My apologies for going dark for several days. I just returned from my oldest son’s wedding in Door County, Wisconsin, which is just north of Green Bay. Northern Wisconsin, Northern Michigan, and Muskoka are all very similar in terms of the vibe and beauty. The Fall foliage was on full display and the father of the groom did not embarrass himself during his speech– as far as I know!

There are a couple of fiction terms that come to mind when I consider the contents of this post. First is “artistic license.” The audience is going to believe that there are exaggerations or added elements to the story. I can assure you that is NOT the case. What I am about to write is exactly how it happened. Second is “suspension of disbelief.” Again, I am merely asking the reader to accept that this is my exact recollection of the events that occurred roughly 20 years ago at the AT & T Pebble Beach Pro-Am.

The Head Professionals at Pebble Beach Resorts were always on call during AT & T week because there was a decent chance a touring professional would either get injured, get disqualified, or withdraw after the first or second round. I played in 4 AT & T’s over my 9 years at the helm at Spyglass Hill, with various levels of success. Our best hope was to not embarrass ourselves in front of a home crowd and ensure we showed the abandoned amateur partner a good time. The absolute top end would be to make the Pro-Am Cut and collect a team check as the “professional.”

The early part of the week unfolded exactly as it always had with no serious issues. I always arrived at 5am during AT & T week because I wanted to be fully focused once players and galleries started showing up. I also wanted to ensure my teammates knew their roles and were in the proper positions for operational success. My last post about Vijay Singh mentioned the “auxiliary/overflow lot” that was adjacent to the golf shop. Somehow, the barricade and lock had not been secured the night before. And we didn’t notice the issue until the sun came up around 6:30am. We locked it and went about our normal Thursday activities.

Later that day, there was an SUV trying to exit the auxiliary lot, but couldn’t due to the locked barricade. Instead of finding a staff member to get some help, this dude had a hammer and was attempting to break the lock. I got the call and hustled over there. Evidently, this dude parked without permission prior to us locking the barricade that morning. There was no parking for spectators inside the Del Monte forest at this point–mandatory spectator parking was at CSUMB, the local college. Everyone was bused in. So this guy had already violated two rules, and I am a rules aficionado that believes without rules, there’s chaos. Now he was chopping away at our lock. By the time I arrived on scene, I was agitated. We postured for a few minutes. I had staff back up, and I think he recognized he was in the wrong and overmatched. I reluctantly released him and warned him not to come back.

The next day, I got the call. Frank Lickliter, a journeyman Tour Pro, had posted a 79 in the first round at Spyglass Hill and withdrew. His abandoned partner was a Lexus executive. And I would be his replacement pro for the remainder of the tournament. I had a tie on and I needed to be on the first tee at Poppy Hills in about 20 minutes. No time to change and no time to warm up–not a good way to play alongside the best players in the world. I grabbed my sticks, hopped in a shuttle, and headed over.

I got to the first tee just in time. The caddie for the Lexus executive was a former Marine named Ty that I recognized, which calmed me down. The Tour official asked me where my caddie was, but I didn’t have one. I was going to carry my own bag, but that wasn’t allowed. Ty jumped into action and grabbed a random guy out of the gallery. He was more nervous than I was. Somehow, I heeled one down the middle and we were off. Over the next 5 hours, we laughed at the situation and how we were both completely out of our element. The fact he was uncomfortable made me take a leadership role, which made me feel a bit braver. I had to set a good example for him and handle the pressure. I hit the ball pretty well and shot 74 in tough conditions. My partner and I ham and egged a net 67. We stood at 6 under for the tournament, with our third round scheduled under the blimp on Saturday at Pebble Beach. We were in the “A” rotation, which meant all the top pros and celebrities were at Pebble on Saturday. That’s when it started to sink in. I was getting ready to star in “Hamlet” and I didn’t know my lines. And I didn’t have time to learn them. My mind convinced me that I was going to embarrass myself in front of the whole world. Over the next 12-14 hours, I tried to turn off the negative thoughts and trust my competitive experience, but that just wound me up even more. My wife at the time told me she was meeting a big group of her girlfriends. They were going to follow and “support” me. Good Lord. I was cooked.

