I was a spoiled lad to say the least. Every year my Dad would pack up the family and get adjoining rooms at the Lodge at Pebble Beach. I was all of 8 or 9 years old the first time.
It was a tournament called "The International Invitational," 18 at Spyglass on Saturday of Labor Day weekend and 18 at Pebble on Sunday, followed by a black tie dinner at the Beach Club. . . . . Best Ball, twosomes. Lots and lots of gambling. One of the great thrills of my life is the first year I played in it. A player had dropped out (they came from all over the country) and my Dad paid the entry so his 19 year-old son could play.
My partner turned out to be an elderly man named Bill Dipple who told me simply that he was in the coal business in West Virginia. Turned out he was worth about 100 million, although you would never know it from his old clubs and moth-eaten sweaters. His wife had lots of diamonds though.
Well, somehow, we won. The youngest player in the tournament paired with the oldest. People were a bit annoyed. I was too dumb to know how much money was at stake. You ram your putts at that age you know.
On the final day, I hit it 10 feet on #17 with the pin tucked on the left side. Bill put his hands on my shoulders as I was lining it up and said: "You are going to make this putt son, and when you do we are going to win."
That was in 1979. Just before the time came for us to defend our title, Bill passed away. Every Labor Day I think of him. My partner for many years after Bill was Al Hansen, a rich farmer. We finished 2nd three times. I blew it once on the 17th hole. He died of cancer a few years ago. I think of him too.
The International used to be the high point of my year, but a group of sandbaggers ruined the tournament and its 30 year run ended in 1995 when everyone drifted away.
The funny thing is that although Pebble Made an enormous impression on me as I got older, my fondest early memories in the game of golf are at Peter Hay.
For those unfamiliar, it is a delightful little 9-hole par-3 course adjacent to the first tee of Pebble Beach.
I would get up with my father and as soon as he grabbed his clubs to go tee off, I would go around and around and around and around and around until dinner time. Literally playing all day by myself. It was serenity. I won the U.S. Open dozens of times out there.
All with plastic golf shoes, Faultless golf balls and my mom's old golf clubs.
Sometimes, I wish I could get back to that place in my soul where playing golf at Peter Hay could give me happiness in its purest form. Maybe the difference is I've lost the ability to pretend and dream of greatness.
When you are a kid, there is nobody to tell you that you can't. But when you get older, the mirror doesn't lie . . . . even if you are playing at Pine Valley.