by Joe Wessel
Teeing off, we couldn’t help but feel the presence of many of golf’s greatest stars. The day was beautiful and the golf was fun, but we had to catch a plane. Our much-anticipated date with the Golden Bear sat on the horizon.
We met Jack at the Peachtree Dekalb Airport to take his private jet to Augusta.
As we entered the airport, my expectations and feelings about the trip were starting to build. The G-4 jet we boarded had #N1 JN painted on the tail. That helped me realize that the dream of playing Augusta National for the first time, and with my father, would become a reality. Never mind that we were preparing to play the course with Jack Nicklaus.
Jack had just bought the Gulfstream V from an oil company’s CEO. When we walked up the stairs to board, a big Golden Bear logo stared back at us from the walnut panel at the entrance to the plane. I felt like they were filming an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and I had been picked to be a part of the episode.
We exchanged pleasantries with Jack upon boarding the aircraft. While this wasn’t the first time I’d been around Jack, it was the first time I’d had him to myself to ask questions. I admired him so much that I wanted to learn more about him.
When Steve and I were roommates, I used to badger him all the time: “Do you realize who your father is? He’s probably one of the most well-known people in the world. Forget sports people. Just people in general. Even nongolfers know who Jack Nicklaus is.”
Gracious as always, Jack was interested in catching up with what I was doing, too. He remained a huge fan of Ohio State, so the Buckeyes were part of the conversation, along with the Bengals and the time I’d spent coaching there.
Before I knew it, we had puddle-jumped to Augusta, grabbed a car at the airport, and driven directly to Augusta National.
Pulling up to Magnolia Lane, we stopped at the security gate. Jack began digging into his pocket to find his driver’s license to show the guard, who smiled back at him.
“Mr. Nicklaus, I know who you are. I think you’re okay.”
Once we got settled into Firestone Cabin, where we would stay for the next two days, Jack asked us what we wanted to do. I answered: “We didn’t come here to play Pinochle.”
“Let’s go lace ’em up,” he said.
First, we hit some balls on the plushest driving range I had ever been on, then we headed for the nine-hole, par-3 course. Fifteen years later, Jack would get moved to tears on that same course.
Flash-forward for a moment.
During the 2018 Masters Par-3 Contest on the Wednesday before the tournament, Jack played with Gary Player and Tom Watson. None of what that fabled group did that day caught anybody’s attention, though. Rather, it was what G.T. Nicklaus did that wowed the crowd. Jack’s grandson, and the son of Gary Nicklaus, caddied for Jack that day. Wearing the white caddy coveralls, G.T. took aim at the pin at No. 9. And he drained it.
Jack teared up when speaking about how special it had been to see his fifteen-year-old grandson make his first-ever hole in one, especially given the fact that he’d done so at Augusta National. Jack called it “perhaps” his most memorable day at Augusta National.
That’s Jack Nicklaus, the father and grandfather.
Back to our moment in 2003, though. Since the light disappears quickly in October, we had a sense of urgency to get going so we could finish our round. Two caddies joined us as we powered over to the first tee.
You can’t understand the typography of this nine-hole, par-3 course just by watching the tournament on TV. Venturing onto the course is like descending into a big bowl.
Jack suggested that Dad and he would play Steve and me for ten dollars per man. I laughed, since Dad always told me, “It’s not always how you play, it’s the partner you pick.”
In that vein, Dad did just fine that day.
Jack had missed birdie putts on the first two holes and faced a twelve-foot birdie putt on No. 3. Steve sidled next to me while his father lined up his putt. “He won’t miss this f***ing putt.”
Sure enough, he knocked it in.
When we walked off the green, Steve elaborated: “When he misses two in a row, he’s won’t miss the next one.”
We both laughed.
Steve was out there cutting up. What he said about his dad just showed how much time he’d spent around him and how frequently he’d seen him play golf.
