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Jordan Speith - Listen To What Happened In His Own Words.

Updated on April 11, 2016
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In His Own Words- What Went Wrong.

Jordan Spieth was interviewed on why he lost the Masters. He told the interviewer that as he made the turn to the final 9 holes he realized all he had to do was to shoot par on the final 9 holes and "that's where I went wrong." He boogied the 10th and the 11th holes and then came the disastrous 12 and said "I don't know what happened there."

"I Hit It Fat"

The interview shows what we all experience. Taking things for granted. A 150 yard shot on the twelfth hole in Amen Corner - he could do it in his sleep. He just lost concentration for a short time and we all saw what happened.

You Are A Better Person If You Can Relax

We're all human and we make mistakes.. When we loose concentration (Arnold Palmer has said many times, "Golf is the only sport that requires complete concentration and complete relaxation), disaster may happen. Whether it's playing golf, driving a car, taking a school test, or making a presentation. Life requires concentration and relaxation. Comedian Bill Murray said, "The more relaxed you are, the better you are at everything: the better you are with your loved ones, the better you are with your enemies, the better you are at your job, the better you are with yourself."


And Keep Smiling


Enjoy The Day And Ignore Defeat

Jordan has golf talent coming out his ears and having one of the worst downfalls in Masters Final Round history won't get him down but will make him stronger in the future.

So what do you do when adversity strikes you? had a creative writing golf story competition last year and the winning story was centered around what to do when the worst happens. It goes like this:


The seventeenth hole at The Valley gets your attention. It got Max’s. And it gave me a rare taste of imagined revenge.

I liked Max. He was nice to me. Understandable, because in spite of his prosthetic leg and his seventy-seven years, he could spot me four a side and still beat me, so my affection for him never extended to the point of sympathy. With Max, sympathy was neither needed nor deserved. He had accepted that his glory days as a football and basketball star were now a distant memory, but that only honed his competitive side in sports in which he could still compete--bowling and golf. He was merciless. I didn’t bowl, but sportsmen who did painted Max as a gloating bully, routinely mowing down opponents a third his age with a confident smirk. Although I was spared humiliation at the bowling alleys, I couldn’t escape his lair at Green Valley Golf Course. He pounced on me in the club house. “Hey, Jerry, how about a quick nine tomorrow afternoon? Or eighteen--whatever you can afford to lose.”

“Sure, Max. I’m due to get lucky someday. See you tomorrow after work.”

The next day, I secretly sneaked out to the course early. A quick round before facing Max seemed in order. Nothing unfair or devious, you understand, just a little practice. I was striking them pretty well and the putts were falling; maybe this would be my day.

If a golf course is called Green Valley, it must adjoin a mountain. It does. The seventeenth tee is on top of it. From the tee, the green is a distant speck on the landscape two hundred vertical feet below. The hole measures two hundred eighty yards, but what would be manicured fairway on most holes is, on the seventeenth, a terrifyingly steep mountainside covered by a variety of sparse, unattended vegetation. Faint hearted and aged golfers take the adjacent winding cart path to the green. Bolder, more lusty players dare the more direct but challenging walk straight down the mountainside. Max didn’t know faint hearted. Heading down the mountain side, I began finding clubs that I recognized as his. A prosthetic leg in the weeds confirmed that Max had taken a spill. A few yards on, I saw him. And heard him.

Max seemed to have arrested his fall by grabbing a convenient, innocent little shrub, which he repaid for saving his life by thrashing the hell out of it with the only club he had left--a bent eight iron. The thrashing was accompanied by a background of frustrated tears and an impressive litany of blasphemous adjectives.

“Hi, Max. A little trouble negotiating the hill? Say, was that a forsythia shrub? Must have been kind of pretty. You don’t seem to care for it much. Think I would have used a wedge on it. Oh, you don’t have one.”

Max didn’t reply. Sometimes a look can say it all. It only encouraged me. These opportunities to get even happen only rarely. Besides, the rat had obviously been trying to sneak in a practice round on me!

“I think I found all your clubs. Must have been quite a fall. Sorry I missed it. Could you do it again? Oh, and is this your leg? I’ll give it to you if you don’t start beating me with it, ha, ha.” (Unprintable response by Max. Heated. Very creative.)

To his credit, and to my secret admiration, Max wouldn’t hear of postponing our scheduled match. He reduced his profane outburst to a few whispered mutters, reattached the leg, grabbed a quick beer in the club house, and went out and beat me four and two.

I grudgingly admitted defeat, but I was secretly happy for Max. His victory wasn’t over me; it was over adversity. And his gloating was really justifiable pride. He showed me how to deal with misfortune. You ignore it. And when adversity throws you for a loop (Sorry, Max), you get back up--after a brief exhibition of raging profanity--have a quick beer, and carry on.

Keep in the zone and keep cool. Watch Bill Murray keep his cool.

© 2016 Team Golfwell


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