He saw the champ in all of us

I had a strong affirmation when I was eight years old that I was going to be a champion. Maybe not a great champion, but a champion nonetheless. It was a quiet, warm feeling that came over me—a sense that this was my calling, that golf would be my life’s work. My father instilled that confidence in me. He believed I would be a champion, and I believed him. So I did what he told me to do.

As a teenager, I began to add my own input, but I still followed his advice. I knew he was in my corner, steering me in the right direction. He entered me in tournaments. He worked the midnight-to-eight shift at RCA Communications so he could sleep while I was in school, then pick me up afterward and work with me until dark. It was always, “One more shot, Johnny. That was fantastic—one more. Let’s see you hit a little cut shot here, or a hook around that tree.” It was hard work, but it was really more hard fun. That’s what it was.

People say the most common thing in the world is talent left undeveloped. The rarest form of genius is someone willing to wake up every day, like a tomcat, saying, “Where are my clubs?”—someone who finds excitement in the daily grind. Just like a pianist or a violinist whose world revolves around mastering their craft. From the time I was five until I was about thirty, I don’t think many people worked harder than I did, or were more dedicated.

But by thirty, I started to burn out. I had been so dedicated from such an early age that when I reached the top—around twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty—I felt I had climbed the mountain I always wanted to climb. When I won the British Open in 1976, it was a peak moment. But my biggest weakness was that I always loved doing things differently, trying something new. I didn’t have the single-minded focus of players like Tom Kite, Nick Faldo, or Ben Hogan.

I wanted to learn how to teach. I wanted to learn how to be a better father. I think I would have made a good explorer—I’ve always wanted to see what’s over the next hill. And I’d taken golf about as far as I could without sacrificing my family. By the time I won that British Open, I already had four children—two more would come in 1978 and 1980.

We had children in 1970, 1972, 1974, 1976, 1978, and 1980. I was raised to believe that no amount of success can compensate for failure in the home. I truly tried to be as good a father as I was a golfer—but those two callings are not compatible. To play the Tour and remain dedicated to it, while still giving your children the time and energy they deserve, is incredibly difficult. My father devoted his life to making me a champion, and I think he enjoyed it, but in doing so, he had to lose himself in me. I couldn’t do that. And I felt guilty about it.

My greatest legacy is my children—no doubt. My career was a good one, but parenting is the closest thing we do to what our Heavenly Father has done in creating children. That’s the real measure of a life well lived.