One Magical Sunday

by Phil Mickelson

  As I’m walking to the 8th tee, I hear a roar from the crowd. Somebody’s done something. But who, I’m not completely sure. These roars are very well known at Augusta—especially on Sundays. It’s part of the magic of the Masters. They echo through the valleys and hollows here. Some people say that the enduring echoes are from golfing greats of the past: Bobby Jones, San Snead, Ben Hogan, Byron Nelson, Jack Nicklaus, Tom Watson.

  We began to hear them this week on Friday’s second round. They started on the first hole, rose in tempo all during the day, and hit a magnificent crescendo at the 18th green. That was the day Arnold Palmer played his final competitive round here at Augusta National. Fifty consecutive Masters. Four green jackets. A lifetime of memories. I was thrilled just to be on the course that day.

  Arnold Palmer.

  A name synonymous with golf. A great man. A legend whose presence will always be felt here at Augusta. No one has done more for golf than Arnie.

  After the first round of the 1994 U.S. Open, I saw Arnold Palmer go into the volunteer tent and stay for over an hour to sign autographs. It turned out that Mr. Palmer was signing for the thousand or so people who were donating their time to keep the tournament running smoothly. And he had kind words for everybody. “I know that you’re all not going to be able to see much golf this week,” he said. “But we all appreciate everything you do to make this tournament a success. You are all doing a great job.”

  That really stuck with me. I just thought it was a classy thing to do. In the years since, I’ve tried to emulate Mr. Palmer by setting aside some time after every round to accommodate as many autograph requests as I can.

  A few years earlier, when I played in my first Masters, I called Mr. Palmer and asked if he would play a practice round with me. Well, not only did he agree to do so, he set up a foursome that included Jack Nicklaus and Hale Irwin. Well, Arnie (I called him Arnie on the golf course) and I teamed up and took on Jack and Hale. On the 7th hole, Arnie rolled in a 12-foot putt for birdie. On the 8th, he made another 12-footer for birdie. And on the 9th hole, he knocked in his third birdie in a row, this time from 15 feet. On that day, I got a glimpse of the Arnold Palmer of old—the fire in his eyes, the competitive spirit, and the magic that brought him four green jackets. It was a terrific day. Arnie and I won our little contest with Jack and Hale. By the way, Arnie and Jack between them have won ten green jackets. And I kind of wanted one for myself.

  When I reach the 8th tee box, I have to wait for a few minutes. That’s when I learn that the roar I heard was Ernie Els making an eagle putt up on the green ahead of me. So in an instant, I go from one ahead to one behind.

  PLAYER

  SCORE

  HOLE

  Els

  -5

  8

  Mickelson

  -4

  7

  Langer

  -3

  7

  Casey

  -3

  7

  DiMarco

  -2

  7

  Singh

  -2

  12

  Choi

  -2

  7

  Couples

  -1

  10

  Triplett

  -1

  8

  Love III

  E

  10

  8

  Yellow Jasmine

  Par 5

  570 yards

  The 8th hole at Augusta is a long, beautiful par 5. On the tee, I initially grab my driver thinking I’m going to hit it as far as I can so as to have an easier shot to make the green in two. But then I have some second thoughts. First of all, I’m one shot behind now and I really want to make birdie. Second, the fairway tightens considerably as the bunkers out there angle in to the left. And third, if I hit a full driver, my ball will end up in an awkward gap where I won’t have an accurate club for my second shot. I usually hit my 3 wood 270 yards and my 3-iron 230 yards—which creates a 40-yard “problem” gap. If I use the driver, I’ll be in that gap.

  So I ask Bones to switch out the driver for the 3-wood. I’ll be a little more accurate, I’ll avoid the fairway bunker, and my second shot should be the perfect distance for another 3-wood. Besides, I’m certain a 3-wood/3-wood combination will get me to the green in two if I hit them both well.

  I make a good swing off the tee. The ball starts down the right side and fades a little bit to the left. I’m in the fairway. It’s a good shot.

