CHAPTER 21

East Lake, then First Taste of Augusta National

DAD AND I TALKED OFF and on throughout the summer of 2003 about our upcoming date at Augusta National with Jack and Steve Nicklaus. After speaking with Steve and Jack’s assistant late that summer, we agreed on the details of the trip. October 21, 2003, could not come quickly enough.

Finally, the date came.

Our arrangements were set for Augusta. However, that would come after we enjoyed the first part of the day’s two-part adventure: a golf excursion to Atlanta’s East Lake Golf Club, the place where Bobby Jones had learned to play.

We flew from Miami to Atlanta and drove to East Lake to play a morning round at the historic golf course with my friend Jeff Morris and his father-in-law, Jerry Brannon. Jeff had played baseball at the University of South Carolina, and he’d been the person who served as my mentor and teacher when I joined HomeBanc.

Shortly after moving through the gates, we found ourselves in a time warp. In front of us, Bobby Jones appeared to be preparing to tee off for the final round of the U.S. Amateur. Dressed in knickers, shirt and tie, and sweater vest, Jones had a natty appearance and carried himself—perhaps unsurprisingly—with an air of confidence.

Two dozen spectators were in attendance. Among the group were several little boys watching “Bobby”—better known to movie-goers as Jim Caviezel—idolizing every move and mannerism. The sparkle in their eyes said, “Maybe one day I can be like him.”

Dad and I made our way through the clubhouse, taking time to look at all the memorabilia, trophies, medals, and pins. After we put on our shoes, we were ready to play. Once outside again, we were privy to watching Bobby Jones finish his round on the No. 18, a 235-yard par 3. A small lake and two wicked traps protected the finishing hole. Bobby hit the tee shot with the grace and fluid movement depicted in the pictures and books I’d read over the years. The ball arched toward the green and bounced off the wicker basket at the top of the pin. Everyone cheered when the ball landed two feet from the hole, assuring Bobby of another U.S. Open (amateur) title.

Dad and I turned and walked off that green, amazed at what we’d seen. We’d be teeing off in thirty minutes, so we had to warm up. Before we did, we stopped and complimented the director of the upcoming movie, “Bobby Jones: Stroke of Genius,” starring Caviezel. I told him it was a shame we couldn’t have the cameras follow us, letting him know about our golf date with a golfer of Bobby Jones’s stature. The director smiled and asked us where our round with Jack Nicklaus would take place. I told him we would be playing at a little golf course about two hours east of where we stood, at a place that Bobby Jones built called Augusta National, home of The Masters Tournament.

Teeing off, we couldn’t help but feel the presence of many of golf’s greatest stars. The day was beautiful and the golf was fun, but we had to catch a plane. Our much-anticipated date with the Golden Bear sat on the horizon.

We met Jack at the Peachtree Dekalb Airport to take his private jet to Augusta.

As we entered the airport, my expectations and feelings about the trip were starting to build. The G-4 jet we boarded had #N1 JN painted on the tail. That helped me realize that the dream of playing Augusta National for the first time, and with my father, would become a reality. Never mind that we were preparing to play the course with Jack Nicklaus.

Jack had just bought the Gulfstream V from an oil company’s CEO. When we walked up the stairs to board, a big Golden Bear logo stared back at us from the walnut panel at the entrance to the plane. I felt like they were filming an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and I had been picked to be a part of the episode.

We exchanged pleasantries with Jack upon boarding the aircraft. While this wasn’t the first time I’d been around Jack, it was the first time I’d had him to myself to ask questions. I admired him so much that I wanted to learn more about him.

When Steve and I were roommates, I used to badger him all the time: “Do you realize who your father is? He’s probably one of the most well-known people in the world. Forget sports people. Just people in general. Even nongolfers know who Jack Nicklaus is.”

Gracious as always, Jack was interested in catching up with what I was doing, too. He remained a huge fan of Ohio State, so the Buckeyes were part of the conversation, along with the Bengals and the time I’d spent coaching there.

Before I knew it, we had puddle-jumped to Augusta, grabbed a car at the airport, and driven directly to Augusta National.

Pulling up to Magnolia Lane, we stopped at the security gate. Jack began digging into his pocket to find his driver’s license to show the guard, who smiled back at him.

“Mr. Nicklaus, I know who you are. I think you’re okay.”

Once we got settled into Firestone Cabin, where we would stay for the next two days, Jack asked us what we wanted to do. I answered: “We didn’t come here to play Pinochle.”

“Let’s go lace ’em up,” he said.

First, we hit some balls on the plushest driving range I had ever been on, then we headed for the nine-hole, par-3 course. Fifteen years later, Jack would get moved to tears on that same course.

Flash-forward for a moment.

During the 2018 Masters Par-3 Contest on the Wednesday before the tournament, Jack played with Gary Player and Tom Watson. None of what that fabled group did that day caught anybody’s attention, though. Rather, it was what G.T. Nicklaus did that wowed the crowd. Jack’s grandson, and the son of Gary Nicklaus, caddied for Jack that day. Wearing the white caddy coveralls, G.T. took aim at the pin at No. 9. And he drained it.

Jack teared up when speaking about how special it had been to see his fifteen-year-old grandson make his first-ever hole in one, especially given the fact that he’d done so at Augusta National. Jack called it “perhaps” his most memorable day at Augusta National.

That’s Jack Nicklaus, the father and grandfather.

Back to our moment in 2003, though. Since the light disappears quickly in October, we had a sense of urgency to get going so we could finish our round. Two caddies joined us as we powered over to the first tee.