My warm up was terrible. I was hitting blocks and hooks. The Tournament Director was there and he was giving me the business as I hit another smother snap driver 30 yards left of target. Then I would overcorrect and wipe one 50 yards to the right. And I was starting on the 10th at Pebble Beach, which was one of the most demanding tee shots on the course. The gallery and a necklace of bunkers pinched the left side and the right side was Carmel Beach and the Pacific Ocean. To no avail, I even tried the “fire the right hip” thought that saved me at the Public Links years earlier. My window for swing surgery was closed. I reluctantly got into the player shuttle for the long ride to #10. But in my mental state, it felt like I got beamed there like Star Trek. I had no place left to hide, the curtain was going up and it was time to take the stage.

My name was called, I took a deep breath, and got into my address position. But as I stood over the ball, I could not feel my arms or my legs. My extremities were completely numb. I had never had this experience before. I stepped away, regrouped, and tried to settle back in. Still numb. I stepped away again. Charlie Wi was a pro in the group behind me; he stared at me and shrugged. I got over the ball for the third time. I had to proceed. I decided I was going to swing as hard as I could towards the ocean. I felt nothing as I stuck the finish. I looked up and saw the ball going in the last place I imagined–straight down the pipe about 280 yards. Wi looked at me and nodded. I was off. And the swing thought was making a full commitment to the right of target. I asked my caddie, which was the same dude they pulled out of the crowd, to remind me if I looked like I was struggling. Besides that, I just had to somehow ignore the inevitable distractions of a Pro-Am Saturday at Pebble Beach.

I parred the 10th, birdied the 11th, and ripped off pars at 12-13-14. At the 15th, there was a local contingent called Club 15 to the right of the tee. I knew about 100 people in there. The pro tee backed up right to the edge of a boundary fence behind, where there were 12-15 people peering over. This was a genuine opportunity to make a complete fool of myself. But somehow, I found the fairway again. I hit it close on the 16th and got a grandstand full of OOH’s but I jacked the four footer for birdie. I walked past Vijay on the 4th tee on my way to the 17th. Fuck that guy. As I moved through the tunnel under the grandstand, I decided I wasn’t going to look back into the crowd during the 10 minute wait. I knocked a 7 iron on the green and made another easy par. I hit it fairly close on the 18th, where I hung a 10 footer on the edge for birdie. Then I made my way to the first tee, where the biggest crowd to ever watch me hit a golf ball was waiting. And of course, my wife and her slightly intoxicated group of party girls were right on the ropes. I’d turned in 35, but that meant nothing in this moment. I became bubble boy as I took my stance and looked at the ball. I smoked a 2-iron to the corner and made another easy par.

On #4, my boss was waiting. I hit a wedge to less than a foot for a birdie to reach two under for the day. He gave me an “atta boy.” Unfortunately, there was a long wait at the 5th and I lost my mojo. I hit it into the churro stand on the left and made double. I rebounded with pars at 6-7-8 and had a long wait on #9. The tee was tiny and we were completely surrounded by people. I hit a good one and a couple guys said, “I told you it would be worth the wait!” A couple others said, “nice job, Frank!” I didn’t get a “light the candle” or “mashed potatoes” but I was almost to the finish line now. I parred #9 for a respectable 72. My Lexus partner and I shot a Best Ball 65 and barely missed the cut. I had somehow survived the most terrifying round of my life.

As I removed my cap to thank my playing companions, my caddie said the last two days were the greatest golf experience of his life. He was just learning the game. And then, in that moment, we both realized he was the same guy that was swinging the hammer at our auxiliary lot on Thursday afternoon. The exact same guy that was randomly pulled out of the Poppy Hills gallery on Friday, which totaled perhaps 80,000 across the three courses. We were so focused on mutual survival that we didn’t recognize each other until then. I’ve lost touch with him, but I learned an important lesson. Ever since, I’ve tried not to judge people based on a first impression because life can be full of surprises.

My oldest son and his new bride…