Golf’s Greatest Day: Jack and Me

Imagine a time when ESPN did not have elaborate sets on remote locations all around the world with dozens of crew and hosts and analysts on site. Imagine a young reporter with only a photographer and a producer covering one of the most incredible sports stories of all time working for what is now the monolithic ESPN. Imagine they did not have “live” capability, but had to physically walk their raw taped reports to a satellite uplink truck, from which they rented “feed” time, to send their content back to Bristol, Connecticut.  I would know about this, because I was the reporter, and the story was Sunday at the 1986 Masters.

Jack Nicklaus would shoot 65 in the final round that day. The palette was perfect on which Nicklaus would fashion his masterpiece; beautiful blue skies, azaleas in full bloom and the cathedral pines framing the fairways of the former plant nursery. Augusta National is America’s living room. We gather in front of our televisions on a particular Sunday in April to pay homage to golf’s greatest basilica. The really lucky ones, they’re called “patrons”, have tournament badges which were probably willed to them by a deceased relative. These folks get to actually be there on the hallowed grounds to physically watch the tournament with their own eyes. A couple of hundred of reporters also get special invites to describe the action in various mediums.

Nicklaus and his sixth green jacket at Augusta has been named by “Golf Magazine” as golf’s greatest moment. In the pantheon of sports in all of history, his accomplishment consistently ranks in the top 100, according to whoever puts together these various lists. These enumerations are interesting and of course subjective.  What is not subjective is how it felt to be there. Everyone in attendance that day knew something almost beyond mortal had occurred; the ethereal nature of it all was palatable.  To this day, those at Augusta on April 13, 1986 can smell the flowers, feel the warm sun, feel the ground shaking, and hear the roars emitted from the spectators. Roars which have no comparison, before or since. “Jack’s roars”— a thunderous tidal wave of sound which bounced off those big pines, up from the Rae’s Creek, through the August National clubhouse, down Magnolia Lane and dispersed throughout Northeast Georgia.

From now and all through Masters week 2016, which will begin Monday April 4^th, there will be numerous tributes to the 30^th Anniversary of the day Nicklaus did what many thought was impossible. After all, he was 46 years old. CBS Sports, the Golf Channel and certainly ESPN will air retrospective documentaries and other videos which will stir up our collective memories. The pieces will chronicle how Nicklaus birdied #9, #10 and #11, only to bogey #12 and everybody thought the dream had died. Then we’ll see the eagle on #15, and Nicklaus will recall asking his caddie, his son Jackie, before the 212 yard second shot, “How far do you think a three will go here? And I don’t mean a club.” Then we’ll see the almost hole-in-one on #16 and the birdie on #17.

We will see co-leader Greg Norman, paired with Nick Price, double bogey #10, only to charge incredibly with four straight birdies from #14 through #17.  In a recent telephone conversation, Norman offered his perspective.  “I was approaching the 14^th green and I look up and see maybe sixteen people behind the green and a dog and a cat and a handbag. Practically nobody around,” says Norman. “So when we get to the 15^th tee, I see Jack over on 17 raising his arm after making a putt.  I said, oh F&%#. I then turn to Nick and say, let’s show the rest of these people were are not out of this tournament.” Of course, we will see Norman push his second shot right at #18, then bogey and comes up a stroke short. We will remember Seve Ballesteros, who seemed to have the tournament in control, until he hits the water on #15 and three putt #17.  We will see Tom Kite miss a 12 footer for birdie on #18 for birdie that would have put him in a playoff. After that putt, Kite told this reporter, “It was a perfect putt.  I’ve never hit a better putt. It just didn’t go in.” We surmised the golf gods wouldn’t allow it.

I first met Nicklaus while working at a television station in Jacksonville, Florida. I was covering the 1984 Players Championship in Ponte Vedre when late one afternoon before the tournament began, Nicklaus arrived to practice. He was only going to play the back nine. When I approached him, for some reason, Nicklaus asked if I wanted to walk with him. Of course I did. But I wasn’t walking, I was floating. Sure, I was a young reporter, but forget that, I had been a Nicklaus fan all my life. It was after dark when we went back to the clubhouse and parted ways.  I went to the restroom and on the way out I heard, “Alan?  Alan?” from somewhere near the lockers. When I peered around the corner, there sat Nicklaus.  He looked awful. “I can’t get up. My back is locked up.” He sent me to find his personal assistant, and then we helped get Nicklaus up off the bench and out the back door. He didn’t want anybody to see him like that. He shot 78 the first day and finished tied for 33^rd.  I couldn’t believe he could even hit the ball.

