One Magical Sunday

by Phil Mickelson

  During my early years on the PGA Tour, I won a few and lost a few. But I always attempted to enjoy myself. The after-round press conferences would often get a little boring. The reporters would ask the same old questions. “Why did you use a six-iron on #8?” “Why did you go for the green and hit it in the water when you could have laid up?” Stuff like that. Well, at one of my early press conferences, I noticed this guy sitting in the front row who was furiously writing down almost every word I said. He rarely ever looked up at me. Eventually, he raised his hand to ask a question.

  “Phil, word has it that you’re a genius,” he said. “Is that true?” “Well, it used to be true,” I responded seriously. “But my parents wanted me to be normal. So they took me to a surgeon and he reversed my IQ so that I wouldn’t be a genius.”

  This reporter was writing down every word as it came out of my mouth. Finally, he got this funny expression on his face, looked up at me, and said: “Really?”

  “No, not really,” I responded. “But I gotcha, didn’t I?”

  Phil used to visit me at ASU whenever he got the chance. One day, we were at a charity golf event and Phil met this little boy who could not catch very well.

  So, in order to build up his confidence, Phil asked the boy to stand about three feet away and face in the opposite direction. “Now hold your hat straight out from your body and don’t move.”

  Then Phil took a wedge and chipped the ball over the boy’s head and it flew right into the hat. Phil went up and shook the boy’s hand, gave him the ball, and said: “See, you can catch. Thank you. You’ve been a great assistant.”

  Well, that kid’s eyes were as round as saucers. “Mister,” he said, “you are a magician.”

  Amy Mickelson

  For my second shot on #6, I’ve got about 90 feet to the hole. I don’t think there’s enough room to fly the ball high in the air and stop it close to the hole. So I decide to hit a basic chip and bump the ball into the hill. But it hits the hill a little bit too hard—and the ball rolls twelve feet past the hole. I overdid this one—it was not nearly as hard a shot as I’d originally thought.

  Now I’ve got a testy putt that breaks left to right and will move quickly down the hill. I’ve got to make this for par. I make a good stroke, but slightly misjudge the break. My ball rolls three feet by the hole—just inside my circle. I quickly step up and knock it in.

  As I walk off the green, I’m obviously not overly ecstatic. I’m thinking to myself: “Okay I just bogeyed #3, #5, and #6. Three bogeys in the last four holes. I’m two over for the day. This is not going the way I had hoped. But the first six holes at Augusta are pretty tough. And #7, #8, and #9 are birdie holes.”

  All of a sudden, I hear some people in the crowd shouting encouragement. “C’mon, Phil. Get it together!” “C’mon, Phil. We can make this happen! We can pull it off!” It’s almost as if they were competing in the tournament.

  But I know I must get it going. I’m now tied with two-time Masters champion Bernhard Langer—one shot ahead of Chris DiMarco (who had a tough double bogey).

  PLAYER

  SCORE

  HOLE

  Mickelson

  -4

  6

  Langer

  -4

  6

  DiMarco

  -3

  5

  Casey

  -3

  6

  Els

  -3

  7

  Choi

  -2

  7

  Singh

  -2

  10

  7

  Pampas

  Par 4

  410 yards

  This is a very interesting hole because, if you hit the fairway on your tee shot, you only have a wedge or easy 9-iron for your approach shot to the green. Then it’s a birdie hole. But if you miss the fairway, then it’s one of the toughest pars at Augusta. You’re going to be under some trees, hitting to an elevated green surrounded by bunkers, and you simply will not be able to get the ball on the green. This is one of the most critical tee shots I’ll hit today—a birdie hole that could quickly become a bogey hole. Over the course of an eighteen hole round, #7 has the most shot relevance—and the greatest difficulty from which to recover.

  I have driven it well all week, so I pull out my driver and aim down the right side and hit a slight cut. The fairway slopes slightly to the right, so this should work nicely. And it does. I hit the ball perfectly—290 yards down the middle of the fairway.

  Now I have only 120 yards for my approach shot. It’s uphill all the way, so it’ll play a bit longer than average. The pin is at the front of the green with three bunkers surrounding it. This is a very delicate shot and I’d rather be long than short. So I’m going to try to hit it past the hole and put some backspin on it. If I can do that, I’ll have a birdie putt that I’ve made many times in the past. It’s a downhill putt, but at the hole it levels out. So the ball should not run too far past the hole.

  I pull out my gap wedge, take a full swing, and make a good shot. The ball hits on the green past the hole and rolls back. Good. Now I have an easy 15-footer for birdie.

  The very first tournament I played in 1994 was the Mercedes Championships (January in San Diego). I was playing very well and, in fact, was leading going into Sunday’s final round. So I called Amy and told her that I had a really good feeling about tomorrow and asked her to come out again to share the moment together.

  We had been dating for over a year at this point and Amy was determined to stay in school and get her degree, which I fully supported. To help cover the costs of school, she held down two jobs—one teaching dance lessons to children, the other dancing at the Phoenix Suns’ games. Often, when I was on tour, she would dance at a game on Friday night, catch a red-eye flight to be with me on Saturday, and then fly back late Sunday so she could make her Monday morning classes. We both would do whatever we could just to be together.

