In Alaska once, we were tramping through brush about six feet tall when I encountered a moose standing 130 yards away that had to be the biggest moose God ever put on this earth. His knees were a good 4 feet off the ground, and from there he just went straight up. It was a little frightening; we were 20 miles from the nearest road. He could have been 10 feet tall, not counting the rack, and I was so much in awe I stood there gazing at him for 40 minutes. People have said, "If he were that special, somebody would have shot him." But in Alaska, whatever you shoot, you have to carry out. And there was no way five men could have carried this creature out of there.
One year at Greensboro I was paired with Gary Player and was really looking forward to the round because of an article I'd read in the newspaper. In it, Gary claimed to have gotten up and down out of bunkers 73 out of 79 times in the past year. Gary also claimed that of the six times he did not get up and down, two of them were for circumstances beyond his control—he said that on one occasion a spectator suffered a coronary while Gary was lining up his bunker shot, and that the fan had tumbled into the bunker and there was a delay removing him, which distracted Gary. I thought, What a bunch of B.S.! I was looking forward to Gary not getting it up and down out of the sand just once, so I could walk up and say, "Hey, Gary, what was the reason you didn't get up and down that time?"
On this Sunday, Gary hits it in the sand on Nos. 2, 7 and 11, and he hits every shot to within three feet and makes par. On the 14th hole he's in the bunker and blasts poorly to 20 feet but makes the putt for his fourth straight sand save. On the 16th hole, a real long par 3, he's in the bunker again, this time with a perfect lie and plenty of green to work with. I'm starting to think that maybe Gary was absolutely truthful in that article, and that he's probably going to hole this shot. And then Gary proceeds to move his ball all of two feet, leaving it in the bunker. Without a word he hit his next shot to a couple of inches.
As we're walking off the 17th tee, Gary says, "Laddie, maybe you didn't see it, but I got a horrible break on that bunker shot." I say, "Yeah, Gary? What happened?" He says, "There was a rock this big directly behind my ball." And he forms a circle with his hands to illustrate a rock as big as your fist. Well, I was standing as close to Gary when he hit that shot as I'm sitting to you now, and believe me, there was no rock. Gary was just making it up. I was speechless.
On that 17th hole, Gary was in another bunker, this one very deep, the shot almost impossible. And he holes it for a birdie. My head was just swimming; I didn't know what to think. Later, it dawned on me that he absolutely has the right approach to self-talk in golf: Never blame yourself. Tour pros realize it, and it's why they tamp down imaginary spike marks after missing short putts. Blaming outside agencies for a bad shot is much better for your frame of mind than telling yourself you're a lousy hack.
Not long after Tiger Woods turned pro, we were at an outing together. Tiger came over and said, "Mr. Stockton, would you mind watching me hit some wedge shots?" I said, "Sure, Tiger," and observed him hit a bunch of 50- to 60-yard shots. He was having an awful time controlling his distances and asked for my opinion. "Tiger, the problem is, you're hooking every one of them," I said. "You're hitting those wedges with a swing that's shaped more like your driver swing." I got him standing closer to the ball. Had him stand taller. Had him hit his wedges with a swing that was more head-on as opposed to coming from the inside. I gave him seven different things to work on.
Months passed. At the Skins Game, I was playing in the portion before the actual competition, and Tiger saw me. He rushed up all excited. "Mr. Stockton, I want you to check this out." He proceeded to name the seven things I'd told him, and gave me a demonstration of distance control that would knock your socks off. Then Butch Harmon came up and thanked me for helping Tiger, for telling him things in a way he hadn't. Talk about rewarding.
One last bit of advice to Tom Lehman: If our team wins, the Ryder Cup captaincy will have been the highlight of your career and the greatest honor you'll have ever received. If you lose, it'll hurt for a while, but all of the above will still be true. So regardless of the outcome, I'd just like to say, congratulations.
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