My Shot: Fuzzy Zoeller

Fuzzy Zoeller with Lilly, photographed May 29, 2006, at Floyds Knobs, Ind.

Peter Gregoire

Interviewed By Guy Yocom

Photo By Peter Gregoire

August 2006

Some frank talk on bad backs, John Daly, rich guys, the Diane Rule and exploding pegs

Age • Floyds Knobs, Indiana

Being a tough competitor doesn't mean you have to be a jerk. My junior year of college, I played golf for the University of Houston. It was a national power, and the program was serious business. Early in the year I was paired with an Oklahoma State player named Henry DeLozier, a good friend. On one hole Henry topped his tee shot. His second shot with a fairway wood stopped one foot from the hole. I said, "Nice shot, Henry," and that was a mistake. When we finished, our coach, Dave Williams, lectured me for 90 minutes on how my compliment "relaxed" Henry and helped him play well. I disagreed with that philosophy and kept saying "Good shot" whenever I felt like it. We battled over that constantly, and it came down to either acting like a jerk to my fellow-competitors or quitting the team. So I quit the team.

Maybe Dave Williams was right. I played in three Ryder Cups and was a pathetic match player. My record [1-8-1] is awful, and guys did seem to play well against me. In 1983, I had Seve Ballesteros all but beat playing the 18th hole. He was in a fairway bunker 240 yards from the green, and I'm sitting pretty. From that bunker, Seve hit a 3-wood onto the fringe of the green and made par to halve our match. Some people say it was the best shot in Ryder Cup history. What did I say to Seve? The same thing I told Henry DeLozier: "Nice shot."

Many of the younger players on the regular tour today are just plain shy. They started at an earlier age than I did and from day one really had the game hammered into them. They grew up more insulated from the outside world. So they're a little less comfortable around people. It shows in their interviews, their interaction with the fans and even with each other. They just aren't people-oriented; caddies and teachers tend to get fired more often because of personality conflicts. I don't think they have as much fun as we did back in the 1970s and '80s. I have to say, I enjoyed the best years of the PGA Tour.

When I waved the towel at Greg Norman on the 18th hole at Winged Foot back in 1984 [the U.S. Open], I honestly thought I was done. I'd watched him one-putt four or five greens coming in, and that monster he made on 18, I thought it was for a birdie. I told my caddie, Mike Mazzeo, "That SOB is gonna beat us." There was no way I'm going to make a 3, not where the pin was that day. Only when I was ready to hit did a USGA guy walk up and say, "You know that putt was for a par, right?" I said, "You're kidding. Where the hell did he hit his second shot?" He said, "He put it in the bleachers." I almost couldn't believe it; the bleachers are a good 30 yards to the right of the green. I felt like I was given new life. The 18th at Winged Foot is a bear, but par to tie came pretty easy.

After I holed out for par, a little kid—he couldn't have been older than 12—said, "Mister, can I have that towel?" Without thinking, I gave it to him. I'm as nice as the next guy, but I've always regretted that. If you happen to see a grungy white towel hanging around, get it for me, will you?

I suppose you have to ask me about the Tiger incident at Augusta. Well, it's been terrible, the worst thing I've gone through in my entire life. What happened to me as a result? I got death threats against me, Diane, my kids. Even threats against the house. I received hundreds of terrible letters, almost all of them anonymous, and they're still coming—I got one this morning. It's been more than nine years now, and it still hasn't blown over. If people wanted me to feel the same hurt I projected on others, I'm here to tell you they got their way. I've cried many times. I've apologized countless times for words said in jest that just aren't a reflection of who I am. I have hundreds of friends, including people of color, who will attest to that. Still, I've come to terms with the fact that this incident will never, ever go away.

Everybody has a little idiosyncrasy in their swing. Mine is shoving the clubhead out beyond the ball just before I take the club away. When I was a kid, a pro over in Louisville named Moe Demling told me the best way to start the downswing is to feel the heel of the clubhead coming down first. That way you can't come over the top. The trouble was, I kept forgetting that little move. So Moe said, "Remind yourself by pushing the heel toward the ball." After hitting a million practice balls that way, I couldn't stop doing it, and I gave up trying 40 years ago. I've made a career out of hooking every shot, sand wedges included. Versatile, I'm not. Effective, I am.

My dad was Frank Urban Zoeller. Everyone called him Fuzzy. When I came along and they gave me the same name, I took over Fuzzy, and he became Frank. I never went by anything else. The last person to call me Frank was a nun when I was in first grade. A couple of weeks into the school year, she called my parents to report that their son might have a hearing problem, because he didn't answer when she spoke to him.

High school basketball is a religion in Indiana, and where I grew up there were three high schools that were fierce rivals. There was Providence, Jeffersonville and my school, New Albany. I played guard and was a pretty good sixth man. Not much on offense, but a nasty little defender. My junior year, we were playing Providence, and I get called off the bench. In the first minute, I get the ball on a fast break and drive in for a layup. There's just one guy between me and the basket. He submarined me—took my legs out from under me. I did a three-quarter flip and landed on the back of my head. Worse, I tore the muscles all through my lower back. I still see the fellow who submarined me. Not long ago he told me that every time he read about me having a back operation—I've had three—he hurt, too. No hard feelings. Just part of sports.