby Bowden. “Dad-gummit, why’d you do that?”
In addition, business had a different dress code. Early in my business career, you had to wear a suit and tie, whereas now, many companies and industries have turned to business casual as everyday dress. At Notre Dame, we wore shirts and ties during the season, then dressed down a little bit after the season. Coaches’ shirts were acceptable at LSU. And in the NFL, you threw on a pair of warmups and a sweatshirt and walked out the door. In the banking and finance world, you might have an occasional casual day here or there, but generally, you’re mandated to wear a coat and tie most days.
I don’t have any doubt that I would have had my share of successes in business if I had not coached first. But I do feel strongly that it would have been more difficult and certainly not as fulfilling.
Whether you’re a player, a coach, a businessman, or a parent, success comes down to coaching someone—helping someone be better than what they are, or to be the best they can be. In essence, most of my life has been centered around coaching in some shape or form.
I’ve realized that I received quality coaching early in my life, and a lot of the lessons I learned carried over. Going as far back as being on Carol City’s Little League All-Star team, I experienced top-shelf coaching from Ron Cussins and Dale Shields.
Those guys had me starting at second base and leading off, creating a situation for me that could have been overwhelming, since I was just eleven at the time (most of my teammates were twelve). In 1974, Carol City had a competitive Little League that had won several championships and one Junior Little League world championship. Coach Cussins and Coach Shields must have recognized some quality in me, because they told me to be a leader. They helped me build my leadership foundation. Then they guided me and ingrained in me some of the leadership basics that still hold true while doing what I do every day. Things you can control: be on time, stay late, get in front of the line, do little things, and have fun.
As a player, coach, or businessman, you usually don’t realize how the coaches and people around you have influenced you until you leave them. Only then can you gain a perspective—good or bad—based upon those influences and experiences.
Funny how a lot of the things I learned from coaches were the same things my dad tried to teach me. But sometimes a son just needs to hear a different voice from his father’s, because “he’s just Dad.”
It certainly goes both ways, too. When Trent, my older son, played YMCA eight-man football at eight years old, I tried to help him learn how to play quarterback. That became a frustrating experience for both of us, because it didn’t matter how many tips I gave him, or how good those tips were: what I said wasn’t sinking in. I wasn’t getting through to him. Finally, I asked him if he would listen if I brought Jon Gruden out to help him. Gruden coached the Tampa Bay Buccaneers at the time.
Trent’s response: “Sure!”
I proceeded to ask the next question: “Why would you listen to Jon Gruden?”
Trent didn’t hesitate with his answer. “Because he’s coached in the NFL.”
I continued. “Well, what did Dad do before he worked at HomeBanc?”
Trent answered, “You coached in the NFL.”
I moved to my conclusion. “So why don’t you listen to me?”
To him, the answer was simple: “Because you’re Dad!”
I guess some things a son can only hear from Dad, but only understand from others!
CHAPTER 20
Rediscovering White Fang
MORE FAMILY TIME RANKED AT the top of the list of added benefits from leaving the coaching profession. In addition to the time I got to spend with Mary Gayle and our young children, moving back to Florida and being a businessman created more time for me to spend with Dad.
While I’d been away from Florida for thirteen years, I’d been back to my home state for recruiting visits on many occasions, particularly the Tampa Bay area, which ranked as a hotbed for football talent. Having recruited there allowed me to grow familiar with the Cigar City. I knew the area would be a great place to live. And living there turned out to be everything I had hoped it would be, particularly given the proximity to Dad.
Being able to observe Dad mellow with age brought me a warm feeling. As I’ve said, he had always preached about not sweating the small stuff. Even though that sounded nice, Dad in fact always did sweat the small stuff. All perfectionists do. I guess the older we get, the more we realize the small stuff isn’t as big as we made it out to be. Dad got in the habit of making a lot of visits to Tampa. My mother rarely accompanied him. She did not share his enthusiasm about driving or flying from Miami to Tampa, even though the distance isn’t great by either plane or car. She actually got sedentary the older she got, which made traveling more difficult for her and, therefore, curbed her enthusiasm to do so. Dad, on the other hand, would always be up for a trip.
Other than visits with the grandkids, golf would be the big magnet for both of us when Dad traveled to Tampa. He loved playing at the Avila Golf and Country Club, my home course in Tampa at the time.
Though Dad and I had not physically been together that much prior to my leaving the coaching profession, we’d been together a lot over the years in conversations, thoughts, and prayers. Many times, life’s struggles had brought us together through all the disappointments, the ups and the downs. He had always been there for me to serve as a sounding board or dispatch sound advice. During those times when I had been struggling, he often told me, “Son, you are behind a few, and ahead of most in this world!” To this day, I use this saying a lot. I think it helps me and others understand how good life in the United States is for us as compared to other places in the world.
