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It was the break of a lifetime. I’m still not sure how that ball on No. 12 didn’t end up in Rae’s Creek, but I guess some things are just meant to be.
I look forward to the Masters every year — still do, even now in my 60s — and in 1992, I was playing really well in the lead-up. I had won twice in March and reached No. 1 in the world ranking.
A storm blew through Augusta National on Saturday that year, so I had to finish my third round early Sunday morning. After I finished — in second place, a stroke behind Craig Parry — I went back to my house and slept for a few hours.
How Fred Couples swings fast while looking so smooth
I got off to a sluggish start in the final round and fell three behind, then laid the sod over my 2-iron tee shot on the short par-4 third. The next swing is the one that got me back on track — an 8-iron to within 6 inches for a tap-in birdie. Little did I know it would be far from the most consequential 8-iron shot I’d hit that day.
I’ve always been a scoreboard watcher, and they’re hard to miss at the Masters. So I knew I was ahead by three strokes as I stepped to the 12th tee, right in the heart of Amen Corner. It’s the shortest hole at Augusta, but so dangerous given its shallow green, the swirling wind and all that pressure.
It was 166 yards to the hole, a perfect 8-iron. I’m an aggressive player, so I won’t lie and say I was aiming for the middle of the green, but I did push it to the right. The ball hit the bank, started trickling back… and somehow came to rest on the steep slope above Rae’s Creek.
After I chipped within a foot to save par, I noticed a ball in the water. It was a Maxfli, the same brand I played, belonging to defending champion Ian Woosnam. My ball should have been right next to his, but divine intervention kept it dry.
When I holed out on 18, Ray Floyd, who finished runner-up, gave me a hug as I exited the green — a classy gesture from a good friend.
Adding to the emotion of the day was the Green Jacket presentation in Butler Cabin, where my college roommate at the University of Houston, Jim Nantz, presided over the ceremony. Thirteen years before, we sat in our dorm as Jim interviewed me after I had “won the Masters.” Now, it was happening for real.
It’s nearly 35 years later, and that’s still sinking in.
