by Joe Wessel
At sixty-three, Jack could still hit the ball a lot like Jack Nicklaus, and he still played competitive professional golf, though you got the idea he wasn’t going to be one of those professional golfers who played until he could no longer draw his club back. Point being, once Jack stepped onto the golf course, whether he hit practice balls or played a round, the competitive juices came to him, and he wanted to perform well.
No telling how many rounds Jack had logged in his life, but he wasn’t just going through the motions with us. He remained engaged. He was very deliberate in his shots. His routine, though probably a bit faster than normal, was still pure Jack Nicklaus. He would line up his shot, pick out a spot five to six feet in front of his ball, address the ball, and swing. Everything we’d seen him do on TV thousands of times.
When we reached each hole, Jack gave us some help, offering a scouting report, then he would remind himself about what he wanted to do with the ball. He’d say things, like, “I’ve got to draw this in and hit it on the top shelf here.”
Whether Jack felt like being out there competing with us or not, he gave the impression he cared about the round. This despite the fact that he was still playing “real” rounds. In fact, he had just played his final U.S. Senior Open that June, and he’d played in his last Senior British Open that July, finishing 25th and 14th, respectively.
Jack hit a shot on No. 10 that stood out.
Known as Camelia, the par-four, 495-yard tenth hole had been the opening hole at Augusta National prior to 1935. Jack told us that you needed to hit a draw to best take advantage of the downhill fairway. Of course, I flared mine into the trees to the right. He then addressed his ball and executed his shot to perfection, drawing his 3-wood into the downhill trough. A shot like that offered an exclamation point about who we were playing with. I can’t guess how many times he had hit that shot over the hundreds of rounds he had played there.
Steve was great, too. We picked up right where we’d left off, always jabbing each other. We didn’t get a bet going, because, like always, he had a hard time giving strokes. He’d always say, “You don’t get any shots, play better.” He thought my handicap was too high.
Augusta National easily ranks as the most well-kept course I’ve ever played. That could be attributed to the fact it’s only open for play twice a year during periods in the spring and the fall.
No matter where you hit the ball, it’s sitting up as if it’s on a tee when you get there. You just don’t get a bad lie, even in the rough. If you hit it into the pine straw, it sits up there, too. That gives you all kinds of confidence. The rough doesn’t penalize you, either. I mean, there are no areas that are bad. Even if you hit a bad shot, you have a chance to get it out. If they had normal greens, good golfers would torch that golf course. Basically, you earn your score on your ability to chip and putt.
Playing with somebody of Jack’s stature, any golfer would wonder what he thought of their swing. I wasn’t thinking that way. I knew that the last thing he wanted to do was tinker with my swing if not asked to do so. Well, maybe. Jack did offer some advice during the round.
I’d been spraying my tee ball to the right, and he finally grew tired of watching me do so. He told me, “If you’re going to hook the ball, get on the left-hand side of the tee box. You fade the ball, get over on the right side.”
His other comment came late in the round after I missed a green to the right. “Always aim more to the left. When your legs get tired, aim left.”
So, he coached me up whether I wanted it or not. He couldn’t help himself.
Playing with Jack felt a lot like throwing the football with Earl Morrall or Bob Griese in high school. They made me feel like I was playing with one of my uncles. Jack did the same, helping me to forget I was playing with a golf superhero. All of those guys could tell you what to do and give you tips. Yet when they did what they did compared to what you did, they were effortless and efficient, putting on display why they were professionals.
Dad and Jack got along fine, too.
Dad would ask him about some of the older golfers he could relate to like Gay Brewer, Lee Trevino, and Chi Chi Rodriguez. That triggered stories, and they’d banter about some of the older golf courses in the Miami, Fort Lauderdale, and West Palm Beach areas, some of them no longer in existence.
Because Dad played from the front tees, he stayed off to the side while we hit. He wanted to follow golf etiquette to the tee, which might have bogged him down a little bit. Nobody likes playing with a slow golfer, and Dad might have been a little too deliberate. I hoped that wasn’t wearing on Jack’s and Steve’s nerves.
