Sometimes I Wonder

Shots you can’t explain

The threshold of what counts as a miracle is hard to establish. In my career, I consider Lee Trevino’s chip-in at Muirfield in the 1972 Open Championship and Tom Watson’s chip-in at Pebble Beach in the 1982 U.S. Open—both happening on the 17th hole and in the final round to beat me— as miracles at the time they happened.

In some people’s minds, my win at age 22 over Arnold Palmer in the 1962 U.S. Open in, basically, Arnold’s back yard of Oakmont was a miracle.

Perhaps the same could be said for the 1-iron I hit at 17 in the 1972 U.S. Open. It was 219 yards, and my ball hit the flagstick a foot above the ground and dropped to six inches — almost went in the cup. Had it missed, I suppose it would have gone 12 to 15 feet past. The ball had to hit flush at that precise part of the flagstick for it to stop there. A miracle?

Then there are the miracles that appear to happen until reality steps in. One of my favourite stories happened in the 1970s at Cypress Point.