As for my own father-son dynamic that day, I had my moment when I caught the glow on Dad’s face. I couldn’t help thinking about what was going on in his head—he, a World War II veteran who had played golf at many great courses over the years, and now he was playing a par-3 at the greatest golf venue in the world, and his partner is arguably the greatest golfer to ever play the game.
Steve and I were closed out on our $10 bet after the eighth hole, which prompted some banter.
“Look Jack, I only have a twenty, so I’m going to give you the twenty, and you’re going to sign it and give it back to me,” I said.
The competitor in Jack chirped back. “Like hell I’m going to do that. I’m taking the twenty, I’m going to change it, then I’m going to sign the ten and give it back to you.”
The $10 bill he handed back to me read: “Joe, how ‘lucky’ can you get Jack Nicklaus,” and he dated the bill.
The longest hole on the par-3 course required me to hit a 7-iron. Watching the highlights of the par-3 tournament held at The Masters, I always got the feeling that playing that hole would be easy, as if they were throwing darts at the pin. Playing the course brought me more respect for what the PGA Tour players do, making that hole look easy. That’s why they’re the best golfers in the world.
We showered after the round and dressed in coats and ties for dinner.
As the sun set, I stood on the back porch of the Firestone Cabin looking over the fairway and pinching myself. Was I really currently living a longtime dream come to fruition? Yes, came the answer to my question. I was filled with the same excitement I felt on Christmas Eve as a kid. On top of that, Dad and I were about to have dinner with the man who had won The Masters six times. All because I kept a putter he used to win a U.S. Open.
We walked across the 10th tee and the practice putting green to the clubhouse dining room. As I trailed behind Jack, I continued to pinch myself, so I took a picture just in case I woke up.
Jack wore his green jacket. I learned that all winners wear a green jacket, not just during the Champions Dinner. Jack cut a gracious figure to all tables in the dining room, walking around and greeting many of those dining. He signed autographs and took pictures with anyone who asked.
We talked about the different tournaments and memorable moments he had had at Augusta National. Throughout the night, Jack acted like a curator for Augusta while he explained the different details of every nook and cranny of the fabled club. I wish I had recorded it. I felt like I was visiting an historical shrine or monument. Many can come and see what we saw from the outside, but very few get to see it from the inside. Only a handful get to experience it with one of the people who has helped build Augusta National’s aura and reputation over the years. I felt like a student in a classroom listening to a wise college professor.
Jack said he thought President Dwight D. Eisenhauer painted the two portraits—of Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts, who was the first chairman of Augusta National (1931–1976)—that hung in the dining room.
Following dinner, Jack guided us through the main room where The Masters Trophy is housed. We saw the Champions Locker Room, where he shares a locker with Horton Smith, who won the tournament in 1934 and again in 1936, then headed to the “Crow’s Nest,” where he stayed in 1958 with Bill Rogers. He told us the story that after the second day, a tournament official came up and told Rogers and him that they would have to charge them an “extra dollar” a day because they were eating so much. Jack told them that would be fine.
We went into the members’ locker room, where Jack has another locker that he shares with Hugh McColl, the former CEO and Chairm
an of Bank of America. Jack’s many stories about what makes Augusta National so mythical made for a special evening.
We returned to Firestone Cabin to watch Game 3 of the World Series between the Florida Marlins and the New York Yankees. All of us were tired, so everyone turned in about 11 o’clock.
I knew Dad had to be exhausted from walking the hills. He fell asleep quickly. Meanwhile, I found myself too amped up to sleep. I grabbed a book and camped out on the back porch, savoring my surroundings. I stared through the pine trees at a fall moon that illuminated the 10th fairway. I could not help but question myself, Now how did you get here again? How is it that one day in college you tossed your putter up to a green while waiting to chip? When you went to putt, you then realized you’d broken your putter! One simple toss—an action performed daily by many golfers—led to a sequence of future events and decisions that resulted in me being here on this back porch and about to play Augusta with Jack Nicklaus.
