Weekend at Phil’s

Archery is still a matter of life and death to the extent that it is a contest of the archer with himself; and this kind of contest is not a paltry substitute, but the foundation of all contests outwardly directed. –Eugen Herrigel, Zen and the Art of Archery

My black Chrysler 300 S rental car cuts through brisk morning air on the winding roads of Rancho Santa Fe, Calif. Any signs of commercial real estate disappeared 10 minutes ago, and aside from the occasional golf hole, all I see are gates to what I assume are dream houses. The sun beams through the sprawling trees, casting shadows on the road ahead. 

It should be a peaceful drive, but the closer I get to my destination, the more my heart races. The events of the past week that have led here flicker through my mind like a vintage film: the article I wrote, the surprising texts that followed, the previous day’s lunch meeting, and a nine-hole match with one of the all-time greats of the game as my partner. 

Have I really been invited to Phil Mickelson’s backyard practice facility?

Minutes later, I pass through the gate to the Mickelson compound, and as I drive up to the backyard golf sanctuary, I spot the six-time major champion. He’s already at work.

Nine years ago, I played an unforgettable money match against Mickelson, and I have devoured everything written about the man since. Two weeks ago, my good friend and colleague, Monday Q Info’s Ryan French, mentioned he had messaged Mickelson on Twitter, asking if Phil would play a match with me to help me prepare for the second stage of PGA Tour Q school. Ryan wasn’t expecting to get a response, but just hours later he received one.

“You may be getting a call from Phil Mickelson,” Ryan told me with disbelief. 

That night came a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Mark. It’s Phil M. Congrats on first stage. I’m happy to help get you sharp for second stage.” 

And it went on. Mickelson said he was helping a few other players prepare for the second stage. He mentioned they played a short game contest called 6-Up. He said I was welcome to join him in Southern California and to get to work. 

Mickelson would be playing over the weekend in a member/member tournament with a player he is helping prepare for Q school. 

“Let’s meet after around 2:30 and practice til dark,” Mickelson texted. “Sunday we will get some short game work done in the a.m. and I’ll set up a fun match for late morning.”

On Friday night, after I had picked up the rental car to make the drive from Phoenix to San Diego, another text arrived. Mickelson asked if I’d prefer to work on my short game or play nine holes on Saturday. 

Thinking for a minute before responding, I knew this was a question with no wrong answer. Could I get on the wrong side of a money game? Sure, that was possible but unlikely. Mickelson had said we’d play a fun match. There was no mention of an uncomfortable sweat. I wanted to feel some pressure anyway.

Knowing we’d be putting in dedicated short-game work on Sunday, I suggested the nine-hole match. 

The week before, after our initial texts, I had met with a prominent leader in golf who has known Mickelson for a long time. I asked this person what he made of Phil’s gesture. 

“Look, Phil’s a complicated guy,” the friend said. “But he’s done this in the past. He takes a few players under his wing and helps them. He’s helped some financially. He doesn’t do it for publicity, and very few people ever hear about it. He just genuinely likes to help.”

Those words echo in my mind as I pull through the gate of The Farms Golf Club on Saturday. Mickelson sends word he’s in the grill room waiting for the results of the member/member and that I’m welcome to join him. Or I can go practice. I decide to say hello to Mickelson, so I head to the grill room. 

The place is bustling. I scan the room of unknown faces before I hear my name. Mickelson stands up from the head of a long table and calls me over. I move through the crowd and a slimmed Mickelson greets me warmly, like an old friend. Mickelson’s member/member partner, Michael Feuerstein, pulls up a chair for me as Phil makes introductions. 

Feuerstein, or “Fury,” as Phil calls him, is headed to the second stage of Q school at Valencia Country Club. He and Phil have already won the gross division of the member/member tournament, and even with their plus-8 and plus-6 handicaps, they may win the net division. The red in Mickelson’s eyes suggests he’s tired, but as he talks, he appears satisfied from a good day’s work. He’s at the top of the leaderboard where he belongs and at the head of the table where he’s comfortable. 

Fury mentions how much the 6-Up game he and Phil have been playing has helped him improve. That sends Mickelson into a description of the game. 

It’s a basic chipping contest, but you have to be 6 up to win. You get two points if you hole-out and three points if you hole a shot on top of your opponent’s chip-in.

“We’ll put something on the line–you don’t have to play for anything if you don’t want to–but the point is to get you completely focused on trying to hole each shot,” Mickelson says. “The game will get you really sharp. It’s just so important to be thinking about making these shots.”

