If I had to answer yes or no, I'd say flying saucers exist. They've hovered but haven't landed. Why would they? If you were an alien and were smart enough to design a flying saucer, why would you come here?
When people say they dream of playing in the U.S. Open someday, what they're really saying is, they'd like to be good enough to play. Trust me, the U.S. Open is not fun.
Going head-to-head against Jack Nicklaus in a major was like trying to drain the Pacific Ocean with a teacup. You stand on the first tee knowing that your very best golf might not be good enough. You experience a sagging sort of pressure that just gets worse as the day wears on. The last four holes are always murder — the crowds, the difficulty of the golf course, the fatigue, the realization that Jack is not going to make a mistake — all of it hits you at once. Jack would get this look on his face that expressed deep suspicion in your ability to handle this, and in the end I rarely could.
Letter writing has become a lost art. Even the sweetest letters I get nowadays look rushed, and the penmanship isn't good. The British haven't lost their touch, though. Letters that land from Scotland and England are always elegant, thoughtful and beautiful. What have they got that we haven't?
The neatest thing about playing was my ability to surprise myself. Under pressure sometimes I'd face a real hard shot I'd never played before and pull it off just the way I envisioned it.
It's a superhuman feeling. But I'll tell you something about these great shots players hit: A lot of times they end up close to the hole by accident. There's a good chance they didn't hit the shot the way they planned it. Only the player knows how good or bad a shot really was.
It's customary to say, "Good luck; play well" to your playing partners before you tee off. I always thought, "Thanks, that's very nice, but piss on luck."
If you wonder whether you have a drinking problem, you do.
My advice to Ty Tryon: Do not, under any circumstances or for any amount of money, play with a set of clubs you don't absolutely love. Find a set you like better than any other, and use them until you wear them out. And make sure you have an identical backup set ready for when the first set is trashed.
Jeanne and I divorced last year. It was my fault. My drinking led to behaviors that made me very unhappy with my life in general, and she was in the line of fire. Giving up alcohol has cleared my thinking, given me a new perspective, brought me to some realizations. Fortunately there is no animosity between the two of us. We talk and see each other often. She's the finest person I've ever met and has always been my biggest cheerleader.
My most prized possession? Some time ago I went over to Jeanne's to pick up some stuff.
One box was particularly heavy and rattled when I shook it. I went home and opened it, and lo and behold, it was my Lionel train set I had when I was a kid. The set was in unbelievable condition. All the cars were in their original boxes, the pieces of track bunched together just the way I left it 50 years ago. Only the transformer was a mess. I took the whole thing to a hobby shop in Montana to be reconditioned. When the guy saw what I had, he almost fainted. He said the boxes alone were worth a small fortune. The set wasn't new when I received it. My dad got it for Christmas when he was young, and he passed it on to me.
I never passed it along to my son, Eric, because I forgot I had it. But I'm going to pass it on to my first grandson, whenever he comes along. The train isn't for display. I'll tell him the story behind it, let him know who his great-grandfather was, help him put it together. Then we'll get down on the floor and play with it.
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