Alan Shipnuck - Phil: The Rip-Roaring (and Unauthorized!) Biography of Golfs Most Colorful Superstar

Phil

The Rip-Roaring (and Unauthorized!) Biography of Golfs Most Colorful Superstar

Alan Shipnuck

This book is dedicated to the memory of my mom, Barbara

J ust throw the first punch.

Phil Mickelson is standing so close to me I can smell his breath. (Gamy, perhaps from a dry mouth?) We are crowded into a tunnel beneath the eighteenth-hole grandstand at Medinah Country Club, outside of Chicago. Moments earlier, he had put the finishing touches on a final-round 77 at the 1999 PGA Championship, one more indignity in what would be the first winless season of his PGA Tour career. I watched Mickelson play out the string, waving to the adoring fans as he ambled up the final fairway. There was no indication that only two months earlier his heart had been broken by Payne Stewart on the final green at Pinehurst. Or that his nemesis, Tiger Woods, was already tearing up the front nine at Medinah, on his way to what Mickelson was serially incapable of doing: winning a major championship. No, with his perma-grin and goofy thumbs-up, Mickelson appeared utterly carefree but with him, looks are often deceiving. As I was about to find out.

This was the dawn of the internet age, and I was writing a weekly reader mailbag for CNNSI.com, the nascent Sports Illustrated website. Mickelson was the subject of much fascination and more than a little scorn. With his maniacal work ethic and ruthless excellence, Woods had thrown into sharp relief the flaws in Mickelsons flashy game, and Phils fleshy physique became a kind of shorthand for his apparent lack of commitment. With a nod to the recent birth of Amanda Mickelson, one wag asked in the mailbag, Was it Phil or Amy who was pregnant? Another reader referred to him as Full Mickelson. Unbeknownst to me, this had wafted back to Mickelson, and he was pissed. Im not sure if he conflated the readers words and made them mine or if he was miffed that I was giving a platform to such sophomoric discourse (in retrospect, a valid objection); either way, Phil was spoiling for a fight when, back at Medinah, I asked him a benign question for a Ryder Cup preview story.

Im not going to answer that because I dont respect you as a writer, he snapped.

We were in a small scrum of reporters and a couple seconds of awkward silence ensued. Interview over. The other scribes drifted away, but I was frozen in place, still stunned and more than a little embarrassed, when Phil wheeled in my direction. There was a hardness in his eyes that was utterly different from the gauzy gaze he wore coming up the eighteenth fairway.

Do you have a problem with me? he asked.

Not really.

Come over here and lets talk about it.

He motioned toward the more private tunnel under the grandstand and started drifting in that direction, eyes locked on mine. If youre a reporter long enough and youre doing the job properly, its inevitable that one of the subjects you write about is going to be upset; sometimes the truth hurts. Its an unwritten rule that, when confronted with such a person, you have an obligation to let them blow off steam. After all, youve already had your say. So I followed Mickelson into the darkness, not knowing what to expect.

Some of the stuff in your little web column is bullshit, he said. It was the first time Id ever known him to employ profanity.

I offered a highfalutin explanation that I was leading a revolution in golf journalism by giving a voice to the casual fan. Phil wasnt having it.

Thats bullshit, too, he said. If you have a problem with me, just throw the first punch. He stepped a little closer. Just throw the first punch.

I was suddenly aware that the heat in Mickelsons voice had attracted an audience: stray tournament officials on either end of the tunnel were stealing glances and a couple of fans had peered over the stands and were watching upside down like red-faced bats. I could feel my pulse pounding in my temples.

Unlike Phil, I had important work to do on this major championship Sunday; the story I would write that night about Tigers victory landed on the cover of SI. Also, hes a big dude and I hadnt been in a fistfight since fifth grade. (For the record, I won that little scuffle and retired with a career record of 1-0.) When I heard my own voice it was surprisingly calm: I dont think that would be a good idea for either one of us.

Thats what I thought, Phil woofed, and then he stalked off.

Even in his mid-eighties, Gary Player is a keen observer of professional golf, and he doesnt hesitate when asked to name his favorite contemporary player. Phil Mickelson, Player says. He is good-looking and neatly dressed. He is a fierce competitor, but hes always smiling, and that happiness is contagious. He never forgets to take his hat off and he signs autographs until his arm nearly falls off. He is excellent in victory and even better in defeat. For me, he is the consummate professional. This is the Mickelson that the golfing public has always known, and it explains why for most of his career he has been maybe the most popular player since his hero, Arnold Palmer. But as I observed at Medinah, there are other sides to Phil, too. This book is an attempt to reconcile the multitudes within Mickelson.

The evolution of our own relationship is revealing of how mercurial Mickelson can be. He is blessed to have one of the most effective PR people in the game: his charming and chatty wife, Amy, who greets most every reporter she knows with a hug. Beginning in the early aughts, Amy and I have walked countless holes together, discussing kids and life as a way to find common ground. (When her hubby would make a mistake on the course, or do something particularly crazy, she would simply sigh, Oh, Philip.) It surely helped that we spoke the same language: Im about the same age as the Mickelsons and we share California roots. With Amy as a moderating influence, Philip became less combative with me and I was able to glimpse this shape-shifter in many different settings. Ive been to the family home in Rancho Santa Fe, California, a faux-Tuscan village of stone buildings featuring one helluva backyard practice facility. Phil and I have had brunch at his swanky nearby club, the Bridges. (Were not millennials, but each of us ordered avocado toast.) We have munched on donuts together in the managers office at a Target in a scrappy corner of San Diego, where the Mickelsons were hosting Start Smart, a program that buys school supplies and clothes for a couple thousand kids bused in from economically disadvantaged neighborhoods. (At the end of the day, Phil simply handed a credit card to one of the overwhelmed cashiers.) After Mickelsons epic victory at the 2013 Open Championship, I drank champagne with him and Amy at a private party in the shadow of the Muirfield clubhouse. A month earlier, while doing interviews following the second round at Merion, Mickelson eyed the horizontal stripes of my polo and cracked that it accentuated my budding dad bod. I laughed, but at 3:34 a.m., he texted an apology that concluded: I wont be such a smartass next time. Even though its against my nature.

This is the ever-present tension in Mickelsons life: he is always battling his inherent tendencies. He is a smart-ass who built an empire on being the consummate professional; a loving husband dogged by salacious rumors; a gambler who knows the house always wins but cant help himself, anyway; an intensely private person who loves to talk about himself and at such a volume you can often hear him from across the room. In an unguarded locker room moment, Steve Elkington once called Mickelson the biggest fraud out herea total phony. Paul Goydos, among the most thoughtful of Tour pros, describes Mickelson as just about the most engaging person you can imagine, given his level of stardom. Who is the real Phil Mickelson? I often think of something he said during our confrontation at Medinah. It was meant as a taunt but became the challenge that animated this book: You think you know me, but you dont.