One Magical Sunday Read online

  “You see, Mom,” said Philip, pointing to the television, “one day that’s going to be me—and they’re going to be clapping and yelling for me! I’m going to win the Masters and be walking up to the 18th green just like that!”

  Mary Mickelson

  Off the green on #3, I decide to use my putter for this tricky little shot over the ridge. It’s a prime example of one of the facets of my game that I’ve been working on in the off-season with my short-game coach, Dave Pelz. Two weeks before each major tournament, when nobody else was around, we’d go out to the courses and play all kinds of shots. And before the Masters, we had played here at Augusta National and practiced, among many others, this very shot with the exact same pin placement. So I know precisely what I need to do.

  I’m about five yards off the green. I have to be careful because the blades of grass are leaning toward me. When the ball gets up on the green, I don’t want it to be going too fast. All I want to do here is to stop the ball within my three-foot putting circle where I feel very comfortable.

  In hitting the shot, I judge the speed well, but I hit it farther to the left than I want. It comes to rest about three and one-half feet from the hole—just outside my circle. The problem I have now, however, is that I’ve left myself a putt that is downhill, very fast, and breaks three or four inches to the right. I’ll have to hit it tentatively or it will go five or six feet by. Then I’ll be in worse shape.

  This putt is for par. I start it outside the left edge, but it breaks across the hole, catches the lip of the cup and rolls about a foot past. Feeling disappointed, I tap in for a bogey. It’s my first bogey in 34 holes.

  Well, I missed the putt. It’s not that big a deal. Let’s go to the 4th hole. As I walk off the green, people are applauding. I give them a smile and nod.

  PLAYER

  SCORE

  HOLE

  Mickelson

  -6

  3

  DiMarco

  -6

  3*

  Langer

  -5

  4

  Casey

  -4

  4

  Choi

  -3

  5

  Singh

  -2

  8

  Els

  -2

  5

  Price

  -1

  7

  Couples

  E

  7

  Harrington

  E

  6

  Jacobson

  E

  5

  Triplett

  E

  5

  *(Chris also bogeyed the 3rd hole)

  4

  Flowering Crab Apple

  Par 3

  205 yards

  This hole is a long par three with a very large green. It has two greenside bunkers, one on the front right, the other along the left side. But the big factor on #4 is the wind—which has historically shown that it can turn around on you instantaneously and wreck your tee shot. Several years ago, I played for the wind to hurt my ball, and it actually helped. The cameraman behind the green hurt his neck trying to follow the ball as it flew over his head.

  In years past, the pin has always been on the back right—a placement I have always struggled with. But today, the pin is down low just behind the bunker. And that makes #4 another potential birdie hole.

  I’m hitting the ball well and I feel I can take a risk. If I go long, the second shot is not very hard to get close. The ball will just funnel right down the hill. If I come up short, it’s not a difficult bunker shot. So I’m going to hit a six iron and go right at the pin. I have to draw this one (left to right for a left-handed golfer) because it’s not quite enough club otherwise (a draw usually goes farther than a fade). I make a good swing and hit the ball well. It’s going right on line. But it falls about an inch short and rolls down into the bunker. As I walk off the tee, I shake my head, and turn to Bones.

  “Yesterday, the wind helped, today it hurt.”

  “You’re on an upslope,” he responded. “Let’s get it up and down.”

  When we got up to the green, sure enough, the ball was sitting up nicely in the sand. This would not be a hard up and down at all. My short-game coach, Dave Pelz, has statistics to back up nearly everything he talks to me about—and he once told me that a golfer’s average bunker shot is eight yards. I never really thought about it before he mentioned it. But now, every time I’m in a bunker, I pick a target that is between eight and ten yards away. In the off-season, I practiced this particular shot thousands of times. In fact, I use a special practice wedge now because I wore out the grooves in my regular wedge. And where I used to be 60th or 70th in sand play, I’m now in the top ten or fifteen—and I get up and down to save par much more frequently.

  I spend a lot of time practicing my bunker shots for another very good reason. As your bunker play improves, so does your driving accuracy. That’s because your bunker swing is very rhythmic in tempo. You’re not trying to pound the ball all the time. You simply let your club do the work. Repetitive bunker play develops a certain rhythm and that rhythm carries over to your driver.

  I learned a long time ago that a big part of golf lies in the rhythm of your swing. And, believe me, each club in your bag has a tempo of its very own.

  When Philip was a junior in high school, I wanted him to learn about the fine arts so that he could carry on a conversation about something other than golf. So he took a course in music appreciation. Well, he came home one day, said he had a test the next morning, and asked me to quiz him.

  I remember being so excited to be working with him on something other than golf. This particular test was on composers of classical music. So I gave him the title of a music piece and he leaned back and thought for a moment. Then he looked at me and said: “That’s a nine-iron. That’s Schubert.”

  I tried another one—and he said: “That’s a wedge. That’s Mozart!”