  For my approach, I absolutely do not want to be left of the green. I’ve been down there many times before and I’ve almost never been able to get it up and down for birdie. So I’m going to make sure that if I miss this 3-wood, I’m going to miss it to the right side of the green and have a high probability of an up and down.

  Well, I don’t hit a particularly good second shot. And it does, in fact, go about twenty yards right of the green. It may sound like I’m playing conservatively at this point. But I really don’t look at it that way. I’m trying to optimize my chances of making a birdie. By being right of the green, I know I’m going to make par at worst—and birdie is a very real possibility.

  On this course, I’ve got to put my ball in a spot where I can get it up and down. I simply cannot fire at every pin—because I can’t hit a perfect shot every time. I have to cut my risk so that, when I miss a shot, it doesn’t do as much harm. In other words, in order to win the Masters, I’ve got to miss my way around Augusta.

  Talk about missing shots. In 1998, Amy and I were trying to get pregnant but weren’t being very successful. We consulted her doctor and were told that we might have to start looking into taking fertility treatments. Well, that was a big step, so while we were thinking about it, we flew to Hawaii to attend the wedding of our good friends Rick and Tricia Smith. It was October 1998, and they were getting married in the same little chapel where we had taken our vows two years earlier.

  At the hotel, a staff member was telling us (and a number of other young couples) about the mysticism and magic of the local Hawaiian Gods. He went over to a statue and said: “This is the Hawaiian God of Fertility. If you rub it, you are sure to conceive.” Of course, Amy and I jokingly rubbed it—and so did two other couples.

  After the trip, we began serious discussions about fertility treatments. During that time, Amy wasn’t feeling very good—she was sleeping all day and just wasn’t herself. So we took her to the doctor and guess what? She was pregnant—and we traced it right back to Hawaii. We later found out that the other two couples were pregnant, too. It turns out that all of us had our babies within seven days of each other. We should have respected the magic of the God of Fertility.

  One evening, not long after we learned we were going to be parents, I took Amy to a Kenny G concert. Kenny and I had become good friends over the years and he invited us backstage before the show started. While the warm-up act was going on, he and I started playing Ping-Pong—and we made a friendly wager. If he beat me, I’d have to say in a televised interview that “Kenny G is a better golfer than I am.” However, if I won, Kenny would have to play “Happy Birthday” to my mother-in-law at his upcoming concert in Salt Lake City. I thought that would be a pretty good way to make amends to her considering our first meeting.

  After I gave Kenny G a sound beating in the “pong” department, he sent Gary and Renee McBride ringside tickets to his Salt Lake City concert. And right in the middle of the show, Kenny walked over in front of Amy’s parents, shined a spotlight on Renee, and surprised her by saying to the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen, today is my good friend Renee McBride’s birthday. And I’d like to play ‘Happy Birthday’ for her.”

  For the next three or four days, I was golden in my mother-in-law’s eyes. But then she started getting calls from all of her friends who also happened to be at that concert. “Renee, I didn’t know you were such good friends with Kenny G. Is there
any chance you can get him to play at our fundraiser next month?” She tried to explain that Kenny was not a really a good friend of hers, but I don’t think anyone believed her.

  In 1999, Kenny G and I teamed up in the AT&T pro am at Pebble Beach and really played well together. (He plays golf much better than he plays Ping-Pong.) When we came to the 18th hole on Sunday, we were actually leading the tournament (one stroke ahead of Tiger Woods and his partner, Jerry Chang). All we had to do was par the hole to win. However, I was also in contention for the outright victory among the professionals—and I needed to make a birdie to tie Davis Love III for the lead.

  The 18th hole at Pebble Beach is a par 5 right next to the Pacific Ocean. I hit a great shot down right in the middle of the fairway. Then, rather than lay up, I pulled out my driver and tried to get my ball as close to the green as I possibly could.