A little over two years later, the usual Sunday drama was in full display on the back nine at Augusta. Payne Stewart had been paired with Fuzzy Zoeller, five groups ahead of Nicklaus and Sandy Lyle. After he had finished, I sat down with Stewart to have lunch in the clubhouse while we both were watching the tournament on television.  Stewart wound up finishing tied for 8^th and we were talking about his day when I noticed the ice cubes in my sweet tea glass were jingling a bit. Then I felt the floor vibrating slightly.  “Are we having an earthquake?” I asked Stewart.  He said, “Look there,” pointing to the television, “Jack just eagled 13. You might want to get out there.”

I bolted from the table and attempted to make my way down the course, between the #18 fairway and #17 green. I could get no farther. The patrons were swarming their way to wherever Nicklaus was. The ground was shaking. Even vendors were abandoning their concession stands to try to take a peek. I retreated back to the clubhouse and the television, because I wasn’t going to see anything out on the grounds.

After Nicklaus putted out on 18, I met him as he left the green.  He looked right at me and asked “Where are you set up?” “Up on the back porch,” I replied.  “I’ll be there,” he said. Then the green jackets whisked him off in a golf cart and the world watched his competitors fall one by one until he was the only one atop the vintage leaderboard.

As I sat on the back porch swing, my producer, Lee Rosenblatt was getting quite antsy. He was pacing back and forth and kept asking me, “Is he coming, should I go find him, is he coming?”

“Jack said he’ll be here.  He’ll be here,” I assured him.

We wanted to upload the tape back to Bristol for the 7 p.m. SportsCenter.  I figured that wasn’t going to happen. It was about two hours now after the final putt, and it was dark. Finally I spotted the figure of a man walking up a small pathway that had beaten down by the spectators during the week up to the back of the clubhouse.  It was Nicklaus.  I think he borrowed the flash light from one of the Pinkerton guards. He was all alone.

He came up to me on the swing and sat down and said, “Do you mind if I just sit here for a while? I’ve done a lot of talking.”

So Jack and I sat there for about fifteen minutes.  Neither of us said a word.  It was dead quiet.  There wasn’t the slightest breeze. We didn’t even hear a cricket.  I figured the crickets got scared away by the crowds and events of the day. There was not the slightest breeze. It was eerie, looking out toward the darkened golf course.  Nicklaus just sat and stared out with a look of complete serenity on his face.  I wondered what was going through his mind?  I’d ask him later. But for now, it was his moment, his day, his triumph to soak in.  Finally, he put his hand on my knee and said, “You wanna’ do this?”  I replied, nonchalantly, “Might as well.” My photographer, Jeff Israel, began to set up the lights and fire up the camera. 

“Jack, before we start,” I said, “You think now might be a good time to retire?” 

He said, “How’d you know I was thinking about that?” and he smiled.

Of course, Jack could not retire. His sponsors and businesses needed him to keep his name out there, especially after this supernatural Sunday. But we both knew, it would never get any better than this.

 

McIlroy is Human, Golf is Inhumane

All of us who have ever chased the little white ball around the greener pastures can certainly relate to Rory McIlroy when he walked off the course at the Honda Classic.  Golf is like that. Whatever personal problems or foibles or quirks one might have are always revealed on a golf course.  Golf is cruel.  The game will expose you, sooner or later.

Need examples?  A hot head will eventually throw his club. A passive type will lay up.  A neurotic will miss a two foot putt. The bold will go for it. The dumb will do the same. The patient will shake it off.  The impatient will compound the previous mistakes.  Get it? Name a character trait and there is a situation in golf that will reward, or exploit negatively, whatever demon or virtue which lies in each individual personality.

Will Rogers said, “I never met a man I didn’t like.” Alan Massengale says, “I’ve never met a man that I didn’t know, after eighteen holes of golf.”

The most famous golf walk off was of course Bobby Jones at St. Andrews in 1921 at the Open. In the 3^rd round at the 11^th hole he was in the bunker.  And after four swats at it, he was still in the bunker.  “Cheerio old boys, I’m outta’ here,” Bobby said at the time.  Or something like that.

You see, the early Bobby Jones was not the most gracious golf god who ever lived.  He was a petulant hot head.  The British Press said at the time, “Bobby Jones is a 19 year old boy.  An ordinary boy.”

Rory McIlroy is no boy.  But he has risen to number one in the world at an astonishing young age.  He’s 23 now.  This means it hasn’t been the usual development for him socially or personally at all.  Unless you consider normal the fact that the majority of his life has been spent hitting 100 buckets of ball a day since he was knee high to a cat’s butt.