We talk about the state of Mickelson’s game. He’s playing with two drivers in the bag–one he can launch high and straight, and one he can hit low and shape. 

“It’s strange to say,” he says, “but I’m a great driver of the ball now.” 

Mickelson tells an amazing story about his preparation in the leadup to his win at the 2021 PGA Championship. I ask with all that has happened in the professional game since his historic victory, does it feel like it was that long ago?

“Not at all,” he replies. The directness in his tone makes me believe he has held that memory close, perhaps visualizing his winning shots often and recently. 

Mickelson calls out to two players at the end of the table and suggests they take us on in a match. Shortly after, we’re on the 1st tee with a small crowd of on-lookers. 

Phil negotiates the match. There is, of course, something on the line–enough to get his attention. I’m having flashbacks to our match nine years ago. This time, however, having Mickelson as my partner makes the opening tee shot less intimidating. Harnessing an adrenaline jolt, I hammer a driver down the middle. Mickelson then plays the rest of the hole’s challenges to perfection. 

He makes a 10-footer for birdie and pours in a 40-footer on 2 for another. When I follow with a birdie of my own on 3, I get an enthusiastic fist bump. Mickelson drips in a short birdie on 4 after nearly holing a wedge from the rough. 

At the lengthy par-3 5th hole, he hits a thin cut into a deep greenside bunker. Shaking his head in disappointment, he says he doesn’t know how many more swings he has left. 

“I know you just want me to feel a little heat,” I say, channeling my partner. “Take the hole off, I’ve got this.”

The hole is playing 209 yards with a gentle left-to-right wind. I hit a towering draw with a 6-iron, and as the ball is in the air, I call for it to go in. It lands within a foot and rolls 13 feet past.

“Man, you hit it so solid,” says one of our opponents. “Like a guy who can make it.”

“I’m trying,” I say. 

“He’s no longer in the trying phase,” Phil says. “He’s in the making it phase.”

At that moment, I feel as if I can walk on nails and spit fire. 

Our opponents claw back from 3 down, and as the sun sets on the 9th tee, we’re only 1 up. I’m left with a 210-yard shot from a nasty lie in the Bermuda rough. Phil is 10 yards ahead on the right side of the fairway. 

My 6-iron comes out hot and left. It flies over the greenside bunkers, lands on the cart path and bounces over a row of hedges and into the parking lot.

“Don’t hit my new Ferrari!” one of our opponents pleads. “I knew I shouldn’t have parked there!” 

I cringe in anticipation of hearing the most expensive sound of my life. I’m relieved when everything goes quiet but embarrassed I’ve hit the worst shot of the day at the most critical moment.

As the commotion subsides and with perfect comedic timing, Mickelson subtly turns toward me while he swings his club rhythmically with his right hand.

“Partner, I didn’t expect to hear cart path there,” he says. 

Mickelson salvages a half on the hole with a brilliant save from a short-sided bunker and we win the match. 

After the bets are settled, Mickelson stops at the cart barn. The young employees working outdoor services hadn’t cleaned his cart or touched his clubs, but that doesn’t stop him from walking in, handing out tips and saying thank you. 

It’s almost dark now, and we’re talking behind my rental car. 

“Look, you’ve got a long golf course for second stage and we need to have you really sharp around the greens,” Mickelson says with an intensity that pierces the remaining light. “It’ll free up your ball-striking and make a meaningful difference. We’re going to make some minor changes that will set you up for success. So I’m going to text you my address and the gate code. Tomorrow, show up at 8 a.m. I’ll have your coffee ready, and we’re going to get to work.” 

I eat a Shawarma wrap for dinner at a Mediterranean joint and call it an early night. I replay the day’s shots while laying in bed at the Hampton Inn, with every question I could possibly ask Mickelson coming between me and sleep. 

I lay there, waiting. 

The next morning, I arrive red-eyed at the gate to the address I had been given. I type in the code and the gate opens slowly, dramatically. I take an immediate left and pull around a small, Tuscan-style building. 

In front of me is a backyard sanctuary: a range sloping uphill that is lined with disk targets painted on the grass, four chipping greens with bunkers that frame the space and a large house at the top of a hill overlooking the property. In front of one of the greens, 50 yards away, is Mickelson. 

A white towel dangles from his back pocket, standing out against his dark outfit as he hits short, uphill chips. Between shots he wipes the face of his wedge thoroughly, repelling grass and morning dew–anything that could come between him and perfect contact. 

