I'll tell you why I love being a grandfather. One day I had to discipline my grandson for some sort of mischief he'd gotten into. I approached him, and with a very stern look on my face I said, "Your father shouldn't let you do that." Then I went to the fridge and got a snack.
When I was a boy, my father convinced me the color green was unlucky. I thought it was a silly superstition until I wore all green at a tournament in Ireland and opened with an 83. I took off the green and shot 68-68-68. For years after that I wouldn't go near the color green. Finally, at the 1968 Jacksonville Open, I'd had enough. I wore a pair of green pants and won the tournament. Green is one of my favorite colors now.
After we won at The Belfry in 1985, the guys threw me in a swimming pool and ruined a very expensive suit. To tell the truth, it spoiled some of the thrill. When we won at Muirfield Village two years later, we visited a post-tournament party, and I left after two minutes. I went back to my hotel room, sat with my wife and reflected over a large whiskey.
Most Americans know the story of the Three Little Bears. But very few can tell you what porridge is.
When I was 13, I got to shag balls for Bobby Locke at a clinic he gave near my home. Locke hit an 8-iron, and the ball landed at my feet and plugged in the moist ground. Just as I eased the ball out of the ground, I heard a shout, and here comes Locke's next shot. The ball landed in the same bloody pitch mark. It was a fluke, but there was no convincing a 13-year-old of that. Golf cast a spell on me that day that has never been broken.
Peter Thomson won the British Open five times and was a great, great player. Nothing perturbed him. I always thought this powerful mind-set was inherent in his makeup, but one day I watched him stroke the side of his face in a way that was very familiar. Then it hit me: He had become Bobby Locke! His approach was shaped by his exposure to Locke. I've played with them all — Hogan, Nicklaus, Sarazen, Trevino — and there were no better competitors than Thomson and Locke.
I could have used Thomson's and Locke's mind-set when Trevino chipped in five times to beat me at Muirfield in the 1972 Open. But my psyche was too fragile. In fact, what Trevino did not only ruined me for that day, it ruined me forever.
Roberto De Vicenzo was a magnificent ball-striker who acquired an almost fatal case of the yips. Years ago I was paired with Roberto and another player, Mario Gonzalez, who had the yips even worse than Roberto. Mario would flinch and miss a two-footer, and Roberto would giggle. Nothing is funnier to someone with the yips than watching someone else with the yips try to stab the ball into the hole.
I'm a traditionalist and have always disliked the long putter, but after I missed a nine-inch putt in Mexico earlier this year, I put one in my bag. It was that or quit playing.
There's no way I would have missed the two-footer Jack Nicklaus gave me for a tie in the 1969 Ryder Cup. But you'd better believe I sent him a thank-you note when it was over.
The fame of being a top golfer is nothing to sneeze at. But I would rather have been a famous singer. Imagine being Tony Bennett and getting a standing ovation every time you sing "I Left My Heart in San Francisco." It must be like holing a 30-footer on every green.
I can sing a bit. In 1971, I cut an album entitled, "Tony Jacklin Swings." The highlight was my rendition of "Come Fly With Me." I thought I did well, yet somehow I never overtook the Beatles in popularity.
The British tabloid press is the most vicious, cruel, ruthless entity on the face of this earth. It's difficult to express the depths of my contempt for them. They lie, they fabricate stories and have an evil genius for exaggeration. There were two reasons I left England in 1972. One was the 83 percent tax rate on my earnings worldwide, with no tax shelters. The other was the tabloids.
At the Ryder Cup at Kiawah in 1991, Steve Pate got hurt in a car accident and couldn't play, so our man in the envelope also had to sit out. That player was David Gilford. Our captain, Bernard Gallacher, bless his heart, chose me to inform Gilford he wouldn't be playing. When I broke the news, Gilford was absolutely gutted. I've never seen a man so broken. That's one part of the Ryder Cup I do not miss.
In case you're wondering, porridge is oatmeal.
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