I felt my blood run cold and my vision narrowed to where the president of Texas Lutheran, Dr. Stuart Dorsey, was sitting with his wife, Michelle, at the head table. I couldn’t make out Stuart’s expression because he was bent over in laughter. My blood warmed—to match my heated, embarrassed cheeks—and we got through the rest of the evening. I apologized profusely to Stuart later and told him that if he got any complaints to forward them on to me. I never received any, and David was chagrinned but pleased to learn how well his appearance had been received.
David knew his limitations and that he had to conduct himself properly and hold his tongue while at Augusta National. The members provide the CBS crew with an area where we can have a catered breakfast, lunch, or dinner during tournament week in our compound. David dined there. We’d have a production meeting at some point in the morning and then most of us would head to the clubhouse dining room for lunch. David would never join us, knowing full well that he’d be hard-pressed not to utter something that might get him into trouble. “Know thyself” is a pretty good motto to follow.
I met him for the first time in 1990, fittingly, with Gary McCord. Gary and I were working at Butler National, outside Chicago, for the Western Open. We had privileges to go into the players’ locker room and the players’ dining room. So Gary said, “Let’s go up and grab a bite of lunch.” We walked in and David was sitting by himself. I had never met him. I had heard of him because he was on the European tour and a Ryder Cup competitor. And we had lunch with him, and I was belly laughing throughout the whole meal. On the way back to the course I said, “We’ve got to get him on the air at CBS.”
Nodding, Gary said, “I’m trying.”
I went to Frank Chirkinian and said, “I just met David Feherty. I don’t know if you know him, but he is the most original, humorous guy I’ve ever met.”
Frank scowled. “Aah, nobody in the world in America could understand him because of his Irish accent.”
I know many people who tell me that David’s accent is part of his charm. No one has ever complained about not being able to understand him.
It took a while, but CBS eventually did get around to bringing him on board—Irish accent and all.
I still like to tease David about his lousy abilities as a prognosticator. David is friendly with Rory McIlroy. In 2011, Rory had the lead going into the final day at the Masters. That Saturday night, Rory and David had dinner together. When David got back to our rented property he said to me, “Rory’s going to win it. I guarantee it.” That’s the year that the young Irishman shot the infamous 80 in the final round and dropped off the leaderboard like a golf ball on a car’s hood—that last bit is a tribute to Gary McCord and his wonderful analogies. Rory wasn’t the only one to suffer through an ignominious final round. Ken Venturi nearly won the Masters as an amateur in 1956. He, too, held the lead after 54 holes only to shoot an 80 in the final round. Greg Norman’s so-called collapse in 1996 saw him lose the largest third-round lead (six strokes) to my colleague Nick Faldo. The rise and fall of one player and another is always a fascinating story line. Personally, I prefer a comeback to a fall from grace.
David’s a hard worker and we not only roomed together for a decade at the Masters, but we did our homework together. It became a routine for us to walk the holes that we covered. On the greens, David would take a putter and a few golf balls and stroke them from various locations to get a better sense of the speed and breaks on the putting surfaces. I would act as his caddy, rolling the balls back to him. I never wanted to presume to be anything more than what I was—a broadcaster. I couldn’t see going out there and putting them myself. I was able to learn by watching and that was enough for me. For David, and others, I’m sure that what their hands felt was as important as what their eyes saw, but I was never a good enough golfer to develop that kind of sense. Eventually, and not only because David left CBS, I ended that routine. After so many years of covering the same holes, I felt like I knew the greens pretty well, and the pin placements were always only incrementally different each year if at all.
I miss having David around. I know that he enjoys his new role with the Golf Channel and NBC. He’s ideally suited to doing that kind of programming. I’m a big believer that people need to do in life what best suits their nature. I can’t say that David was held back in any way by anyone at CBS or at Augusta National. It’s just that talent and inclination will naturally find their best outlet. I could no more be like David than Tiger Woods could be like David. I’ve only met Tiger in person once. He’s lived his life under a microscope and he’s a guarded individual. I don’t know if he changed to become that way or that’s just how he is. I have no problem with that. I don’t understand why we expect the athletes we most admire and prize to be all things to all people. That’s enormously unfair. Tiger has to be true to himself, just as you and I do.
We all know people who are chameleon-like. Call them insincere, phony, or what have you, but those individuals are more irksome than someone who is authentically his or her self. Like a lot of people, I admire Fred Couples. He is a genuinely nice man. He lived near Houston for a while. Texas Lutheran’s men’s golf team was playing in a tournament nearby. The TLU coach knew Fred’s coach. He made a call and Fred agreed to meet with that group of young guys. That exchange made their day and likely their golf careers. He could have just stopped by for a quick few minutes, but he spent a good forty-five minutes with them talking about how he prepared for a major. He also let them ask questions and was very receptive. That conversation took place in the spring of 1992. One week later Fred won the Masters. I know that a lot is made of golf being a gentleman’s game and its self-policing and etiquette may seem out of keeping with today’s society, but in my experience, there are far more stories like this one than the Singh versus Mickelson battle.
