View from the mountain top

Michael Campbell knows the other side, and this is better

The U.S. Open champion back home in New Zealand at Kauri Cliffs Golf Club overlooking Matauri Bay.

Photo: David Callow

By John Huggan

Photo By David Callow

June 2006

No one like Michael Campbell had ever won the U.S. Open. One of New Zealand's indigenous Maoris and also the great-great-great grandson of Logan Campbell, a Scottish immigrant who became mayor of Auckland, Campbell stood up in class at age 13 and said he wanted to be a professional golfer. "Everybody started laughing. In those days, golf just wasn't played by people with my background," he says. "It was a rich man's sport. And I wasn't rich."

It has never been easy for Campbell, who left school at 16, spending five years as a telephone repairman in and around his home town of Wellington, on New Zealand's North Island. "I know what it's like to work for a living," he says.

This is a guy who cold-topped his first tee shot as a professional in 1993 but two years later led the British Open at St. Andrews after three rounds. By his own admission, he wasn't prepared at the time to take the claret jug won by John Daly, and in the years that followed, Campbell endured a massive slump. "I was struggling like a pig under a gate," he says.

Campbell, 37, spent hours during the past six months sharing his story with Golf Digest. We saw him in New Zealand, California and Florida, learning why he's tough enough to win a U.S. Open but sensitive enough to tear up about the highs and lows of his career.

Golf Digest: There are many ways to finish first in a golf tournament, but you truly won that Open last year, didn't you?

Michael Campbell: I did; nobody screwed up to let me win. I remember sitting on the 10th tee on Sunday--a shot ahead, or whatever it was--and saying to myself it was mine to lose. I had a choice: I could decide I wasn't good enough and throw it away, or I could say I was good enough and go do it. Every breath and every step I took from that moment on was as if I had won it already. I was telling myself, Michael Campbell, you are the U.S. Open champion. I said that about a million times.

Sounds easy, but 10 years earlier you led the British Open on Sunday and didn't finish it off. Not long after that, your game disintegrated.

Do you know why I struggled?

Tell me.

I'm a shy person, and I didn't like the attention. It's that simple. I was not ready to win a major event. I wasn't ready as a person or as a player. I wasn't good enough. Subconsciously, I played badly so that everyone would just go away. That's the honest truth. Then, of course, I hurt my wrist. My body couldn't take it, never mind my mind.

How bad did you get?

Oh, really bad, mate.

But how bad did your game get?

I had no chance of breaking par. I couldn't break 75. I was probably a good 3-handicap.

What was the low point?

That would be around mid-'97. I lost my card and had nowhere to play. At the French Open that year, I can't remember what I shot, but I could have shot 86-86 the way I was hitting the ball.

I got back to the room after the second round and started throwing my bag and clubs right across the room; I remember being surprised at how far they went. It was pure adrenaline and frustration. Then I started crying for maybe 10 minutes. I was punching the pillows, just in despair. I was so disgraced by my performance.

I had done so well in '95, and now I could barely break 80. I got to the point that I used to pack only three shirts and three pairs of trousers--I knew I'd be home after the pro-am and the first two rounds.

Did you learn anything during that period?

People jump on the gravy train pretty quickly, and they jump off just as quickly. It's human nature, and just the way it is. People love you when you're doing well, but they discard you quickly when you start shooting 80s. I lost a few people I thought were friends.

Don't worry, I took note of all those people. When they come 'round again, I'll know who they are. And, most important, they know who they are, too.

When's the last time you've cried?

It was a month after I won at Pinehurst. I was back in England and went to the gym to work out. When I was done, I felt great. I was driving home, and all of a sudden I felt this overwhelming sense of sadness. I have no idea why. But I had to pull over to the side of the road for a few minutes, I was crying so much. And I felt great afterward. It was obviously some sort of release for me, a bit like switching from one energy source to another. It was a weird feeling.

How do you analyze those days when you were struggling so much?

I thought that to get better I needed to change. I look back now and wonder why I was trying to change my shape of shot or my ball flight. Why the hell would I do that?

Take today. I shot a great score, and people have been saying I'll have trouble doing it again tomorrow. Why is that? There is no reason I can't do it again.

It's like being a child at school and being told you can't spell or count or whatever. I remember a teacher at school who didn't like me. She told me I couldn't spell. That still affects me. I'm a good speller now, but that sticks in my mind and affects my confidence.