During one of Dad’s trips to Tampa, we were sitting around my house, and the old Bull’s Eye putter caught his attention. H
e asked me where I’d gotten the putter. While I told him, he examined the putter, noticing flecks of white paint on the flange during his inspection. He vaguely remembered a story about Jack Nicklaus and the fact he had not been able to locate two of his famous putters, one of them being a Bull’s Eye known as “White Fang.” Through our conversation, the seed got planted that I might be in possession of one of Nicklaus’s prized missing putters.
I didn’t think too much about our conversation until I was invited to Steve Nicklaus’s 40th birthday party that had been scheduled to take place on April 12, 2003.
Traveling and coaching football for all those years after I got out of college didn’t help me stay close to many of my friends in college. That was more my fault than that of any of my friends. Steve and I frequently stayed in touch over the years, so I felt good to be included on his invite list for the memorable occasion.
Steve had worked for the LPGA Tour when he first graduated from FSU. Certain staff members always went ahead to the next Tour stop to help get things prepared. Steve had been a part of one of those teams. On one occasion, he had been at a stop in Hattiesberg, Mississippi, and he planned on driving to Baton Rouge on a Sunday to see me. That was, of course, to take place on April 13, 1986, which turned out to be the weekend Jack brought down the house at Augusta National. At the age of forty-six, Jack won The Masters, making him the oldest to ever win the hallowed tournament. Instead of stopping in Baton Rouge, Steve adjusted his plans to be with Jack on that magical weekend.
Once the invitation to Steve’s party arrived, I began to entertain the idea of bringing along the putter to the party to see what Jack thought of it. What sealed the deal was a business trip to Augusta with a title company to watch The Masters practice rounds at Augusta the week of Steve’s party.
During Tuesday’s practice round, Jack had just finished playing No. 17 and had started to make his way to No. 18 when I yelled out to him. He stopped, and we spoke briefly.
“Joe, what are you doing here?” he said.
I could feel all eyes on me, like, “Who the heck is this guy that Jack Nicklaus stopped to talk to in the middle of his practice round?”
I explained to him why I was there. Once he began to walk away, I said, “Jack, I hope I don’t see you this weekend.”
Initially, the remark seemed to catch him off guard. He quickly recovered, and he said, “Yeah I hope I don’t see you, either.”
If Jack made the cut for the weekend rounds of the tournament, he wouldn’t be able to attend Steve’s birthday party that Saturday night.
On my trip home from Augusta, I couldn’t get my mind off that Bull’s Eye putter. I don’t know what came over me, but my gut told me I needed to bring along the putter with me to South Florida for Steve’s party.
Fortunately for me, Jack missed the cut. That allowed him to attend the party.
When I saw him that Saturday night, I grinned and said, “I’m sorry to see that you’re here tonight.”
He smiled and agreed, though I’m sure he had mixed emotions. The consummate competitor living in him wanted to compete for another major title, while the consummate family man wanted to be around for a special family moment.
I introduced Mary Gayle to Jack. Everybody wanted to speak to Jack, which I’m sure brought a familiar scene. Talking to everybody and making everybody feel comfortable was just a part of who he was. He had begun to make his move to mingle with other party guests when I said, “Jack, I may have a club that might be yours!”
I had piqued his interest.
He said, “Well go get it, and we can talk about it.”
Mary Gayle needed to retrieve her purse from the car anyway, so she offered to get the putter. When she returned, she handed over the Bull’s Eye, which I passed along to Jack. Did this mysterious putter have an historical story?
Jack began to inspect the putter, examining every inch of the club from top to bottom. At one point, he closed his eyes and started moving the putter back and forth like a pendulum as if putting an imaginary ball. I began to wonder if he was reliving some great moment from the past that he might have had with this putter. His expression conveyed disbelief, like he couldn’t believe what he held in his hands.
“Where have you had this?” Jack asked me.
I told him I’d been moved many times to various coaching stops and that I’d bunched the putter with an old set of wooden-shafted clubs my dad had given me. “They’ve been sitting on a shelf.”
Jack smiled. “Do you know how much this is worth?”
I shrugged, offering a tentative laugh. “I have no idea. But by the sound of your voice, I would guess a couple hundred thousand?”
Jack didn’t hesitate with his response. “No. Times that by five. I won the 1967 U.S. Open at Baltusrol with this putter!”
I continued to stand with Jack for much of the evening. I observed when old friends stopped to talk to him. When they saw the putter, several remarked, “That’s White Fang, where did you get that?”