But the Nicklaus duo seemed to play it cool. Jack continued to explain things about each hole, delving into all the little idiosyncrasies of the hole as we moved up the fairway.
No. 11, for example, the par-four, 505-yard White Dogwood hole, was the first of the three holes forming “Amen Corner.” It was on this hole that Larry Mize chipped in to defeat Greg Norman in a playoff for the 1987 title. Jack explained that the hole had been lengthened, and the trees along the right side kept you from bailing out. Because of the changes, the hole had become more difficult and forced players to play the hole more conservatively rather than taking chances to make shots.
Yet I’d conducted my own study of this course, as well—both from afar and in person. When we got to No. 8, an uphill par five known as Yellow Jasmine, I knew from my Masters research that Bruce Devlin had scored the second double eagle in Masters history on that hole in 1967. Of course, Gene Sarazen’s “shot heard ’round the world” in 1935 was the first. Sarazen’s took place on No. 15.
Navigating No. 8 required an accurate tee ball to avoid the fairway bunker on the right side. Mounds on the left protected a narrow green. I managed to hit a gap wedge tight and sank the putt for my only birdie of the day.
While walking down the No. 9 fairway, I shared with the group the story of the first time I went to The Masters to watch a practice round in 1990.
I’d seen Mark Lye on the third hole. My old friend had invited me to walk with him, so I did, studying the course and how he hit the shots he did. He pulled his tee shot on No. 9, and when he reached his ball, I could see that a pine tree blocked his way. I stood behind him, about ten feet away, and wondered what he would try to do with the ball. The whole time, I thought, There’s no way he’s going to be able to hit the green. He can’t get it out of there.
Mark ended up hitting a 5-iron off the pine needles, threading his ball through a narrow opening in the trees to where it came to rest about fifteen feet from the hole. And he’d had no shot. Being there to see him pull his Houdini act amazed me. I remember playing Killearn Country Club in Tallahassee with him years before, and he did the same type of thing. Over the years, that is one thing I have learned from pro and low-handicap golfers. When they hit a bad shot and get into trouble, they know how to get out of trouble. The normal golfer isn’t consistent enough—or patient enough—to follow the bad shot with a good one.
I didn’t experience any trouble on No. 9 and came away with a par, leaving me with a three-over 39 for the front. Dad shot 47, Steve shot 39, and Jack shot 39, too, so I felt cocky, like, This is pretty easy. I’m going toe-to-toe with Jack Nicklaus, the guy who won The Masters six times.
My fortunes changed on the back side, thanks largely to a triple-bogey on the par three, No. 12. Troubles incurred on “Golden Bell” included dumping my tee ball into the water, then burying my next shot into the azaleas on the back side of the green.
During my reversal of fortunes, I did experience a moment of glory on No. 16.
I sprayed my tee shot to the right of the par three “Redbud,” which is played entirely over water and features a large sloping green surrounded by deep bunkers. Jack observed my errant effort and noted, “Whoa, haven’t seen too many people go over there.”
The pin had been stationed deep on the upper right side of the green near a trap. On Sundays at The Masters, the pin is at located o
n the front left side, where even a good shot can trickle back into the water.
My ball rested on pine needles approximately twenty to thirty yards away. The chances of getting up and down were remote. I needed to land the ball over the trap and stop it on a dime to avoid sliding downhill toward the water. I grabbed my 60-degree wedge and thought, What the hell.
I made solid contact—a good first step. The ball popped into the air and stopped five feet from the pin. I sank the putt. Ho hum, routine par.
Walking to the next hole, my caddy told me, “Thanks boss, you just made me some money. The over/under was 6 for you.” I was glad I could do my part to help him stay away from the unemployment line for another week.
Speaking of caddies, they know everything about that course, particularly the greens. On No. 18, I drove the ball into the trees on the right, leaving me without a shot. My caddy looked at me and said, “Shoot it on up there toward 10 tee.”
I tried to do as instructed, but I pulled my shot. The ball ended up in the bunker on the right side of the No. 18 green.