  Philip had memorized the great classical composers by relating their music to the tempo of different golf club swings. And you know what? He didn’t miss a beat. He got all the answers correct!

  Mary Mickelson

  Even dating back to grammar school, my mom and dad were a bit concerned that the only thing I seemed to be interested in was golf. Television, books, people—everything was about golf. I even did my sixth grade science project on which compression golf ball was the best to use for junior golfers. It was really cool! I wrote to Titleist and they donated 80-, 90-, and 100-compression balls for my project. I don’t remember which one was the best—but I got to keep all those golf balls!

  After school, when the other kids would go out and play, I’d either play golf with my dad or, when he was out of town, practice in my back yard. When I was actually in school, I studied enough to do pretty well. And overall, I think my teachers liked me.

  Philip would say to all of his teachers: “You’re my favorite teacher. You do such a great job explaining things so I can understand. Thank you.” Then when we would go into parent-teacher conferences, each teacher would say to us: “You know, I don’t mean to brag, but I seem to be his favorite teacher.”

  After a while, they caught on. And later, when Philip would go up and put his arm around one of them, they’d say: “Yeah, I know, Philip. I’m you’re favorite teacher!”

  Phil and Mary Mickelson

  Two things I enjoyed other than golf were football and baseball. I played them both starting at about age four or five. Later, I became quarterback on the football team, but when I broke my arm, I stopped playing because I thought it would ultimately hurt my golf game. And I really, really loved baseball. I was a pitcher (I threw right-handed) and actually pitched a no-hitter. I didn’t have blinding speed, but I was deceptive and good at fooling the batters.

  One summer when I was 11 or 12, however,
I had to make a choice. It was either going to be baseball or golf. I had made the local all-star baseball team, but that required a lot of practice and dedication during the summer months—the very time that all my junior tournaments started. I just felt like I had to do one or the other. It couldn’t be both.

  So I went to my dad and we had a conversation that eventually elevated to the level of professional sports. “If you wanted to play baseball or golf professionally, which would you have the better chance at making?” he asked. I wasn’t sure of the answer, so I said I didn’t know.

  “Well, in baseball, everything being equal, they’re going to select the player who can run the fastest,” he said. And of course, I knew I was not the swiftest person on two feet. So I was at a disadvantage in baseball because of speed.

  Dad went on to say something else that really caught my attention. “In baseball, you’re going to be a number on somebody’s team,” he said. “Maybe you’ll want to play baseball in San Diego, but you’ll be forced to move and play where your team plays. So in baseball, you don’t have as much control over your own destiny. In golf, however, you can play when and where you want to—because you are your own boss. The flip side of the coin is that, in golf, you won’t be guaranteed a paycheck.”

  We talked quite awhile about this—and I remember it being a very adult conversation. And at the end, my dad said: “But this decision is all up to you. Whatever you choose will make no difference to your mother and me. What will make a difference is how you go about pursuing it. And there’s no problem with you trying to be the very best at whatever you choose.”

  I listened, asked questions, and thought a lot about what my dad and I had talked about. And not long thereafter, I chose golf over baseball. “Well,” said Dad, “then it’s up to you to tell your coach that you won’t be available for baseball this summer.”

  Once I had made that decision, the years following really saw a significant increase in my dedication to golf. I started playing in a lot of American Junior Golf Association (AJGA) tournaments, which were national in scope. I was able to afford the trips for two reasons. First, my mom got a job working as a marketing director in a retirement home to pick up some extra cash. And second, I was able to fly for free because of my dad’s experience with a major airline. So I became quite acclimated with commercial flying—calling to see if the flights were on time, whether they were completely booked or not, and which routes were the best ones for me to take to get to my destination. I started flying to tournaments when I was about fifteen.

  One day, we were driving Philip to the airport so he could fly to an AJGA event. And he quietly said: “You know, if I could just have some new golf balls, I think I could do better.”

  So we stopped and bought him a dozen new golf balls—one box. He was so grateful, he thanked and thanked and thanked us.

  Well when he got to the tournament, he ended up sharing a room with Dave Stockton, Jr. (son of the great professional golfer). Well, Dave apparently had a lot of golf balls and Philip kept saying to him: “Dave! You don’t know how lucky you are. Look at all these wonderful balls.”

  And when Philip returned home, he kept telling us: “Mom, Dad, you wouldn’t believe how many dozens and dozens of golf balls Dave had! He had an entire suitcase filled with them!”

  Phil and Mary Mickelson

  In 1984, when I turned 14, I started working at an inexpensive semi-private golf course near downtown San Diego called Stardust. I drove the picker on the driving range and picked up golf balls. In addition to my wages, I also had free practice privileges. It was a great place because the range was lit up at night and I was able to practice when it was quiet. The range was also right by a practice green so I could work on my putting as well.