Even Barbara, Jack’s wife, said, “That’s White Fang. I used to spray-paint that in the parking lot!”
I learned that when needed, Barbara would spray-paint the head of the putter white to prevent the sun from reflecting off the putter, which might have been a distraction. Talk about the extra things a wife does for her husband!
The beat-up putter in his hands had matured to a worn shade of gold, yet it had a small speck of white paint clinging to the innermost portion of the hook flange in the back end. The grip proved to be the characteristic of the putter that confirmed without a doubt that Jack had been reunited with an old friend.
PGA Tour players could once alter the grips any way they wanted. Jack had stuck a pencil in the back of the putter grip, then tape-wrapped the handle and broke the pencil. To everyone’s surprise, now nearly forty years later, the pencil remained lodged in the back of the handle.
Jack glowed with White Fang in his hands. Finally, he turned to me with a childlike grin. “Well, can I have it?”
That made me smile. I’m thinking that the greatest golfer who has ever lived has just asked me if I would return a putter that had been his. I told him, “Of course, it’s yours, you can have it.”
The rest of the night was filled with taking pictures and enjoying the stories of Jack’s triumphs and disappointments using White Fang. Eventually, Jack turned to me and said, “Joe, send me your specs, and I’ll send you a set of clubs.”
To this day, I don’t know why or how I came up with my response. I do thank the Lord that I did. I looked at him and put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re not getting off that easy.”
He shot me a pensive look, and I continued, “You get Steve, and I’ll get my Dad. Let’s go to Augusta, and we will call it even.”
Jack turned to Steve and said, “Book it. Let’s go this fall.”
Thus, a dream father/son golf trip was scheduled for October 21, 2003.
What a fun night. I’ll never forget how happy Jack seemed to be. He later told writers about being reunited with White Fang: “It was Steve’s birthday that night, but I am the one who got the best present.”
Dad would have disagreed.
When I called Dad later that night, he couldn’t believe he would be playing Augusta National in October. Not to mention the fact that he would be playing with his son and The Golden Bear, the golfer who had won The Masters Tournament six times. And all because of a putter called “White Fang”!
CHAPTER 21
East Lake, then First Taste of Augusta National
DAD AND I TALKED OFF and on throughout the summer of 2003 about our upcoming date at Augusta National with Jack and Steve Nicklaus. After speaking with Steve and Jack’s assistant late that summer, we agreed on the details of the trip. October 21, 2003, could not come quickly enough.
Finally, the date came.
Our arrangements were set for Augusta. However, that would come after we enjoyed the first part of the day’s two-part adventure: a golf
excursion to Atlanta’s East Lake Golf Club, the place where Bobby Jones had learned to play.
We flew from Miami to Atlanta and drove to East Lake to play a morning round at the historic golf course with my friend Jeff Morris and his father-in-law, Jerry Brannon. Jeff had played baseball at the University of South Carolina, and he’d been the person who served as my mentor and teacher when I joined HomeBanc.
Shortly after moving through the gates, we found ourselves in a time warp. In front of us, Bobby Jones appeared to be preparing to tee off for the final round of the U.S. Amateur. Dressed in knickers, shirt and tie, and sweater vest, Jones had a natty appearance and carried himself—perhaps unsurprisingly—with an air of confidence.
Two dozen spectators were in attendance. Among the group were several little boys watching “Bobby”—better known to movie-goers as Jim Caviezel—idolizing every move and mannerism. The sparkle in their eyes said, “Maybe one day I can be like him.”
Dad and I made our way through the clubhouse, taking time to look at all the memorabilia, trophies, medals, and pins. After we put on our shoes, we were ready to play. Once outside again, we were privy to watching Bobby Jones finish his round on the No. 18, a 235-yard par 3. A small lake and two wicked traps protected the finishing hole. Bobby hit the tee shot with the grace and fluid movement depicted in the pictures and books I’d read over the years. The ball arched toward the green and bounced off the wicker basket at the top of the pin. Everyone cheered when the ball landed two feet from the hole, assuring Bobby of another U.S. Open (amateur) title.
Dad and I turned and walked off that green, amazed at what we’d seen. We’d be teeing off in thirty minutes, so we had to warm up. Before we did, we stopped and complimented the director of the upcoming movie, “Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius,” starring Caviezel. I told him it was a shame we couldn’t have the cameras follow us, letting him know about our golf date with a golfer of Bobby Jones’s stature. The director smiled and asked us where our round with Jack Nicklaus would take place. I told him we would be playing at a little golf course about two hours east of where we stood, at a place that Bobby Jones built called Augusta National, home of The Masters Tournament.
