by Scott McBreen

He was the mop-haired kid with the O'Dea sweatshirt and the quick
smile who picked up range balls every weekend at Seattle's Jefferson
Park driving range.

He was not exceptionally tall at age 15, but word was that he
could "play". Some of the older guys had driven him to the Tri-Cities
for a pro-am. He won... To confirm his place in golf lore he got home
in two strokes on the 600-yd par 5.

(ed note: In the 1970's most clubs were persimmon and golf balls did
not fly as far as they do today)

"I can beat this kid", I thought, as I heard the rumors
around the clubhouse. I was a somewhat seasoned player in my own
right. A 3-handicap then and capable of going low at times. I was 25.
I had recently finished college golf at the UW, playing in high level
tournaments.
"I will outchip him", "I will out think him", were thoughts
running through my head when we agreed to set up a game that Saturday
morning in May. Steve Cole, former Highline High star athlete in golf
and basketball, was the driving range pro at Jefferson Park. The kid
was always hanging out at the pro shop, looking for a few loose balls
to whack out onto the range. Cole hired the kid to collect range balls
in exchange for all the buckets he wanted to hit. It would be the only
job he ever had outside of golf.

Jefferson Park is not a particularly difficult public course.
Fairly flat, small greens but mostly in good condition.

At mid-morning that Spring I stood at the first tee. My thoughts
of beating him lasted less than two holes. He out-drove me by 75 yards
on the opening hole. He stuffed a wedge to 2 feet on the second hole.
I was good, he was better. A lot better.

I barely knew his first name. I asked him a little about
himself. He was humble and quiet with an adult sense of humor. He said
his name was Fred Couples. He lived near the course. He had no formal
lessons. He just picked up the game watching other players. He had two
mentors in those years. Steve Cole, and another local player named
Steve Dallas.

We played nearly every weekend with what we called the
Jefferson Park gang. Freddie loved to practice. I’d come up to the
range where he had finished his shift. He was beating balls. Not just
hitting balls but hitting them all in the same place. “I’m hitting
repeaters”, he would say. It was clear to me that he was a notch
above.

For three years we competed against each other. He called me
“Scotty”, like everyone else. I never beat Fred. By 1978 Fred had
graduated from high school, won the Washington State Open at Glendale
as an amateur, and entered college at the University of Houston where
golf coach Dave Williams called him the best freshman player he'd ever
seen.
My dad lived in Houston in those days. I arranged a visit to
see him but it was mostly to play golf with "Freddie", as he would
become known. Houston University had been a golf mecca for many
Northwest players. Kermit Zarley, Jim McLean and Fred to name a few.

We played three days of golf with some of Fred's teammates on
some of Houston’s finest courses. What struck me was how much Fred's
teammates admired him. They had no doubt he would establish himself on
the PGA tour. They were right.

When the time came for tour qualifying school, Fred got in by
one thin stroke. He was a quick study however, settling in as a
regular on the tour. He won his first tourney, the Kemper Open in 1983
at Congressional Country Club in Washington D.C., when he was 24.

Fred was playing every week somewhere in the world. I caught
up with him at his home in Palm Desert in the mid 80's. We played some
nostalgic rounds together.

For obvious reasons we parted ways due to his schedule. By 1992
Fred was on top of his game. He won the Masters that year and 15 more
PGA events after that, landing him in the World Golf Hall of Fame in
St. Augustine, Florida. More recently Fred has been a winner on the
Champions Tour. It is difficult for me to imagine that Fred is now 54.

A chance meeting at the 2010 US Senior Open at Sahalee was
the last time I saw him. I called to him from outside the ropes,
"Fred," I said. "Hey Scotty", Fred smiled. Just like the mop-haired
kid from Jefferson Park.