  When I moved on to high school, I continued my job at Stardust. In fact, I spent more time than ever there when I got my driver’s license. I didn’t go to very many parties or dances in high school. When all my friends were going out on Friday nights, I’d be over at Stardust until ten or eleven o’clock. On Saturdays, I’d leave home at six o’clock in the morning so I could make the first tee time—and then I’d play another 18 holes in the afternoon. After that, I’d hang around and hit balls on the driving range. When I finally did get home, I’d go straight to bed because I’d have to get up early on Sunday and do the same thing all over again.

  After a while, Phil started winning some of these out-of-state golf tournaments. It was at that time we started thinking: “Now it’s national. Maybe he really can be successful at making a pro career for himself.”

  Then we started saying to him: “Philip, you have a special talent. But that doesn’t make you better than anyone else. It’s what you are inside that counts.”

  Phil and Mary Mickelson

  Somewhere along the way, I picked up a book about Ben Hogan, one of the greatest golfers in history. I became fascinated with him, learned everything I could about his life and career, and I even imagined playing against him when I was chipping around in my back yard. Ben Hogan used to hit a minimum of 500 golf balls a day—otherwise he thought he was regressing. And when I was in high school, that’s what I felt I needed to do, too.

  Phil was not pushed as a youngster. Rather, he pulled our parents along in his desire to play golf. It’s as if it was his destiny. Golf was going to be Phil’s calling, and he knew it.

  Tina Mickelson, Phil’s Sister

  Spending time on the golf course and spending time with my family sometimes conflicted. But my mom, especially, saw to it that family always came first. We still went on our family outings right up through high school. And if the truth is told, I really did enjoy the time we spent together.

  On one vacation, we had rented a houseboat so we could fish and water ski during the day. At night, we’d play cards. And one night, I taught my little brother a very important lesson in poker playing. Tim was eight years old and I was about fifteen. But that didn’t matter. We were still competitive in virtually everything we did together. The two of us had been playing for a while when he took a restroom break. While he was gone, I stacked the deck so that he’d draw a king-high straight flush and I’d draw a royal flush. Of course, that would give me the highest possible hand. When he came back and I dealt out the cards, Tim got really, really excited. I guess eight-year-olds don’t have the greatest poker faces in the world. Anyway, he bet all his pennies on that one hand—about five dollars total.

  “I call,” I said. “What do you have?”

  He turned over his cards and said: “Straight flush! King high! Ha!”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” I replied, laying down my cards. “I have a royal flush!”

  To this day, I have not gotten that money back. Whenever I bring it up, Phil always says: “Brother, it’s the best $5 tip I ever gave you!”

  Tim Mickelson, Phil’s Brother

  There were also one or two times I got into trouble playing golf when I really should have been at a family gathering. The one I remember most vividly was Thanksgiving Day in 1985. All of our family lived in San Diego. And that year, they were all coming over to our house for dinner.

  I woke up that morning and asked my mom if she’d mind if I went out to play golf. “Philip,” she said, “you can’t play golf today. It’s Thanksgiving and everybody is coming over.”

  “But Mom,” I replied, “this is the best day. Nobody will be out on the course.”

  “Philip,” she said again, with a little more serious tone, “this is Thanksgiving. You have to be here!”

  Well, I just couldn’t stand it. So I sneaked out of the house and went next door. I hadn’t yet turned 16 and only had my learner’s permit. But my buddy Chris Peters (the same little boy who ran away from home with me when we were two) had just turned 16 and had his license. Chris didn’t want to leave the house on Thanksgiving, either. But I offered him $5, he said “okay,” and then he drove me over to Stardust. I didn’t worry about a return trip because I knew who would be coming t
o get me.

  All the family came over to the house. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, brother, sisters and their families—about twenty people or so. And we were cooking and getting things ready for the meal. Then it came time to sit down for the meal, but we couldn’t find Philip.

  “Oh, Philip! Time to eat.” No answer.

  We went upstairs and knocked on his bedroom door. “Philip, are you in there?” No answer. We opened the door and he wasn’t in his bedroom. “Philip! Philip! Where is he?”

  And then Philip’s dad says: “Check and see if his golf clubs are in the garage.” Well, of course, the golf clubs were gone.

  So I called over to the Peterses’ house next door because I knew Philip couldn’t drive anywhere by himself. Chris answered the telephone and this is how the conversation went:

  “Chris, this is Mrs. Mickelson next door. You know, we’re ready to sit down to dinner and we can’t find Philip. Could he be over there?”

  “No, Mrs. Mickelson. He’s not over here.”

  “Chris, do you know where he is?”

  Silence on the phone.

  “Chris, his golf clubs are missing. Do you think they might be with him?”

  “Well, you know, Mrs. Mickelson, I, umm, errr, umm . . .”

  “Chris, it’s okay. We’ll find him.”

  We called the Stardust golf course and asked if Philip was there. “Oh, yes, he’s here,” came the response from the manager on duty. “He just teed off a little while ago.”