Favorite movie? That's a tough one, but the Austin Powers movies come to mind. A bit part in one would go a long way to making me an even happier man. Just one line. You know the producer?
When I decided to totally rework my swing in 1985, I would begin hitting balls early in the morning, and I'd hit five of those very large baskets of balls—the kind they use to fill the little baskets—until, by about 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I couldn't close my hands anymore. Five of those baskets amounts to 1,500 balls, and my hands would just turn into claws. I would go off and have a swim, and then, when the sun was going down and it would cool off, I would go back and hit some more.
The reworking took two years. I've kept much of that experience to myself. It was dark, intense and sometimes negative, wondering when the changes were going to take—and if they would take. It is amazing really, with the stress I put my body through, that I didn't ruin my back, tear a rotator cuff, develop tendinitis, or any number of things. Using new muscles in my hips and other places, I would get so sore I felt crippled. Later I was bothered by tendinitis, as early as when I won the British Open in 1990. The worst area: The "snuffbox" on my left hand, that little pocket at the base of the thumb and forefinger. At the '90 Open, my snuffbox was so sore I hit all my iron shots in practice using a tee. Everyone thought it was some new kind of practice technique, when in fact I couldn't take a divot.
By late 1986 I had begun losing sponsors and endorsements. I'd gone from being nearly the best player in the world to not being able to hit my hat. I wasn't invited to play in the 1987 Masters, but that week I was in a satellite event. I'd been working on a little thing in my downswing, and, just like that, it clicked. I shot four 67s, finished second. I won in Spain in May, won the British Open at Muirfield in July, and at the end of the season, I knew I was on my way.
It's all about the "bottle," the British term meaning the ability to be in a situation and feel comfortable, be in control and have the mental toughness to get the job done. Great champions have the bottle almost all the time. Some have the bottle at isolated moments, others find it only once in a career, and others never find it.
The best player I saw at a given moment was Seve Ballesteros at Lytham in 1988. His charisma and confidence were so high, and the way he played was transcendent. I remember thinking that no man could have beaten him; there was a force that wouldn't allow it.
My goal was to be the No. 1 player in the world, and I did that. All was good and well, I was happy, and I remained motivated for quite some time. But something happens with that motivation. You work hard, and you aim for those goals anyway, but it lingers in you that you're not paying the true price necessary to give those goals their best chance of coming off.
Fanny Sunesson was and is one of the great caddies of all time. I was the world's No. 1 with her, and with the crowds and everything closing in on you, you need a strong personality at your side. You'd be surprised at how often caddies choke and can't give the player the correct yardages, and otherwise start stumbling and fumbling around. There was none of that with Fanny. She had the yardages spot on, and she handled the galleries with great authority. "Stand back!" she'd shout. "Quiet please!" I always smiled at how readily people obeyed her. Her physical stamina was amazing; I had a small fruit store in my bag that weighed more than 30 pounds, and the nature of the course was irrelevant; she never got tired.
When I was 20 I moved to a little English village, to a place next door to a pub they said was at least 600 years old. The pub truly was haunted. Many a time, nobody would be behind the bar, and bottles would fly off the shelves. Not fall, but fly across the room. It happened so often that the employees were used to it and only got mad that they had to sweep up the glass. The last house I had in England had a ghost cat. I never saw it, but the housekeeper said she saw a gray shadow go slinking across the floor near two of our pet cats, and when they saw the shadow, they would run from the room as though a bomb had gone off.
Then there are the aliens they have hidden in Roswell. When I saw President Clinton, I asked him about it, and I couldn't get a word out of him about it. Imagine that.
My big motivation now is to play the Champions Tour next year. Like everybody else, I had no great designs on playing it, but last year I decided to go for it and give it my best. You're only 50 once.
The alternate-shot secret, I'm keeping to myself. But I will say this about the four-ball: You need a good partner. There's no way around that, and I've had several. I started out with Peter Oosterhuis—he was my wing man, nailing down solid pars while I fired the big guns. Then Langer, Woosie, Monty and finally, Lee Westwood. By the time I got to Monty, I was the wing man. You want the young guy to be relaxed and playing as loosely as possible, while the more experienced player is charged with being the glue. That's a bit of strategy I reveal at the European team's peril: Formulate every team knowing one guy is the wing man and the other is the main gunner.
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