He’ll be fine if he will remember what my father once told me on the golf course when I wanted to walk off.  You see, my fiancé had just broken off a relationship.  (There are rumors McIlroy is having female relationship difficulties, but who knows.  It’s probably a combination of many factors). I was playing like crap through nine holes.  And, as an aside, my father’s favorite thing was to play golf with his son.  This was not working out.  So, at the turn, he asked, “What in the blue blazes is your problem son?”

I told him about the girl.  And I waited for his worldly, cuddly, sage understanding and guidance through my tortured and obviously distraught demeanor.  You know, maybe big hug or something?

Dad said quite succinctly, “Well, son, that’s too bad.  Hit the ball.”

I broke out in a laugh.  And then I played a great back nine.  There, in a few words, is the essence of life to me.  Just keep hitting the ball.  Everything will work out.  Right Rory?

A PERSONAL FAREWELL TO DR. JERRY BUSS

There will be hundreds of eulogies and tributes to Lakers Owner Dr. Jerry Buss now that he has died.  He deserves all the accolades and praise and then some. We will read about the accomplishments-- 16 NBA finals, 10 championships, “Showtime” , “ Shaq time” , “Kobe time” , and a legacy for all time.

I feel compelled to add my own thoughts about this man, since I was privileged to work with the Lakers organization for nearly two decades. First,  at  the country’s first regional network , Prime Ticket, of which he was part owner and founder, until my days at KCAL-TV as host of Lakers Television for 10 years.

Dr. Jerry was very humble.  He was not a flamboyant owner.  But he did guide the most flamboyant franchise in the history of sports. After all, this is Hollywood, and Hollywood loves its stars and most importantly, winners. He was a very cool guy.  Buss personified Hollywood cool.

He did very few interviews.  And when he did them during my tenure at KCAL-TV, I was the one who was given the assignment. What I found in those interviews was he had a very simple philosophy.  Whatever it took to win, he was willing to do it.  And Los Angeles loves him for it. 

Once, back in the 90s, I was boarding a Southwest Airlines flight to Las Vegas where I was calling a championship fight one weekend.  There sat Dr. Buss.  I said, “No private plane?” He chuckled and said, “Why? That’s expensive.”  This tells you a little bit about his “everyman” persona.

A few times, when I could afford the stakes, I would sit down with him at a blackjack table in Las Vegas, just to enjoy his company.  We didn’t talk much, but he was so gracious it was just fun to be in his presence while throwing away a few black chips.

Two years ago, I invited him to a boxing show I was doing at a small theater up in Hollywood.  He loved boxing.  And we gave him a special booth for his group to sit in.  He told me next time, he would like a seat right at ringside. In other words, he didn’t need that special booth.  He would have rather had a seat right down there with the folks.  But he had a great time none-the-less.

A few weeks later, I got an invite to sit in his sky box at a Lakers playoff game. He told me that I was part of the Lakers family and will always be part of the Lakers family.  That is one of my proudest accomplishments.

 Thank you Dr. Buss, for what you meant to me and millions of fans around the world.  You set a standard of ownership that will never be topped. You are the definition of a “winner.”

GETTING TO THE POINT ABOUT THE LAKERS

It is very clear at this point, that the Los Angeles Lakers fortunes in 2013 depend on the “point.”  If the Lakers are to make a run deep into the playoffs, they need a man who is very “deep” into his career. The man is Steve Nash, a scrambler, who has as many miles as a Nash Rambler.  (Okay, enough of the cutesy word play huh?)

This leads me to a question which has always plagued me. What is so hard about running the “pick and roll”?  Of the thousands of gifted basketball players on this planet, why can’t teams find point guards who can work off a screen and either dish, or pop?  The “pick and roll” is the most beautiful, and simple play there is. 

It goes like this. Big guy sets screen on little guy’s defender. Big guy rolls to basket.  Big guy is now defended by the little guy’s defender who had to switch.   Meanwhile, big guy’s defender is now trying to guard little guy and the big guy’s defender is too big and slow to match up.  Little guy jukes and pulls up and pops, or little guy feeds his big guy who has now rolled to the basket against little guy’s defender.

Easy right?  Then why in the name of Naismith has there been so few great ones over the years who could dominate at the point?  The name Earvin Johnson comes to mind as the best point of all.  He was totally unstoppable.  But he didn’t need the pick and roll so much.  He was a one man pick and roll. 

But let’s just throw out a few shall we?  Bob Cousy, Oscar Robertson (181 triple doubles in his career, the record), Nate “Tiny” Archibald, Walt Frazier, Lenny Wilkens, Isiah Thomas, Dave Stockton, Gary Payton, Jason Kidd, Tony Parker, Steve Nash,  and most recent best, Chris Paul.   All had and have the ability to work off the screen and destroy a defense.