I continued to reflect. If I had thrown out some junk clubs in any of the many moves I’d made, this fortuitous opportunity would never have arisen. Add to that the fate of being paired with a roommate in college who turned out to be Jack Nicklaus’s son. I thought of all the great golf courses I’d been fortunate enough to play. In the rearview mirror, I saw St. Andrews, Oak Hill, Pine Valley, Pebble Beach, Muirfield Village, Turnberry, Westchester, Winged Foot, Doral, Troon, Prestwick, Pinehurst No. 2, Bay Hill, Olympic, East Lake, Shoal Creek, Whistling Straits, and even Country Club of Miami, where my love affair with golf was born.
No book, no fishing tale, and no movie could make this up. I’m so thankful I broke my putter.
To borrow an expression from the Golden Bear, “How lucky can you get?”
CHAPTER 22
Golfing with the Golden Bear at Augusta National
TALK ABOUT GOLF HEAVEN, THAT’S where I resided when I awakened on October 22, 2003, in the Firestone Cabin, just off Augusta National’s No. 10 fairway.
Any weather concerns were quickly put to rest the second I popped my head out from the porch. Not a cloud in the sky. Only the noise of the wind whistling through the pines could be heard. The pristine, immaculate grass had a sheen. Just a gorgeous setting. Azaleas in full bloom were the only missing ingredient. Alas, fall is not a time for flowers.
Loving golf like I do, I get excited if I’m headed to the golf course to meet my buddies for a Saturday morning round. Multiply that by about a million, and you could understand what I felt that morning.
I’d been to Augusta National to watch The Masters, but I’d never played the big course (after all, the “little course” the day before had merely been an appetizer of sorts). Doing so would be the equivalent of playing football at Lambeau Field, basketball at the Boston Garden, or baseball at Fenway Park. And I’d be playing my first round at golf’s most storied course with Jack Nicklaus, arguably the greatest golfer to ever swing a club, sharing the experience with my father and my college roommate.
The script unfolding in front of me felt surreal. Only it wasn’t.
In my mind, I’d gone over every detail of the coming day. I’d even laid out my clothes the night before. I felt like I was getting dressed for New Year’s Eve. In many ways, my behavior resembled that of a little girl excitedly prepping for a tea party. I settled on a white shirt, a sweater, a pair of khaki pants, and shoes that matched.
Dad, Steve, Jack, and I gathered in the living room of the cabin, then headed to the clubhouse restaurant for breakfast, passing the tee box for No. 10 and crossing through the putting green behind the clubhouse.
Jack walked in front of me, wearing a Golden Bear shirt and windbreaker. The fog inside my mind still had not lifted. Are Dad and I really at Augusta National with Jack Nicklaus? Am I going to wake up? When is an alarm clock going to interrupt my dream?
Dad had to be feeling the same way.
Normally, Dad would be gregarious. He’d carried a big outward personality everywhere he went his entire life. Not this day. He quietly went about his business, observing his surroundings and following the advice he’d given me years before about knowing my place. He stressed the wisdom of understanding who you were and what you were in relation to your setting.
The restaurant wasn’t pretentious. Nothing really distinguished the place from any other clubhouse restaurant I’d been to, other than the clubs. Sets of clubs and individual clubs from past champions were prominently displayed on the walls along with plaques and photos. I glanced at the walls during our leisurely breakfast of eggs, sausage, and bacon.
Jack continued to play the gracious host, telling us how he thought our visit was a great thing and how he was glad the outing had come together. I think he had the same kind of relationships with Steve and the rest of his children, so he understood some of what we were experiencing.
The restaurant staff cooed over Jack, which didn’t surprise me—he was Jack Nicklaus. Nor did he surprise me how cordial and polite he treated them in return. I don’t know if it’s the uniqueness of golf, or the type of people who play the sport, but as a group, the golfers who played on the PGA Tour have always seemed to realize that the fans were the people who supported them. Not only from a personality standpoint—fulfilling their egos—but they also supported them financially. PGA Tour professionals know they have a responsibility to themselves and to the group of individuals against whom they competed each week to conduct themselves accordingly.