You can’t understand the typography of this nine-hole, par-3 course just by watching the tournament on TV. Venturing onto the course is like descending into a big bowl.

Jack suggested that Dad and he would play Steve and me for ten dollars per man. I laughed, since Dad always told me, “It’s not always how you play, it’s the partner you pick.”

In that vein, Dad did just fine that day.

Jack had missed birdie putts on the first two holes and faced a twelve-foot birdie putt on No. 3. Steve sidled next to me while his father lined up his putt. “He won’t miss this f***ing putt.”

Sure enough, he knocked it in.

When we walked off the green, Steve elaborated: “When he misses two in a row, he’s won’t miss the next one.”

We both laughed.

Steve was out there cutting up. What he said about his dad just showed how much time he’d spent around him and how frequently he’d seen him play golf.

As for my own father-son dynamic that day, I had my moment when I caught the glow on Dad’s face. I couldn’t help thinking about what was going on in his head—he, a World War II veteran who had played golf at many great courses over the years, and now he was playing a par-3 at the greatest golf venue in the world, and his partner is arguably the greatest golfer to ever play the game.

Steve and I were closed out on our $10 bet after the eighth hole, which prompted some banter.

“Look Jack, I only have a twenty, so I’m going to give you the twenty, and you’re going to sign it and give it back to me,” I said.

The competitor in Jack chirped back. “Like hell I’m going to do that. I’m taking the twenty, I’m going to change it, then I’m going to sign the ten and give it back to you.”

The $10 bill he handed back to me read: “Joe, how ‘lucky’ can you get Jack Nicklaus,” and he dated the bill.

The longest hole on the par-3 course required me to hit a 7-iron. Watching the highlights of the par-3 tournament held at The Masters, I always got the feeling that playing that hole would be easy, as if they were throwing darts at the pin. Playing the course brought me more respect for what the PGA Tour players do, making that hole look easy. That’s why they’re the best golfers in the world.

We showered after the round and dressed in coats and ties for dinner.

As the sun set, I stood on the back porch of the Firestone Cabin looking over the fairway and pinching myself. Was I really currently living a longtime dream come to fruition? Yes, came the answer to my question. I was filled with the same excitement I felt on Christmas Eve as a kid. On top of that, Dad and I were about to have dinner with the man who had won The Masters six times. All because I kept a putter he used to win a U.S. Open.

We walked across the 10th tee and the practice putting green to the clubhouse dining room. As I trailed behind Jack, I continued to pinch myself, so I took a picture just in case I woke up.

Jack wore his green jacket. I learned that all winners wear a green jacket, not just during the Champions Dinner. Jack cut a gracious figure to all tables in the dining room, walking around and greeting many of those dining. He signed autographs and took pictures with anyone who asked.

We talked about the different tournaments and memorable moments he had had at Augusta National. Throughout the night, Jack acted like a curator for Augusta while he explained the different details of every nook and cranny of the fabled club. I wish I had recorded it. I felt like I was visiting an historical shrine or monument. Many can come and see what we saw from the outside, but very few get to see it from the inside. Only a handful get to experience it with one of the people who has helped build Augusta National’s aura and reputation over the years. I felt like a student in a classroom listening to a wise college professor.

Jack said he thought President Dwight D. Eisenhauer painted the two portraits—of Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts, who was the first chairman of Augusta National (1931–1976)—that hung in the dining room.

Following dinner, Jack guided us through the main room where The Masters Trophy is housed. We saw the Champions Locker Room, where he shares a locker with Horton Smith, who won the tournament in 1934 and again in 1936, then headed to the “Crow’s Nest,” where he stayed in 1958 with Bill Rogers. He told us the story that after the second day, a tournament official came up and told Rogers and him that they would have to charge them an “extra dollar” a day because they were eating so much. Jack told them that would be fine.

We went into the members’ locker room, where Jack has another locker that he shares with Hugh McColl, the former CEO and Chairman of Bank of America. Jack’s many stories about what makes Augusta National so mythical made for a special evening.

We returned to Firestone Cabin to watch Game 3 of the World Series between the Florida Marlins and the New York Yankees. All of us were tired, so everyone turned in about 11 o’clock.

I knew Dad had to be exhausted from walking the hills. He fell asleep quickly. Meanwhile, I found myself too amped up to sleep. I grabbed a book and camped out on the back porch, savoring my surroundings. I stared through the pine trees at a fall moon that illuminated the 10th fairway. I could not help but question myself, Now how did you get here again? How is it that one day in college you tossed your putter up to a green while waiting to chip? When you went to putt, you then realized you’d broken your putter! One simple toss—an action performed daily by many golfers—led to a sequence of future events and decisions that resulted in me being here on this back porch and about to play Augusta with Jack Nicklaus.

I continued to reflect. If I had thrown out some junk clubs in any of the many moves I’d made, this fortuitous opportunity would never have arisen. Add to that the fate of being paired with a roommate in college who turned out to be Jack Nicklaus’s son. I thought of all the great golf courses I’d been fortunate enough to play. In the rearview mirror, I saw St. Andrews, Oak Hill, Pine Valley, Pebble Beach, Muirfield Village, Turnberry, Westchester, Winged Foot, Doral, Troon, Prestwick, Pinehurst No. 2, Bay Hill, Olympic, East Lake, Shoal Creek, Whistling Straits, and even Country Club of Miami, where my love affair with golf was born.

No book, no fishing tale, and no movie could make this up. I’m so thankful I broke my putter.

To borrow an expression from the Golden Bear, “How lucky can you get?”