  Well, when I called Amy about coming out for the final round of the Mercedes Championship, she had a conflict. The Suns were playing in a big Sunday afternoon game to be televised nationally. She was supposed to dance and there was no way her boss would let her go.

  My roommate was also on the dancing team and we cooked up this dumb scheme to get me out of going to the game. While she was telling our boss that I was deathly ill—that I couldn’t even get out of bed—I was flying to San Diego to be with Phil and his family.

  Phil did win the tournament, and the live television coverage showed me hugging him afterward. Well, it just so happened that one of the Suns’ VPs was watching the golf tournament. He went up to my boss and told her that Phil had just won the Mercedes Championship, that he had seen me there, and wasn’t that just wonderful.

  And my boss said, “Oh, you must be mistaken. Amy is deathly sick. She’s home in bed.”

  “No,” he replied, “I just saw her on television with Phil. She’s in San Diego.”

  Well, I got busted. And I learned my lesson quickly. My boss chewed into me pretty good and suspended me for five games without pay. I had to sit on the sidelines just so I could keep my job.

  Amy Mickelson

  After winning the Mercedes Championship, I took some time off to go skiing. Unfortunately, one week off turned into more than three months off because I fell and broke my leg on one of the ski runs. My femur actually snapped in half, and, during surgery, the doctors stuck a rod inside the bone so it would heal properly. As part of my therapy, I had to start walking the very next day. But I couldn’t play golf because all the muscles needed time to heal. So I was on crutches for three weeks with nothing to do. I missed the Masters that year and, I tell you, it was really tough watching the tournament on television.

  During my rehabilitation, I would go to the medical clinic and undergo physical therapy for about three hours. Afterward, I’d drive down to the airport and take flying lessons.
With my dad being a pilot, I was always interested in learning to fly. It was a great challenge to get my pilot’s license and it wasn’t long before I was certified to fly small planes. In the evenings, after flying all day, I would watch videos to learn magic tricks (mostly with cards).

  I really had a lot of fun during those three months. When I finally did get back to the tour, I was rejuvenated and enthusiastic—and it really helped my golf game. During that down time, I also learned some new things. And today, I can still fly airplanes (with an instrument rating and a CE500 type rating), I can still do magic tricks, and my leg is stronger because of all the therapy. I’m not suggesting that people break a leg every once in a while—but it really isn’t hard to turn a negative into a positive if you set your mind to it.

  Of course, Amy was the first person I thought of when I got my pilot’s license. I couldn’t wait to take her up for a spin.

  Phil called me right after he got his license. “I need you to come over,” he said. “I want you to be my first passenger.” So I drove over to the airport and squeezed into this tiny little back seat behind him. And we took off.

  Amy Mickelson

  I was so excited to have Amy with me—and I wanted to show her all that I had learned. So I flew that little Cessna 172 out into a remote area of North Scottsdale and performed a lazy 8. That’s where you pull straight up to almost a stall, add a little rudder, and go directly into a dive. Then you come down, go back up, and kind of fly over to the other side. It’s not really aerobatics because all pilots have to do this maneuver (along with many others) in order to get their licenses. Lazy 8s and all the other arcing maneuvers you do in a plane remind me of a round of golf. You make one circle on the front nine, loop back to the clubhouse, and then do the same thing on the back nine. It’s very similar.

  On my next lazy 8 for Amy, as we were headed down, I started spinning the plane so that we were spiraling toward the ground. As I pulled the stick and leveled out, I looked into the back seat to see if Amy was having a good time. But her head was plastered up against the back wall, her hands were dug into the armrests, and her eyes were as wide as saucers. In truth, she had this look of terror on her face. And I thought to myself, “Uh, oh! I may have overdone it just a little bit.”

  Oh, I was furious with him. And I was sick to my stomach, too. When we landed, I drove straight home and stayed in bed for the rest of the day. I can tell you one thing: It took quite awhile for me to get in a plane with him again.

  Amy Mickelson

  Two years later, Amy accepted my proposal of marriage. (Actually, I think it took her that long to forgive me for the plane ride!) Anyway, on November 16, 1996, I became the luckiest guy in the world when we were married at the Grand Wailea on the island of Maui in Hawaii. It was a wonderful wedding in a small chapel, with both our families. Not a day goes by that I don’t think how fortunate I am to have Amy as my life partner.

  When we were planning the wedding ceremony, Phil knew that I loved to dance, so he suggested that we surprise everybody and do a tango when it came our turn to dance. We took a couple of lessons, but Phil wasn’t the most natural dancer in the world. You know, he was a big athlete with size 13 feet.

  We bought a tape of the music (we used the tango music from the dance scene in the movie Scent of a Woman). Phil would listen to it while he was driving around in his car and visualize himself dancing. It was very similar to how he visualizes his golf swing when he’s out on the golf course. He would think, “slow, slow, quick quick, slow.”

  When we did the tango at our wedding, Phil didn’t miss a step. It was a perfect dance routine on his part—including a deep, romantic dip at the end. What a moment!