I watch him hit a shot before getting out of the car. If he knows I’ve arrived, he doesn't let on. I consider the countless early mornings leading up to majors that began just like this. I pop open the trunk and reach for my clubs. Phil is not easily distracted. He eventually turns, waves and hops in his cart. 

As promised, the coffee is ready and as he greets me, Mickelson gives me two boxes of joe to take home. As we drive to the tee that faces his practice range, he talks about how his health history led to developing the perfect coffee recipe. The coffee helps him focus without any jittery side effects, he says. It is delicious. (Note: There is no paid product placement in this article, though I do love free coffee,)

“I know how important second stage is to your career,” he says. “The difference between getting through and having a place to play versus having to wait another year is huge. I just want you to be as prepared as you can be because I know what it means.” 

I get a jolt of euphoria. Is the coffee already kicking in? 

As I stretch, Phil talks about the three other players he has been helping prepare for Q school and dumps a pile of sparkling Callaway balls between us. The white disks are painted at 30, 45 and 60 yards, have a small diameter–perhaps three feet–and when a ball lands in one, it stays there. We take turns hitting shots, and a launch monitor reads every carry distance and spin. The tone changes: no small talk, no messing around. We’re focused. Each shot has a purpose.

As we move between the discs, Mickelson’s flight hardly changes. It’s higher than I expected, and each shot falls softly to the left. My shots, conversely, come in lower and turn left. The results look quite similar, but the flights are in stark contrast. 

His shots to the 100-yard discs are masterly. One on top of another, like a marksman archer knocking his own arrow out of a bulls-eye. I, on the other hand, make a mess of things, hitting a wide dispersion of shots that rarely fly within two yards of each other. 

I hit four shots that land at various yardages, none within four yards of my target.

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” I say.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to tell me that,” Mickelson says sharply. 

He tells me in his early playing days, before launch monitors and when ranges didn’t have plentiful targets, he would sneak onto the back nine of courses early in the morning. He’d go out with the mowers and dew sweepers and work on a variety of shots.

“You just can’t hit enough of these shots before second stage,” he says. 

As I watch Mickelson launch an assault on the 130-yard disk, it occurs to me I’m watching a master at work. This is like watching Hendrix play the intro to “Little Wing” or Van Gogh make a brush stroke on Starry Night. I ask questions. So many questions. We hit shots with imaginary trouble around the disks, and Mickelson describes his thought process and technique for each. 

About 90 minutes into our session, he stops to deliver a message.

“Listen, you strike the ball as well as anyone I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Every shot comes out of the dead center of the face and your foundation is perfect. I love that. I don’t just think you should be playing on Tour, but I think you should be winning tournaments and contending in majors.” He pauses and then cracks a grin.

“But your distance control is fucking pathetic.” 

The punchline is as perfectly delivered as the shots I’ve been watching him shape.

“I thought that one might land,” he says with a chuckle. “But don’t worry, we’re going to fix that.”

He helps me get set up with a slight change in my weight distribution and position of my left arm. 

“You have great hands, but your inconsistency comes from relying on them for speed control and release,” Mickelson says. “We need to eliminate a variable. The only variable you should have is backswing length. Speed should be your constant. I want you to feel as if you can swing as aggressively as you can with your hands and not worry about a shot getting away from you.”

After a few tweaks, my flights begin looking more Mickelson-like.

“This is mostly [Dave] Pelz training,” Mickelson concedes. “I don’t want you thinking this is all my stuff.”

When I hit a series of precise shots, he gets excited. 

“That’s what I love to see!” Mickelson says. “We start hitting those shots, and the game is going to open up for you.” 

Phil pauses to study a shot. He talks about Zen and the Art of Archery and the importance of being totally consumed with each shot. “We’re training both our conscious and subconscious out here,” he says. “When I get close to an important tournament, I’ll take 25 minutes here and only allow myself to hit five shots. I won’t allow myself to do anything but work on my breathing and visualization in between swings.”

If he gives me an adjustment that I can’t effectively execute within three swings, he tells me to move on. “Not all my suggestions will work,” he says. “We need to be able to find balance or throw some away.”

Nearly 2½ hours pass, and Phil then realizes we’re on the tee in a few minutes.

“Hit a couple drivers over my office there and let’s go,” he says. “There’s 450 yards out there.” 