So, in all the years pro basketball has been around, I just picked 12 of the best, if not “the” best point guards.  They are rare aren’t they?

That’s why a 38 year old all time great point, is better than no point at all.   And without a healthy Steve Nash at the helm, the Lakers season is truly pointless in more ways than one.

Costas, Pegs, and Dawgs

And I was hoping Bob Costas would be considered as the host in case they resurrected that television classic, “The American Sportsman.” Older reference lost on younger readers? Too far?

Does the term “square peg, round hole” mean anything to anybody when they consider the cast of characters on the Lakers superstar roster, and the so-called system their new coach brings? Shouldn’t they find a way to put a square peg in a square hole? Too deep?

As a long-suffering Atlanta sports fan, and a Georgia graduate, why do I have such an uneasy feeling about the Falcons? Oh, I know, the Braves and the Bulldogs. This one obvious, correct?

Massengale

OLYMPIC BOXING: IT ISN’T

As a fan, reporter, observer, and accomplished blow by blow announcer of boxing for a couple of decades, allow me to answer this question.

What is wrong with Olympic boxing?  Answer:  it ain’t boxing.

Olympic boxing is a pugilistic version of “tag.”  You know, “tag” as in tag football?  The ridiculous computerized scoring system only counts “touches”.  And touching doesn't win real fights. Apparently, and I haven’t figured this out, only the white part of the glove needs to make a contact with the opponent, and voila’, there’s a “point”.

Well, here’s a point.  If you take away inside fighting, emphasis on power shots, punches that actually “turn” over when the blow is delivered, and effective body shots, well, what you have is “pitty pat.”

 And that’s the real pity.  There are programs around the world who teach this Olympic style of hunt and peck and run away.   They win medals, but they’re not boxing.

 I have researched and I believe this style was fomented by the great Charlie Chaplin in the 1931 movie “City Lights.” Google and check out the boxing scene. Yes, that’s Olympic boxing! Of course I am kidding. Then again, maybe Charlie was, once again, way ahead of his time.

 For the last two years, I was the blow by blow television announcer boxing for the A.I.B.A. in their World Series of Boxing. We had the best amateurs in the world, paid them, took off the headgear and shirts, and fought five three minute rounds with professional three man judges scoring.  The action was incredible. 

 Hopefully, the A.I.B.A., under the direction of Dr. Ching-Kuo Wu, can make inroads with the I.O.C. to knock out the current scoring system.

College Football Playoffs: The Solution is Worse

Okay, that B.C.S. thing is dead.  What did those initials stand for anyways?  Officially, Bowl Championship Series. Unofficially, Beyond Completely Stupid. There was this computer rating system involved, but it took a member of Mensa to begin to figure it out. The system attempted to pit the best two college football teams against one another in a single championship game.  But, more often than not, no one really knew who those two teams were for sure. Chaos and gnashing of teeth ensued.

So, now, we’re going to have a four team playoff system.  Yippee ki yay. Guess what? This new plan will solve absolutely nothing. Chaos will still reign and teeth will still be gnashed.

Watching this process of trying to remedy the old B.C.S. problem and replacing it with the new four team playoff reminds me of negotiations between the United States and the Soviet Union over nuclear weapons limitations during the 70s and 80s.  Those talks concerned the famous S.A.L.T. (Strategic Arms Limitation Talks) treaties.  It boiled down to, after years of hot air around a big table, the two sides agreed to limit their respective abilities to blow each other up to about 2,000 times over instead of 5,000 times over.  Those numbers are not exact (nor anywhere close actually) but you get the idea.

Here’s the point, now that some all knowing committee is going to select the four “best” college football teams, instead of the “two” best, the possibility of everything  blowing up is still prevalent.   Despite all the lengthy deliberations and negotiations, nothing has actually changed. In fact, it’s worse.

Now, I hold a simple broadcast journalism degree from a public university in Athens, Ga. Mathematics is not my strong suit.  But, good ol’ Southern common sense tell me, this new plan means even more disgruntled college football programs will claim to be among the “top four”.  This system widens the “pissed off and indignant” pool substantially.

They should left the whole thing alone years ago.  To me, there was nothing wrong with the A.P. Poll, and the Coaches Poll, to crown a national champion.  The bowl games still made sense.  And when it was said and done there was only one football program left kicking the proverbial dog.  Now, oh boy, we’ll never hear the last from Boise St. fans. Not to mention whatever team finishes fourth in the S.E.C.