Interviewed By Guy Yocom
Photo By Peter Gregoire February 2005

Age 49 • Morehead City, North Carolina

The day I turned pro, I was $10,000 in debt. My father had passed away when I was 14, and by the time I left college, money was an issue. I'd borrowed the money to play my last year of amateur golf, and when I turned pro I was living hand to mouth, trying like hell to pay off that loan. There was a lot of pressure, but a lot of guys from that era were used to that and rolled with it. I'd had a job in high school, and I figured if golf didn't work out I'd just get another job, hopefully in the golf business. I'm not saying my values are any better than pro athletes you see today, but for better or worse most of them have never had a real job.

I was a good shoe salesman. That was some job, a world within a world. To this day I can tell someone's shoe size by taking one glance at their feet. You wear an 8Ω, I can tell. Would you like some polish or socks to go with those, sir?

When a child loses a parent, he tends to carry one memory that stands out above all others. For me there was a day when I was totally lost and frustrated about my swing. Dad was the head pro, and I was hesitant to bother him while he was working. But one afternoon, after three miserable days trying to fix whatever problem I had, I walked into his office and asked him to help me. As I began explaining my problem, I started crying. He could be firm, but this time he put his arm around me and walked me out to the range. He spent the rest of the afternoon working with me. We didn't have many moments where it was just him and me, and this day was something very special. It makes me happy to look back on that moment, but it hurts some, too, because it makes me miss him all over again.

Some pros are harder to play with than others, and the worst was Seve Ballesteros. To say he was difficult is an understatement. To a man, every player who went up against him in the Ryder Cup had a run-in with him. His gamesmanship was irritating, and he never let up. He'd do outrageous, childish things like coughing as you got set to swing, and if you objected he'd act wounded and escalate the situation. When he put himself into the role of victim, that's when he'd play his best. Just knowing he'd use a nasty incident to play well made me so mad that I'd play worse. There was only one Seve, and a little of him went a long way. But I'll tell you this, he could back it up. If you were 0-5 against a guy, that stuff would hack you off, too.

Nick Faldo stared a lot of guys down. He never choked. He had a way of folding his arms and looking at you as though he knew you were going to make a mistake. And guys would screw up against him. But in our playoff at Brookline [1988 U.S. Open], I was in a good frame of mind to handle Nick. We didn't say three words all day, which was fine with me. My feeling was, "I'll wait for you to hiccup." And he did hiccup—he bogeyed No. 11, which gave me a two-shot lead—and I beat him. Faldo got the better of me a couple of times, at the Ryder Cup especially, but I got him at the big one when he was in his prime. I'm proud of that.

Going for my third consecutive U.S. Open I was two shots back going into the last round. I didn't play very well and didn't win. I was in the car with [wife] Sarah and my brother, Allan, when the realization hit me that it was over—that two-year run of being the Open champion. I'd had a ball being on top of the world, but the feeling when it ended was an odd mix of emptiness and total relief.

Allan and I roomed together at the British Open at Birkdale in 1991. Thursday morning came around and we woke up at about the same time. "You get in the shower first," I said. "I think I'll just lie here." Normally I was up stomping around, raring to get to the course. That was the first evidence of what I now suspect might have been depression. It pretty much spelled the end of my career as a productive player. I got headaches, felt lethargic and fatigued. The last thing I wanted to do was play golf. It may have been a virus of some kind, but after reading about the experiences of Terry Bradshaw [former NFL quarterback], I think it was depression, the outcome of having so many highs and lows over the years. Gradually I worked my way out of it, but it was devastating.

People ask me what it's like to have an identical twin. Hell, it's all Allan and I ever knew, so how do I answer that? I do know I had a playmate, competitor and best friend at my side every day of my life. Now I'm jealous because he plays more golf than I do.

For 20 years I talked with Allan every Sunday night. He's the only man I know who'll give me an honest answer.

Everybody has an opinion on what's wrong with Tiger's swing, but what fascinates me is his stubbornness, his reluctance to take a step back and say, "Maybe this plan isn't working." Tiger's a smart person, very sharp. But his stubbornness, which in one form or another is a trait of every great champion, cuts both ways. It helps, and it can hurt.