There is this large and leafy tree standing regally in that thick and hungry rough well to the right of the No. 3 fairway at Cog Hill Golf and Country Club.
Phil Mickelson’s tee ball landed there Thursday morning, a spot you wouldn’t wish on a leopard, let alone a 24-year-old prodigy who got a late start on his summer job because of his winter vacation.
Mickelson calmly pulls a 5-iron from his bag, drills the ball from a downhill lie, beneath an overhanging branch, through a valley, then toward a flagstick perched on the second tier of a green that swerves up and away. At a distance of 189 yards, he finds nothing but short grass.
“It wasn’t as hard as it looked,” says Mickelson. “There was an opening in the tree. What you have to do there, to keep the ball low and from coming off the club high, is hit it thin.”
He hits it thin, and still hits it 189 yards. He misses a makeable birdie putt, but still shoots 66, which ties for the first-round lead of the 91st Western Open.
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Among those not even blinking an eye is Jim Mackay, Mickelson’s caddie.
“That shot on No. 3?” Mackay says. “When Phil gets into what looks like trouble, there’s nobody more creative. There’s nothing he can’t do.”
Of course, since Mickelson arrives on the PGA Tour, he’s told he must do everything, or else. We drape him in the American flag and send him off to war. He is not to return until he becomes the world’s dominant golfer, and the sooner, the better. National pride is at stake, and never mind details like natural progression and maturation process. The next Jack Nicklaus must get there tomorrow.
“If that’s a burden,” Mickelson says, “it’s not my burden. I really don’t think about expectations other than my own for myself.”
Not that this man-child isn’t driven. What happens at No. 3 Thursday is trivia compared with the miracle recovery achieved after a skiing accident in early March. Mickelson breaks the femur, or thigh bone, in his left leg, an even more difficult trick than an 18-handicapper breaking par at Cog Hill. It just isn’t done, and to keep that all-important balance, Mickelson also cracks his right ankle.
Doctors say it will be 4-6 months. But by May, Mickelson is playing at Colonial. They waive the 14-club limit so he can walk with a 1 1/2-foot rod inserted between his hip and knee. Still, it’s the mettle, not the metal, that puts Mickelson back where he belongs. Even geniuses have to work hard, putting for dollars between trips to Wrigley Field Tuesday and Comiskey Park Thursday night.
“I’m lucky,” Mickelson says. “Lucky the injury wasn’t where I could have been paralyzed. Lucky to travel the way I do, and see games and sights in cities like Chicago. Lucky to be playing a sport where I can just sit back, watch and listen to history. I played with Hale Irwin today. Man won three U.S. Opens!”
Too many phenoms in sports now have neither the time nor interest in tradition. Mickelson is an exception. A hour of hearing Nicklaus tell stories a few years ago and a recent tour of Tom Watson’s basement trophy cases are heady stuff. Another reminder of what it’s all about is Ernie Els’ U.S. Open victory two weeks ago. Els and Mickelson are written in the script as bookends for golf’s future volumes.
“A lot has been made of how it’s supposed to be him against me in years to come,” Mickelson says. “Well, I have to get better. He’s already one Open up on me.”
The admiration is evident, though. While at Arizona State, Mickelson’s frequent collegiate rival was another South African, Manny Zerman. But Els, from afar, was the guy. Yet, when Mickelson fell down on the slopes and couldn’t get up, Els was among the first to call.
“He’s not only a great golfer, he’s a great person,” Mickelson says. “Maybe it’s good for me that he won the U.S. Open.”
The left-hander seems up to any challenge, except perhaps the giant slalom.