  Amy Mickelson

  Picking your life partner is a critical decision for an individual’s personal happiness. And in the world of professional golf, choosing your caddy is just about as critical—because it can mean the difference between success and failure.

  Jim (Bones) Mackay has a professional, optimistic attitude every day we’re together. He is not only a great guy, he’s also an important element to my success. He documents every shot I hit—how far the ball flew, what the temperature and wind conditions were, and so on. Of course, I consult with Bones a lot on club and shot selection. And there’s a public perception out there (created largely by the media) that Bones is like a good angel sitting on my shoulder. I’m always aggressive and going for the pin. He’s always the voice of reason telling me to play the safe shot. Bones really is a bit more conservative than I am, but I think that makes for a great mix.

  One day we were having a conversation about the fact that I always make the final decision. Of course, he agreed with that—but he asked me if he could have one veto a year. I thought about it for a minute and said: “Yeah, you can have a veto. You can call me off without question. But only one time. And if you use your veto up early in the year, you don’t get another one later.”

  Bones has used his veto, too. One year at English Turn in New Orleans, I had knocked my ball in the right rough behind some trees—and there was a lake between us and the green. I told Bones that I was going to skip the ball across the water, bounce it up the bank, and roll it on the green. He said, “I’m using my veto.” So I chipped it back out into the fairway and made par.

  Another year we were at the British Open in Muirfield, Scotland. My ball was down in one of those bunkers and I couldn’t stand straight up. So I had to kneel down and try to hit it out of there with a 6-iron. “What are you doing?” asked Bones.

  “I’m going for the green,” I said.

  “What!? No, no. We’re going to use a wedge and hit it back into the fairway. We’ll make par, bogey at worst.”

  “No, Bones, I’m going to blast this ball onto the green. You just watch.”

  So Bones said: “No, Phil. I can’t bear it. I’m going to use my veto.”

  And I said: “No, you’re not. The veto is only good in the United States.”

  Well, sure enough, I caught the ball a little thin, left it in the bunker, and ended up having to make a 15-foot putt for double bogey. Maybe I should have listened to him.

  Because Bones is right so often, I feel the need to vindicate myself by playing some practical jokes on him every now and then. One time, we were on Hilton Head at the Harbor Town golf course. Behind the tee box at #12, there’s a statue of a 4-foot baby alligator—and it’s the most realistic statue that you’ll ever see. Well, I remembered it from the previous year, but Bones did not. So I started tossing some tees at it. Bones grew up in Florida and knows how dangerous alligators can be—even baby ones. “No, no, Phil,” he said, “don’t aggravate him.”

  “Oh, it’ll be all right, Bones. It’s just a little thing.”

  Then I started sneaking up on the alligator from behind and Bones cautioned me again. “Phil, I know those things are small, but you can’t believe how strong they are. They’re aggressive and very quick. Do not mess with it!”

  “Bones, Bones, calm down,” I said. “I can take this little guy.” So I jumped on the alligator and started rolling around on the ground with it. “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” I kept yelling. I thought Bones was going to have a heart attack, because he dropped my bag, clubs flew everywhere, and he dove in to save me.

  One other prank I pulled on my caddy happened during the 1997 U.S. Open at Congressional Country Club. He had picked me up so that Amy could have our car—and when we arrived in the parking lot, the place was just packed with spectators moving toward the golf course. So Bones had to stop and wait. Well, one of the fans wasn’t looking where he was going and bumped his knee against our car. He looked up at Bones and then just kept going. Well, after we parked the car, Bones took my golf bag over to the driving range. Then, when he wasn’t looking, I went over to four police officers who were standing nearby. They smiled when they recognized me and I said: “Okay, guys, here’s the deal. I want you to go over to my caddy and tell him that he needs to come with you because h
e’s being arrested for felony hit and run—and that the guy he hit is also filing a civil lawsuit against him.”

  So the cops go over to Bones on the driving range, tell him all this—and Bones just turns ashen. “But I wasn’t even moving!” he protested. “He ran into me!”

  “I don’t care, sir,” said one of the officers. “All I know is that you hit this man with your car and then you sped away—and the victim is now pressing charges. So we have to arrest you.”

  “What?! What! But I’m in this tournament. I’m Phil Mickelson’s caddy!”

  “Mister, I don’t care who you are, you’re coming with us!”

  Well, I let this go on for about five minutes and then I went over there. “What’s going on, guys?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about it, Phil,” said Bones.

  “Mr. Mickelson,” said an officer, “we’re arresting your man for felony hit and run.”

  “By all means,” I responded. “I saw the whole thing and you should take him away right now!” I think that’s where Bones caught on, because he started to breathe again.

  As I size up this 15-foot putt for birdie on #7, my only concern is which way it will break. Year in and year out, depending on how they alter the greens, it seems to break different ways. One year, a little left. The next year, a little right. This would be a great opportunity to pick up one of the shots I’ve lost. I stroke the ball nice and soft. I play it to break right, but it just doesn’t move as much as I think. It’s close, but I miss the hole and the ball stops about a foot away. Another quick tap-in for par. I’m a little bit disappointed. These are the types of putts—the 15- or 20-footers—I need to make if I’m going to have a chance to win.