Posted by John Anderson
The Jungle Room? Thank you, thank you very much. But no thank you.
Russian Tea Room? Nyet.
Viper Room? Bite me.
Jack Nicklaus Room? Yes. Now that's the one for me.
Two months ago, I didn't even know the place existed. Rest assured, however, it does. It's remarkable and it's likely someone is sleeping in it this week during the WGC-Bridgestone Invitational at Firestone Country Club in Akron, Ohio. But to be honest, I don't care about that someone. I care about the someone who spent the night there on June 25. That someone was me.
It was my first trip to famous Firestone, invited by the Sheetz gas station/convenience store/restaurant people to emcee their annual Sheetz Family Christmas, a wonderful event that raises money to send kids on shopping sprees during the holidays.
Upon my arrival, a member of the club and dear friend of mine walked me inside to check in. Check in? Who checks into a clubhouse? Well, golfers do if they have one of the club rooms that branch off the men's locker room. Each room is named for a person closely associated with the club or a tournament hosted on one of its courses.
Receptionist: "Mr. Anderson, we have you in the Jack Nicklaus Room for one night."
Mr. Anderson: "Do you have any tissues? I'm about to cry."
Now, I've cried in a clubhouse before, but that's usually after shooting 94 and paying out more money than I'd like to my buddies (who also happen to be sharks).
I gather myself and head upstairs. It is exactly two flights of stairs to heaven.
Past the showers, the members bar, the large, round tables begging for a game of gin rummy, plasma TVs showing Ben Curtis trying to beat the rain at the Booz Allen Classic, lockers and, finally, second door on the left: the Jack Nicklaus Room.
More tears.
I insert my key into the lock. It fits. Turn it to the right. It turns. This is really it. I pause. Do I genuflect or just walk right in? I split the difference -- say a small prayer and enter.
It is a shrine to the Golden Bear, my all-time favorite golfer, and all of his accomplishments at Firestone.
The walls are a gallery of Jack's greatness in Akron. His wins at the original World Series of Golf. Photos of his PGA Championship victory in 1975. Nicklaus and the trophy from the first full field and sanctioned World Series in '76.
There is also a framed personal letter from Jack to the club. He writes what a special place Firestone had been in his career. It describes in detail his first tournament there as a teenager for the Rubber City Open.
I take a dozen pictures with my cell phone. I sit for an hour and use that same phone to call all those shark buddies of mine and tell them I am sitting in the Jack Nicklaus Room. My brother-in-law, another Jack devotee, wants to fly in.
The dinner goes well, the Q&A with the likes of Jim Brown, Jerome Bettis, Jack Lambert and Jerry Rice is terrific. I might have downed a beer. First time in my life there are sports heroes and free booze and all I want to do is go back to sleep. The Nicklaus Room awaits.
I climb the two flights back to heaven. I realize there is a problem. Two beds. Which one would Jack sleep in? If he's been here, which one did he sleep in?
This is my chance to channel greatness. My chance to absorb a full night of Golden Bear karma. It's imperative that I get this decision right.
I make a plan. Set the alarm and crawl into the left bed. It's 1 a.m. My handicap immediately drops 3 strokes.
4 a.m. BUZZZZZZZZZZZ. The alarm fires. I roll out of the left bed. And climb into the right bed and fall back asleep. I dream of hitting laser 1-irons for 250 yards.
One night. Two beds. Three hours each. The plan is genius. I've never been better rested.
On the first tee, I smoke my drive straighter than a Vatican Cardinal. GIR. Two-putt par.
Jack's mojo lasts another hole and a half before I'm back to hacking. The final number is 85.
I fly home and excitedly tell this story to my wife. She does not understand and heads off to bed. "You coming?" she asks.
I have a Vardon grip on the television remote.
Who can sleep?