Standing in the bunker lining my feet up to hit a shot to where I thought I needed to hit the ball, I looked up on the green at my caddy.
“Just hit it up here,” he said.
He drew an imaginary circle at a target that didn’t make sense. Following his instructions would mean hitting the ball north when the hole was southwest. I didn’t question his judgement. I hit the ball where he told me, then marveled while it rolled to about three or four feet from the hole. Had I not experienced the shot, I never would have thought that was the way to play it.
I missed my putt to finish with a 47 on the back, giving me an 86 for the day. Jack shot 78, and Steve came in at 80. Dad shot 57 on the back for a 104.
Jack seemed a little disappointed with his score, much like a concerto pianist would be after hitting a couple of wrong notes.
We showered, packed up, and headed out of Magnolia Lane. Before we boarded the plane, Jack had some work to do at a new course that was under construction called Champions Retreat. That twenty-seven-hole venture was a collaborative design by Jack, Arnold Palmer, and Gary Player. Each of the golfing legends was tasked with designing nine holes. Ever the perfectionist, Jack wanted to take notes on the layout and observe the progress being made, so we tagged along with Jack and some of his people.
Walking the holes of that course with him and hearing his vision for each hole proved intriguing. Each hole already had been cut through the trees, and they were about to move a lot of dirt. As we got to one of the par 3s, we stood on the tee and looked over a small duck pond to an hourglass green on the other side. There were trees on the left along with the remnants of a duck blind in those trees. Jack blurted out, “What are we going to do with that?”
Silence followed. I broke that silence by suggesting he put a couple of dummies in the blind with fake shotguns and have decoys out in front of the blind. Jack turned to me and said, “That’s a pretty good idea. Take note of that, guys.” I never found out if my suggestion got put into place.
Afterward, we boarded Jack’s jet to fly to West Palm. Jack was gracious enough to autograph several of his Precept balls that he played with during our Augusta round. During the flight, Dad went to the bathroom, and Jack told me, “Hey, your dad has to learn how to play a little quicker.” That cracked me up.
When we landed, we came to a stop next to another plane in the hangar, N1GN. I knew we were in N1JN. Turned out, Jack’s Gulfstream V shared the same hangar with Greg Norman’s plane.
Like all great dreams, you don’t want them to end. I was waiting for Dad to break out in song with “I Could Have Danced All Night” or “The Impossible Dream.” We could have begged for more, but our impossible dream was now over! We said our good-byes before Dad and I took a taxi to Miami.
Riding on the Florida Turnpike, we passed Pro Player Stadium, where Game 4 of the World Series was taking place. I felt blessed to be able to appreciate how special our time together had been. We’d played golf and spent time with Jack Nicklaus at Augusta National. To top it all off, Dad’s favorite baseball team was playing in the World Series, and the Marlins were taking it to the Yankees.
As we drove, tears formed in my eyes. Dad, at seventy-seven, would be the first to admit that his golf game wasn’t what it used to be, yet his love for the game was stronger than ever. I couldn’t help but think that if I were still coaching, I never would have been in the position to experience what we had just shared together.
Days later, I received the following note:
Dear Joe,
This by way of thanks and appreciation for the memorable Augusta trip. It was very considerate of you to think of me and include me. Everything, even the 103 score [note: Dad had himself down for one shot less], was awesome. When I think of all the golfers in the world who would give anything to do what I did with you, I’m so grateful and proud to have a son like you. But above all, I’m so proud of your accomplishments and thoughtfulness—not just this, but all the time. You’ve certainly made my last few birthdays something to remember.
Love always, Dad
CHAPTER 23
Papa Joe’s Final Years
IN THE BIBLE, SOLOMON TELLS US that life is “meaningless” if we do not have our focus on God’s word. Yet he also tells us to enjoy the life we are given. Louis Joseph Wessel lived under that guidance for 89 1/2 years. Many would say my father was a true Renaissance man as described in this definition of a Renaissance man, from Urban Dictionary: “a person who is ‘enlightened’ in all subject matter including arts, math, athletics, philosophy, music, history, and any other cultural aspect of society.”