  Most Tour players believe that if (on a par 5) they can’t get the ball on the green with their second shot, they should lay up 100 yards from the green. Statistically speaking, the worst shot is the 40-yard shot. (I’ve measured this over quite a few years; twenty-seven golfers at 1,000 shots each.)

  Not only are the Tour players worse from 40 yards than they are from 100 yards, but it’s also the average golfer’s biggest weakness. The reason is that when they make a full swing at 40 yards, the ball just goes too far. Most golfers don’t have a half-swing.

  But Phil Mickelson does not have that problem. In the entire history of golf, there has never been a player who has swung better from 100 yards than Phil does from 40 yards. Actually, he’s better from 40 than he is from 100. So that’s why I always advise him to go against the grain of most golfers—and, rather than lay up, try to get his second shot on a par 5 as close to the green as possible. Statistically, he’ll have a better chance of getting it up and down.

  Dave Pelz, Phil’s Short-Game Coach

  The flagstick on 18 was over to the right—and there was also a right-to-left wind blowing toward the ocean. That’s a unique situation because usually, at Pebble Beach, the wind blows in from the water. My goal on this particular shot was to try and hit the ball into the bunker near the green. Well, I hit it too high and with a little fade. The wind caught it and pushed it off into the ocean. I made bogey, lost the tournament—and Kenny G and I dropped down into a tie for first place and shared the trophy with Tiger and Jerry.

  Afterward, of course, the media had a field day with that shot. “Why did you go for it?” “Why didn’t you lay up?” “What were you thinking?”

  Later that year (1999), I was selected to play in the Ryder Cup—a professional match-play tournament held every two years that pits an American team against a European team. It turned out to be one of the biggest highlights in my golfing career. The event was held in Brookline, Massachusetts, and we had an exceptional team of golfers that included David Duval, Jim Furyk, Jeff Maggert, Tom Lehman, Justin Leonard, Davis Love III, Mark O’Meara, Steve Pate, Payne Stewart, Hal Sutton, and Tiger Woods. The United States had lost the last two Ryder Cups and our squad was determined to get the Cup back this year.

  Unfortunately for us, the Europeans started out like gangbusters and seized the lead on the first day. I played well, but lost both of my matches. I had missed two important putts and was feeling down, so I asked our captain, Ben Crenshaw, to keep me out of the lineup on Saturday morning. I needed some time to fix my putting. I worked hard in the morning, and that afternoon, I paired up with Tom Lehman. We won that match to gain some much-needed confidence for the upcoming singles events.

  Going into Sunday’s final round, the Europeans still had a big lead (10-6). The night before, Ben Crenshaw pulled us all together and gave an emotional and inspiring speech. Then he told us that we were going to load up the top of the lineup and send our opponents a message. Tiger led off and won his match. I started third and won my match. Then we stayed on the sidelines and cheered on our teammates. And in what turned out to be one of the most dramatic finishes in Ryder Cup history, our American team came back to win it. The clinching shot came when Justin Leonard knocked in a 45-foot putt on #17 to secure a tie with Jose Maria Olázàbal. The half-point he earned gave our team 141/2 points—just enough to take the victory. (Amy’s view of Justin Leonard’s game has now changed from boring to very exciting.)

  Afterwards, we all went up to the roof of the clubhouse and celebrated. I’ll never forget looking out at the thousands of cheering people who had gathered around us. They extended 150 yards back down the 18th fairway. What an amazing moment! I was so proud to be a part of that team.

  As great as playing in the Ryder Cup was for me, I’ll always remember the year 1999 for a much more important event—the birth of our first child, Amanda. In an unusual twist of fate, her birth coincided with a major golf tournament, the United States Open in Pinehurst, North Carolina.

  According to Amy’s doctors, the delivery date was actually supposed to be a couple of weeks after the Open. But we weren’t going to take any chances. I definitely wanted to be there with my wife when Amanda came into the world. So before I flew to Pinehurst, we discussed our options in quite a bit of detail.