I like doing golf because it does offer a change of pace for me. Basketball has more continuous action than football, but each of the sports I’ve covered has its own rhythms. I’ve seen condensed versions of football games, but I don’t know if anyone has ever done the same for a round of golf. Viewers have gotten used to the product we present to them on our telecasts, and moving around the course to different players feels natural. I like stretching and utilizing different broadcasting muscles. Variety keeps you fresh, but every spring, come Master’s time, I’m happy to get back to my accustomed spot on 16, fill my lungs with magnolia-sweetened air, and feel like I’ve found another home.
I’ve played Augusta National only twice. The course is open to selected members of the media on the Monday after the final round. A limited number of slots are available and in the early 1990s, I got to play for the second time. I was in a foursome with Rick Gentile of CBS, Frank Chirkinian, Jr., and the LPGA legend Jan Stephenson. We had a very early tee time. The sun was just starting to show its stuff when we teed off on No. 1. By the time we got to the tee box on 2, the sun had taken fuller effect. The mist was set aflame and everything was cast in a lovely golden light. Jan and I were walking down the fairway and we both sighed. I turned to her and said, “I feel like I’m walking into a commercial.” Inadequate words, really, but she understood and I think most readers will as well.
I’ve been asked, if I had only one round of golf left to play in my life, would I choose Augusta National or the Pebble Beach Golf Course. Boy, that is a tough one, and since I can’t say both, because of the long association I’ve had with the people at Augusta National and all the memories I have associated with it, I’d choose the site of the Masters. Bobby Jones had a pretty good feel for what makes a golf course special.
It has to be an exquisite place to play golf to make me choose it over Pebble Beach. I played that course once with a friend, Larry Bookman, from Steamboat Springs, Colorado. We came to 18 after having the course take its toll on us. Larry looked to his left and out over Stillwater Cove. We could hear the waves crash and the screech of gulls. Larry turned back to me and said, “I never dreamed in my life I would pay t
his much money for a round of golf. But I’ve got to tell you, it was worth it.”
Amen to that.
Number 16 at Augusta produced another lasting memory for me. In 2009, another player with a number of years under his belt was taking on what some used to refer as the “flat bellies”—the lean and hungry youngsters. Post-Tiger, they brought a ferocity of competitiveness and fitness to the game. At forty-eight, Kenny Perry had never won a major. He was poised to do so. He came to 16 with a one-shot lead over another player who belied the weight room workout look—Angel Carbrera, Jr. Perry took out an eight-iron for a shot that rose majestically and then settled on the putting surface and nearly rolled in for an ace. Perry later said that it was the greatest eight-iron shot he’d struck in his life, and if things had turned out different for him, many of us would be talking about that tap-in birdie that put him two up with two to play.
I didn’t get to see live what happened to him next, but later saw the skulled chip shot at 17 and the bogey at 18 that put him in a sudden-death playoff with Cabrera. Perry lost that playoff and a chance at the green jacket. Six weeks later at Congressional in Washington D.C. before the coverage of the final round of the AT&T Classic began, Jim Nantz and Nick Faldo debated whether Perry would ever win a major. Nantz believed that he could; Kenny was that talented. Nick believed that the last and best chance had passed him by. Nantz continued to press his point when Nick said, “He can’t win a major. You have to be a bit of an asshole to win a major. I should know, I won six of them.”
Kevin McHale, one of the sound crew, immediately piped up, “In that case, you should have won a lot more.”
Nick roared along with the rest of us, but forgotten in all of that was the fact that what Nick wasn’t quite saying directly was that Kenny was a great guy, one of those for whom you rooted. It wasn’t meant to be for him and, worse, as Kenny himself later pointed out, his struggle at the Masters was eerily similar to his loss at the PGA ten years earlier. Kenny earned his PGA tour card on his third try and then kept it without interruption for thirty straight years and fourteen PGA tour victories. Quite a remarkable story of perseverance.
I don’t think that I could have persevered enough to have an acting career, but I had a second brush with fame later in life similar to my BFD experience back in Dallas. The attention I receive from having hosted that bowling show so long ago has waxed and waned. Today I’m known among a certain set for having appeared in Adam Sandler’s Happy Gilmore. This tender coming-of-age story is about a wannabe hockey player who learns he has a gift for golf.
My agent, Bob Rosen, called me and said, “There is a part for an announcer in this Adam Sandler movie, and I’m asking you if you want to go.” And I said, “Well, sure, of course. When and where?” He said, “Well, in a month, and they want you in Vancouver, and they’re only going to need a day.” The producer sent a script to me.
I filmed it in one day. They had taken over an empty hospital that had been closed forever, and they did the crowd scenes in the backyard. And they did it the way you’d expect. I mean, they built a broadcast booth, and it was very comparable to what we use on the tour. I was there probably until four or five in the afternoon. And every scene I shot was done in that one day.
Believe me, I don’t take my movie “stardom” too seriously. I didn’t even back then in 1996, when I received the script. I opened it to find my lines and saw that the producers wanted to use Pat Summerall in the picture. How did I know that? Well, some poor production assistant had to use Wite-Out to get rid of Pat’s name and then scribble in mine before sending it off. The shoot went well but the movie didn’t do much at the box office.
