My Shot: Sean Fister

If you think the average Joe longs to hit the ball farther, you should see tour players. I imagine there are guys on the PGA Tour who would pay $300,000 for 15 more yards of driving distance, because being that much closer to the green would put at least that much in their pocket. Most of them say the same thing: "If I hit it as far as you do, with no loss of accuracy, I'd shoot nothing." The quest for distance in golf is a drug, and tour players are the biggest addicts out there.

One day I did an outing at Bay Hill in Orlando. It so happened that my all-time hero in sports, Arnold Palmer, was there that day. I met him, and when he asked what I did for a living and I told him, he got a very devilish look on his face and asked if I'd like to play golf with him the next day. Of course I said yes. He then led me over to the starter and asked him to make room for one more — "and make sure Sean is on my team."

I barely slept that night. The next morning I was so excited I forgot to eat breakfast. That was bad news, and potentially dangerous because I'm hypoglycemic, so I get very weak and lightheaded. When I got to Bay Hill, I was hoping I could finagle some crackers from the restaurant before we teed off. I know it sounds silly, but it's not like you can ask your host, Arnold Palmer, to go get you a sandwich. But as I was walking toward the clubhouse, Mr. Palmer saw me and led me inside. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me with a knowing smile and asked — I swear he was reading my mind — "Sean, have you had anything to eat?" Was I ever relieved when he took me into the dining room. He asked two members if they would sit with me while I ate, so I wouldn't have to eat alone. That lesson in consideration was the first of many things I learned from Mr. Palmer that day, which rates as one of the great days of my life.

The second lesson I learned from Mr. Palmer came after he pulled out my chair and seated me at the breakfast table. He leaned over and said in a kind, grandfatherly tone, "Sean, I know you're excited to be here. I'm going to do all I can to make it a great day for you." He paused for a moment and then laid the lesson on me: "Sean, after you eat but before you leave the table, you might want to consider zipping up the fly on your trousers."

I'm entirely self-taught. It's a good way to learn, but you do have moments of frustration and confusion. To fix that, I took seven years' worth of Golf Digests and divided them into stacks on my kitchen table. I went through every one and wrote down every distance tip I came across. It took a while, and when I was finished I had 397 tips. I eliminated all of the duplications, then I went to work dealing with the tips that conflicted — stance, grip pressure, wrist cock, and so on. All of the contradictions I put to the test. Using each tip, I noted the balls I absolutely murdered. Tips that produced a ball in the "kill" column made the final list, which resides in a little black book I carry wherever I go. I call it The Bible.

There are a hundred little tricks to hit the ball farther. But only one is absolutely, positively guaranteed to work for every golfer. All you do is turn your shoulders farther, all the while keeping the butt end of the club as far away from your sternum as possible. It takes practice and physical effort, but if you work hard at that for two weeks, you'll for sure pick up 20 yards with the driver.

The best instruction tip I ever got came by accident. On ESPN Classic one night they were replaying one of Nolan Ryan's no-hitters. He was throwing serious heat, almost nothing but fastballs. I noticed that before every pitch, he would wiggle, shake and rotate his right hand and wrist. It struck me he was trying to put oil in them, to make them as relaxed as possible so he could throw the ball faster. That turned a light on for me. I went out the next morning and, keeping my shoulders, arms and hands as relaxed as I could, thought only of swinging the club fast through impact. Almost without trying, I hit some of the longest drives of my life. Straight, too. When I'm fluid and relaxed, I'm very dangerous.

Before I earned the nickname The Beast for the distance I could hit a softball, I was known as The Pipe Wrench. For a time I laid pipe for a utility company, and on one of my first days a water line broke. While a couple of guys ran off to get a pipe wrench, I unscrewed the pipe with my hands. When they came back and saw what I had done, they stood there with their mouths open. I was The Pipe Wrench from that day forward.

The other thing I could do was work a jackhammer like nobody else. A jackhammer weighs 75 pounds, and after it penetrates a layer of asphalt the bit gets wedged in tight. It takes the average construction worker a couple of good pulls to yank it out and start on a new spot. Well, I fell in love with the jackhammer. I once worked a mile-long stretch of asphalt in a day, which made me a legend of sorts. What it did for my forearms you can see if you tune in. [The RE/MAX World Long Drive Championship is in October and televised during the December holiday season on ESPN and ESPN2.]