After a couple of drives bombed into the great unknown, we’re flying down a road to the golf course in a cart Phil says can do 55 mph. I’m having flashbacks to my days on the Asian Tour whizzing around dangerous roads in Thailand in a TukTuk with the feeling that one bad turn could lead to an abrupt, gory end. 

It is exhilarating and frightening at the same time. 

That afternoon, Mickelson and I play an 18-hole match as partners at Rancho Santa Fe Golf Club, home of the first Crosby Clambake. Phil brings out the Callaway Apex blades he won that PGA Championship with, matching what I was carrying in my bag. I hit some quality shots and hole a few well-timed putts, but Phil carries our team and we carry the day. 

Mickelson can hardly contain himself after making three consecutive birdies. At the end of some relentless needling, he puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me back to the cart.

“Hey, sometimes I can be a little too much for people and we have to give our opponents a little space to get back to neutral,” he says. “Let’s just let them settle down, and you and I will go to the next tee and decide which hole we want to close out the match.” 

The man is tireless, and it occurs to me that all of the swagger and commentary is simply a way for him to release energy that might otherwise cause him to combust. When his energy is channeled positively toward your golf game, it’s intoxicating. 

We close out the match two holes later and finish off the press three holes after that. 

When the round is over, we sit with a steak dog (steak and cheese on a toasted hot dog roll), recounting the day and settling bets. Phil had been following Camilo Villegas’s final round at the Bermuda Championship. He knows it has been a long, painful journey for Villegas and quietly mentions he’s happy for him. 

Our opponents challenge us to a nine-hole match. Phil declines, saying we have work to do. Soon after, we’re on the chipping green for 6-Up. 

We’re facing each other again, matching one another shot for shot. I hole two chips early in the game and take a commanding lead. Phil is surprised he’s losing, and with that surprise comes intense focus. 

We move from medium-length pitches to high lobs. I know it’s a strategic error to select these shots, but it’s mesmerizing to watch him hit them.

We each have three balls. While I drop all three on the ground in the area we will play from, Phil keeps the balls he’s not hitting in his pocket. His hitting area remains uncluttered, as if to say the only ball that matters is the one he’s hitting. 

Between shots, he fixes a lot of ballmarks. Not just his–any he sees, and there is no shortage of them. That’s right, Mr. Havercamp: Phil Mickelson is fixing your ballmarks! 

Phil comes roaring back, and after 30 minutes of volleying, I’m 2 down. Then he makes a prediction. 

“I got this shot figured out and this is probably where the match ends,” he says. “Sometimes you just get a good feeling about a shot and I have one here.” 

He drops a ball in the sand. The hole is 10 yards away with a steep, downhill slope between us and the cup. Mickelson makes an aggressive swing, and the ball pops out high and soft with the slightest bit of cut spin. It lands like someone has dropped it from the heavens and trickles over the front edge of the hole.

“Yeah, I just had a feeling,” he says.

“You know what I love about you, Phil?” I say.

I pause for effect.

“Your humility.”

He laughs. “It’s definitely what I’m known for,” he says with a chuckle. 

He hits two more bunker shots to kick-in distance and the game is over. 

We keep working. Mickelson teaches me how to land the ball softer, with an adjusted setup and more hand speed. We are running out of daylight but we’re still working, creating tight gimmie circles around each hole.

“Averaging inside of three feet is just so important,” Phil says. “You can’t play this game enough between now and second stage.” 

Phil never calls it Q school. He always says “second stage.” He knows, I suspect, that there is no point in looking beyond it.

As we near the house, he summarizes everything I should be working on. He’s talking fast, his energy somehow peaking again. I marvel at his enthusiasm while trying to absorb his imparting wisdom.

We drive through the gate and pull up next to my car. 

“Any other questions you have for me?” he asks.

The question seems absurd. Mickelson has made my golf game the center of his attention for an entire day. He has been so exceedingly generous with his time and yet is perfectly happy to continue. It’s a deep kindness from someone who loves the game with an inspiring passion, uniquely understands the depths of the profession and has proven it’s never too late to reach new heights. 

As we say our goodbyes, he tells me to text him with any questions I have about my game in the weeks leading up to the qualifier. He proposes another meeting after Q school. 

“I’ll be gearing up for our early events and you’ll be getting ready for the Sony (Open),” he says.  

As I exit the property, I get directions for the five-hour drive home. 

It’s an open road and the desert–like a golf course at Q school–can be a cold, lonely place. But I have new ideas to light the way and plenty of fuel for the drive.

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