That didn’t stop my friends in Steamboat Springs from planning a premiere for me at our local cinema, a somewhat dingy remnant of the past when downtown theaters were popular. They planned to gather on the sidewalk in front of the place, wave flashlights into the air to simulate those huge spotlights. Nancy and I were to be driven to the location and get out of the car to the popping of flashbulbs or whatever the 1996 equivalent of that might have been. And speaking of what might have been, the movie never came to Steamboat, but I appreciated the thought and planning.
Years later, I was working for Turner Sports. I was in New York on a Sunday night to do a game with Pat Haden as my partner. Pat and I walked down toward one of the endzone tunnels to go up to our perch to do the broadcast. As we were walking, Pat said to me, “I’m really embarrassed for you.”
I asked him why. He told me that he couldn’t believe I took part in that horrible movie. I knew he was kidding but I played along.
“It’s not horrible. It’s just ahead of its time. You’ll see. One day that thing is going to take off in popularity.”
We kept walking and just as we were about to duck our heads to go into the tunnel, three teenage girls rose from their seats and shouted in unison, “Hey, Verne! Who the hell is Happy Gilmore?”
I looked at Pat and said, “What did I tell you?”
By the time 2005 rolled around and I was doing a North Carolina versus Arizona basketball game with Billy Packer in Tucson, I was nearly sick to death of hearing young people yell at me, “Who the hell is Happy Gilmore?” At a practice in the McHale Center, Billy and I were seated midway up the first section. Roy Williams was the coach and insisted that we media types keep our distance so we couldn’t hear some of the things he said to his players. At the conclusion of practice, the team was on the court doing some stretching. I looked up and saw one of the assistants climbing the stairs toward our position. He said that the team hoped that “you” would come down to the court to answer a question. I assumed that the “you” in question was Billy Packer and said so. He shook his head. They wanted me. Unsuspecting, I followed the young man down. Tyler Hansbrough, an All-American on the team, looked up at me and said, “Mr. Lundquist, as a team, we would like to know your thoughts on Happy Gilmore, the golfer.”
I knew what was up and said, “Who the hell is Happy Gilmore?!”
I facetiously added, “Now, if you win the national championship this year, I do expect a shout-out for having given you your first motivational speech.”
They all laughed, and they did win the national title.
And I didn’t get the shout-out.
It doesn’t really matter. Every three or four months for the last thirteen years since then, I’ve gotten the shout-out in hotel lobbies, on the street, in airports, in stadiums, and field houses. Happy Gilmore is the gift that keeps on giving.
Chapter 14
Lasting Memories of the SEC
As a broadcaster you can’t dwell for very long on any one event you cover. You always have to look forward and not back. Once a game is over, you have to take a kind of mental shower and let all the facts and figures, stories and images, wash from your brain. Like the athletes themselves, you can’t dwell on a game for very long. Pat Haden called it the “game dump.” You’ve got to clear the decks for the next one coming up. That was especially true during my time covering SEC football. Those weekly broadcasts and in general the high caliber of the play and the closeness of the competition made it impossible to dwell too long on any team or any one matchup. Certainly, some plays stood out, but in a game that saw coaches accelerating the pace of play, it was hard enough to fit in any commentary between plays, let alone sort them into mental folders for retrieval later.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been approached by someone who will mention a particular play from a particular game and ask me if I remember it. I’m sure I disappoint them when I get a bit glassy-eyed and blank of face. The thing about rat packing is that what seems valuable to one may not be of any particular use to another. As I said about that 2001 Florida versus Tennessee game, my lasting image is of Casey Clausen leading the band. When someone mentions one of his near interceptions in the game, I draw a bit of a blank and don’t know what to say.
Perhaps it’s because it’s hard to remember everything that happens duri
ng four quarters of any game, or perhaps it’s because as a broadcaster I’m always taking in what’s going on both in front of the camera and behind the scenes. Part of being a broadcaster is recognizing what your audience wants and delivering as much of that to them as you can. I know, for instance, that some fans really like when we show a player’s family and I deliver some story about that individual. I do a lot of research, reading, talking to players and coaches, hoping to glean from them nuggets that I can use that I think will add dimension to the broadcast.
In reviewing archival footage of the broadcasts, I’ve been struck by several things. Among them: We really do have to fill in quite a bit of time during a broadcast. Plays last a few seconds, many seconds lapse between plays, and with various time-outs, etc., the games themselves could take on a stuttering nature—like those old reel-to-reel films our teachers used to show us when the camera jittered and jumped. Our job is to steady that image, make the action feel continuous, give the appearance of spontaneity when much of it is planned out ahead of time, and make adjustments on the fly, since the action on the field is something we can’t possibly anticipate fully beforehand.
I have to return to Gary Danielson and the role he plays in the broadcast. As is true of the coaches’ meetings we hold, Gary is the one who drives the bus in our production meeting late on Friday before game day. I use that term in jest. We literally are on a bus converted to a television studio (driven by a very nice man named Mike Spears) that contains the needed electronics as well as a couple of couches. This rolling remote television studio goes from site to site and every Friday night during the season, our entire production crew gathers there for the meeting that Craig Silver leads.
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