The Day I Played Golf with Jack Nicklaus

The Day I Played Golf with Jack Nicklaus

I was able to start golfing again back in 2006. Once I picked it up, I really leaned into it—taking lessons, playing tournaments, and finding myself hooked on the game.

Interestingly, my golf journey ties back to an old friend from the very early days of the internet. Before there was Facebook, LinkedIn, or even much email, there were bulletin boards. Robert Hinderleider from Delco ran one, Ron Musgraves had one, and Matt Bryan created one called The Grease Police. It was a simple but brilliant idea: a small online community of “greasers” from around the country—guys like me who worked in the kitchen exhaust cleaning industry.

I thought The Grease Police was a great name, and through that board, I got to know Matt. He became both a colleague and, eventually, a golfing partner. The bulletin boards were where a lot of us connected before the social media era, and I still think fondly about those early digital communities.

Learning the Game with Stick

Around that same time, I got close with a gentleman named Donald “Stick” Stickney, a member at Glen Flora Country Club. Stick wasn’t just a buddy—he became my teacher. I was no natural, and I needed guidance, so I took weekly lessons with him.

Stick introduced me to other members, got me into tournaments, and soon I was competing in outings sponsored by places like Cheesecake Factory, Panda Express, Hooters, and Outback Steakhouse. We had some success too, winning a few first and second prizes along the way. Stick and I also traveled for golf, which turned into some really fun trips.

Over the years, Stick would joke that he was going to “pay me back” for all the times I’d taken him places. He’d grin and say, “Don’t worry—I’m going to get your game with Jack Nicklaus.” I always laughed it off. Sure, Stick. Someday.

The Call

Then one day, after years of teasing, I came home from a long trip and the phone rang.

It was Stick. “Jack called,” he said. “We can play. Pick me up tomorrow in Florida, and we’ll head to Jupiter.”

I thought he was pulling my leg. But he was dead serious.

So I cashed in some miles, flew down, rented a car, picked Stick up, and off we went.

Not on the List

When we arrived at Jack’s club, the first sign was discouraging. At the gate, the guard shook his head. “Sorry, you’re not on the list.” Same thing at the pro shop.

I told Stick we should just grab lunch and wait until the afternoon tee time. But Stick was in his late seventies and stubborn as a mule. “Nah,” he said. “Let’s go to his office.”

I argued—“He said we’re supposed to meet him later.” But Stick was already marching toward Jack’s building.

Sure enough, we found ourselves in his office lobby. The secretary buzzed him, and to my surprise, Jack Nicklaus himself came out.

He shook our hands, chatted briefly with Stick, and then said, “I wasn’t expecting you until later at the course.” He had a doctor’s appointment and some work to do but told us to meet him back at the club in the afternoon.

That’s when it started to sink in: this might actually happen.

Royal Treatment

When we returned to the club, everything changed.

At the gate: “Ah yes, Mr. Mirza, Mr. Stickney, right this way.” They took our clubs, set up lockers, and even asked if we’d like to eat in the dining room or the locker room. Stick and I chose the locker room, where we were treated like royalty—waiter service, polished shoes, the whole works.

Then, in walked Jack Nicklaus. He sat down casually, ordered a bowl of soup, and chatted with us like we were old friends. After lunch, he told us to head out to the range and warm up. He’d join us after his appointment.

On the Range

The range felt like something out of a movie. Caddies in crisp white uniforms greeted us, set us up, and stood by to help. Stick and I loosened up, and before long, Jack showed up with his son.

It was game time: Jack and his boy versus me and Stick.

First Tee Jitters

When it came time to tee off, I nervously stepped to the tee box. Jack stopped me. “Daryl, we don’t hit from here—we hit from back there.” He pointed to the pro tees.

Back I went. Tight fairway, Jack Nicklaus watching me, nerves buzzing. I went through my little routine—waggle, knee bend, deep breath—and swung. Miraculously, the ball went straight down the middle.

Jack nodded. “Okay.”

I exhaled in relief.

The Match

The round was unforgettable. Jack was gracious, funny, and every bit the gentleman you’d hope he’d be. Stick was his usual character, needling both me and Jack.

On one par-three, I ended up in a bunker. Jack landed in the same one. I hit first, and chili-dipped it badly. Jack stepped up, took his swing—and did the exact same thing. We both burst out laughing.

By the 12th hole, Stick and I were actually up a couple strokes. But legends don’t lose on their own course. Jack flipped a switch, rolled the greens fast, and started pouring it on. By the time we reached 18, he birdied the hole and closed us out in true Nicklaus fashion.

The Five Bucks

After the round, I thanked Jack for what was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I offered to pay the caddies.

He shook his head. “No, Daryl. You’re my guest. But give me my five bucks.”

So yes—I lost to Jack Nicklaus, but the real prize was the story I get to tell. A once-in-a-lifetime round of golf with the Golden Bear himself, made possible by an old friend who finally delivered on his promise.