  We figured that the worst possible scenario was that I would go into labor on Saturday night while he was leading the tournament. Because if that happened, there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it—Phil was going to fly straight home. Of course, that would cause him to miss an opportunity to win his first major. But he told me over and over again, “If you have this baby without me, I’ll never forgive you.” And he made me promise to call him the moment I went into labor.

  Amy Mickelson

  We waited until Wednesday morning and went to the doctor for one final check. He stated that the worst-case scenario was unlikely to happen and that I should go to North Carolina and do my best. Amy agreed to be checked by her doctor every morning at eight o’clock. “Everything will be all right, honey,” she said.

  Before I left, I kissed her and said: “I’m going to win the U.S. Open, come straight home to you, and we’re going to have our first baby together. It’ll be the best week of our lives.”

  Very quickly, I made it clear to both the media and U.S. Open officials that, if my wife went into labor, I was going to leave. “Come on, Phil,” one of the reporters said, “this is the U.S. Open—America’s national championship of golf. You’re not going to walk off the course if you’re leading.”

  “I don’t understand that thought process,” I replied. “What in life is more important than your children?”

  I played very well in the first three rounds of the tournament. Bones carried a pager in case Amy beeped us. We also had a mobile phone in my golf bag, but kept it turned off so the ringing wouldn’t disturb anybody. One beep from Amy, however, and I would be calling her as I prepared to walk off the course.

  After Saturday’s round, I was trailing the tournament leader, Payne Stewart, by only one shot. We would be playing together in Sunday’s final pairing.

  I felt my first contraction on Thursday morning. “Oh, my gosh!” said our doctor. “If you had looked like this yesterday, there’s no way I would have let Phil go to North Carolina.”

  By Saturday, the contractions were only four minutes apart. My mom and brother were timing them. “This can’t be happening,” I cried. “What are the chances? Should I page Phil? What if the baby doesn’t come? He has a chance to win the U.S. Open! What are we going to do?”

  I got so frantic at one point that my mom just grabbed me. “You need to get hold of yourself, Amy,” she said. “If you don’t, this baby is going to come.”

  We headed to the hospital and when the doctor walked in I begged him to give me Tribulatin, a drug that slows the labor process. “I just need twenty-four hours,” I said. “Please!” Luckily, after a few hours, my contractions began to taper off. When they released me from the hospital, one of the nurses said: “Honey, I bet we’re going to see you again in a few hours. This happens a lot. You’re going to have this baby toni
ght.”

  I asked my brother to tape my knees together. “Just don’t let the baby come for one more day,” I said.

  I never did call Phil.

  Amy Mickelson

  Sunday morning broke clear and sunny. It was Father’s Day.

  The first thing I did before I went to the golf course was call Amy. I asked her how she was feeling and she started to cry. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?” I asked.

  “Just because I love you so much,” she said. “Have fun today and win Amanda her first trophy.”

  I really was feeling good that day. I figured if I could just shoot 70, I could probably win. Twice during the round, I had a one-shot lead. But Payne would not back off. On the sixteenth hole, I missed the green on my second shot, made a bogey, and dropped back into a tie. Payne then stepped up and sank a great 40-foot putt to save par.

  I was at home lying diagonally on the couch with four pillows under my lower body and a plate of Saltines resting on my belly. I was glued to the golf tournament—even though my doctor suggested I not watch because he thought too much emotion might start the labor contractions again. I was still on Tribulatin and the doctor had also given me a tranquilizer.

  Amy Mickelson

  Payne birdied #17 to take a one-shot lead and I missed an easy 8-footer for birdie that would have kept pace with him. So as we went to the final hole, I was a shot back. I played #18 well and made a solid par (for that total of 70 I’d hoped for). But Payne sank a 15-foot putt for par to win the tournament. Of course, he was ecstatic and went over and jumped into his caddy’s arms. When I went up to congratulate him, Payne shook my hand and said: “I’m sorry, Phil. Congratulations on playing like a champion.”