Dad knew it all and wasn’t shy to share his knowledge. He was enlightened throughout his life, and the people who had the privilege of knowing him were enlightened because of him.
Dad’s final years were peaceful. He remained sharp, with his sense of humor intact, and he’d sing us a tune every now and then.
Some people spend their whole lives searching for their purpose. Dad’s purpose always seemed to come to him effortlessly and with clarity.
Dad sang in the choir, ushered at mass, helped the needy, and always gave advice, whether you sought his advice or not. He sold spices for McCormick for thirty-five years. And he loved to brag to people about the stock price.
Once Dad joined Alcoholics Anonymous, another purpose was born for him. Our Catholic Christian faith calls us to serve others. To reach out to those in need. For over forty years, Alcoholics Anonymous gave Dad the stage to fulfill that calling. Regardless of race, creed, or color, Dad embraced being a leader, sponsor, confidant, mentor, and friend to so many, unselfishly giving his time, his smile, his words of encouragement, and, every once in a while, a song.
Eventually, Dad shied away from singing solos. Not because he couldn’t, but the perfectionist in him would not like the output. Even though he still had an unbelievable voice and range, he just didn’t sound right to himself. I guess like Jack Nicklaus deciding in his later years not to play ceremonial golf. I think in their minds, doing so would have diminished the level of expertise they had achieved.
I asked him to sing so we could have a CD of some of his favorite songs. He didn’t want to at first. Finally, he gave in and did the CD. Ave Maria and Our Father were on that CD. He sang both of those songs so well that they brought tears to people’s eyes, including mine. Those are spiritual songs, of course.
Dad had been a stern disciplinarian, quick to criticize, quick to correct, and sometimes even quick to pass judgment. Looking back, the punches to my arms or the horse bites to my hamstrings when Dad thought I needed correction were his way of showing love and concern for me. Dad remained equally as physical and expressive, only he’d grown to where physical gestures and expressiveness were delivered through hugs and kisses.
In his final years, every conversation ended with an overflow of words of passion, praise, pride, and love.
Coupled with that were Dad�
��s unceasing support and curiosity regarding what was going on in my life. From 2010 to 2012, Skip Holtz—Coach Lou Holtz’s son, with whom I’d struck up a friendship during my time at Notre Dame—was the head coach at the University of South Florida. In the spring of 2011, I got a call from him, and he asked if I wanted to “go and play golf next week.” I said, “Sure, where are we playing?” His answer: “A small course up in the corner of Georgia.” Though I told him I needed to check my calendar, I immediately responded, “I’m free!”
We laughed because I knew he wasn’t talking about some off-the-beaten-path goat track, he was talking about Augusta National. Of course, when I told Dad about my plans for a return trip, he was ecstatic. It was clear he’d be living vicariously through me for this second outing, and he couldn’t wait to hear how it went.
Unlike my first trip to the Holy Grail of Golf, this trip took place in the early summer. The course looked just as beautiful and spectacular as it was in the fall of 2003.
The second time around, I had more familiarity of the grounds. That gave me additional confidence when I teed off.
Skip’s Dad, Lou, had the Augusta membership, and he brought us together in his room before we went to eat dinner the night before. Dressed in jackets and ties, we listened to Coach Holtz tell us from some scribbled notes in his hand the history and facts of Augusta National.
Listening to Coach Holtz gave me the feeling of being in a time warp. Twenty years earlier, I had listened to Coach Holtz explain the history and facts about Notre Dame as a university and about its football program, noting how much of an honor it was to play or coach at Notre Dame. During this speech, he conveyed the same thing about Augusta National.
As corny as it may sound, he was spot on. Augusta National is the Holy Grail of Golfers. To me, the place stands above all other courses because of its history and what it stands for in the world of golf. Like being at Notre Dame, there are a chosen few every year who get the honor to experience that tradition. I felt privileged and blessed that Coach Holtz and Skip gave me the opportunity to intimately experience both Notre Dame and Augusta National. For that, I am eternally grateful.