Football players don’t always think that way.
Individualization is downplayed in team sports, and I think that affects how they treat fans and people around them. Whereas in the golf and the tennis worlds—and in the world of bowling and any other individual sport for that matter—the athletes realize that the fans are superimportant.
Jack was polite and cordial, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t let his hair down and be himself. I think he understood that people naturally were on edge around him because of his status. He put us at ease. I didn’t feel much different from how I would have felt getting ready to play a round with my regular golf group—until I reminded myself that I was about to play Augusta National for the first time with a man who’d won The Masters six times.
After breakfast, we met our caddies. Mine told me he’d been there almost twenty years. I don’t remember his name, but he was witty and was good reading putts. As I walked down the hill on the dogleg left ninth hole, I asked what he did when the course was closed. He looked at me with a perplexed smile. “I collect unemployment.”
I told him the story about how I had been on unemployment my first year at Notre Dame. He got a chuckle out of that. I don’t imagine many who have played Augusta National have drawn unemployment checks.
We loosened up at the driving range, which had a net up against a fence. I had to try and be a macho man by driving the fence.
Who was I impressing? Jack Nicklaus had been the best golfer in the world, and he’d played with all the other top golfers, too. Pretty silly of me.
Ever the classy guy, Jack didn’t say anything. After all, I was one of his guests. Civility and cordiality were from another era. He aspired to both.
On the putting green trying to get a feel for the greens with my flavor-of-the-month high-tech putter, I ventured back in time and thought about White Fang. I remembered using that Bull’s Eye putter on the FSU golf course, and it felt as though I were putting with a butter knife. Technology-wise, using that putter today would be like pulling out a persimmon wood and trying to hit a 275-yard drive. I enjoyed a silent chuckle thinking, I’m here because I didn’t throw that putter away.
We ran into David Frost when walking back from the range. We talked with him for about ten minutes before we arrived at the first tee for our 10 a.m. tee time. Frost would be playing in a group behind us. There were only about four or five groups playing that day.
Throughout my sports life, I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve always been able to manage my nerves well regardless of what sport I played, at lea
st to the point where my performance wasn’t affected. Although Augusta National was the Holy Grail, my experiences from eighteen years of playing and coaching football, and being in different venues, helped me relax. The only time I flirted with nervousness came when I stuck the peg in the ground on the first tee, hoping I could put one safely into the fairway.
The first hole is a 445-yard par 4 known as “Tea Olive.” Each hole on the par-72 course has a name that is derived from the flora found on the hole.
We hit from an elevated tee across an expansive valley toward a tree-lined fairway with a deep bunker on the right.
I striped my drive down the middle, short of the bunker.
Jack and Steve hit, then Dad, who played from the front tees. While I had battled a few nerves, for some reason I felt even more nervous for Dad. On the one hand, I knew he had to be feeling a little bit jelly-legged thinking about making solid contact and playing well. On the other hand, I also knew his life experiences had equipped him to handle this. He’d been around movie stars, singers, and actors, and he played a lot of tournament golf in Pro-Ams and at the Country Club of Miami with professional athletes and celebrities.
He successfully launched his tee shot down the fairway, and we were underway for our eighteen-hole walk into golf heaven.
Jack picked out the tees we played on every hole. We didn’t go back to the tips on any of them. We played farther back on the twelfth and sixteenth holes, but for the most part, we played the midback tees. Dad played the front tees the entire round. A couple of times during the round, I told Jack I wanted to play from the back tees, but he vetoed that option.
“No, let’s play it from here,” Jack said.
Truth be told, I don’t think he wanted to walk all the way to the back tees, which can require a little hike.
