This Father’s Day 2025, I’m sharing, once again, what I wrote about the intersection of The U.S. Open, Oakmont, and my dad, first in 1998, and again in 2016. Why? Well, the U.S. Open has returned to Oakmont. This story from 1998 brings back my dad so vividly that I relish experiencing it again. Posting it to share with you is a way to continue to honor and remember Homer for the great dad he was on this, the tenth Father’s Day, without him.

Dad, you taught me so much, and one was to share what you have. This story is about sharing access to greatness. It’s about making friends with a legendary golf course through which you and I created a lasting memory.

Here’s that story…as rewritten in 2016

One of the many wonderful things about Father’s Day has been its tie to the final round of the US Open. This year, it returned to historic Oakmont Country Club, just up the Allegheny River north of Pittsburgh. That opens the door to memories of extra significance and storytelling.

But first, 13 months after Dad’s passing (Dad died on May 7, 2015), I celebrate Father’s Day thinking of him and the many great times we shared together.

Back to the Open and Oakmont…

In 1994, when we lived in Pittsburgh and I worked for WPXI-TV, an NBC affiliate, I scored four tickets to the Saturday round courtesy of my then boss, John Howell, and NBC, which was picking up the rights to televise the tourney starting the following year.

We invited Mom and Dad to join us so they drove from Durham. Their drive coincided with the infamous OJ Simpson in the White Bronco chase on June 17, 1994. A very surreal event to be sure.

We had a blast at the tournament even though it was a sweltering 95 degrees. The tickets gave us club house access and parking right inside the entrance. We walked the entire course that day, and appreciated the shade of the trees that have now been famously removed. On Father’s Day Sunday, we watched on TV as the championship ended in a three-way tie between the baby-faced, gum-chewing, smooth swinging nobody, Ernie Els, Loren Roberts and the much maligned Brit, Colin Montgomerie.

Ties after 72 holes are settled with an 18-hole playoff on Monday. Mom and Dad stayed and we watched that amazing test as well, which ended in a two-way tie between Els and Roberts. Those two went into sudden death and Els won his first major at 24.

John and I were invited to play Oakmont four years later through the station’s sponsorship of the Western Pennsylvania Golf Association’s Centennial celebration. With an opening for a fourth, John suggested that I invite Homer. This is the story of that day.

Oakmont Tuesday

July 28, 1998

Even though 5:30 a.m. is quite early, it slowly crept into view on my digital bedside clock. I had waited all through the night: 1:30, 2:30, and 3:30, when I let the cat come in, then 4:30 and 5:30. Finally, it was time to get up and go play, no, experience, the penultimate in golf at the historic Oakmont Country Club. Home to amateur and major PGA championships that list more PGA winners than any other course except Augusta National.

Dad, John, and I were set to play with Rosemary Studer – a member, our host, and a 12 handicapper…at Oakmont! She was standing in for her husband, who was unable to play.

Excitement doesn’t begin to describe the feelings coursing through my veins.

The weather was set to be picture-perfect for July in Western Pennsylvania. Although it would be warm, we were instructed to wear pants to avoid any potential for embarrassment from too-short shorts.

John picked us up right at 6:30 in his Cadillac. We arrived at the club by 7:15. The bag master, a gnarly old timer, snatched our clubs from the trunk. He spotted John’s ball retriever, yanked it from the bag, tossed it back into the trunk, and scoffed, “You won’t need that here. No water at Oakmont.” He loaded our clubs onto a flat-back maintenance cart. He sped away, saying we would find our bags on the range.

We looked at each other. John gave an “oh well” shoulder shrug and noted that the guy was looking out for the caddies by reducing the weight.

As we approached the side of the clubhouse, Rosemary, who had most certainly been on the lookout for us, bopped down the stairs with a big, welcoming smile. Although we had never met, she already knew who we were. She quickly introduced herself, looked each of us in the eyes, and said our first names as she shook our hands. She was prepared, and her friendliness and first-name basis made us feel comfortable immediately. She directed us to the men’s locker room to change into our golf shoes and said she would see us at the range.

We met our caddies, who were standing beside our bags at the driving range. Oakmont only allowed carts with a doctor’s note. No carts meant no cart paths. The way golf should be played. We loosened up, hitting brand new balls stacked in perfect pyramids. Then, we moved on to the famous putting green, also the green for the ninth hole. There, rolling a few practice putts, we met Mr. Stimpmeter and learned what Johnny Miller meant when he said Oakmont was always ready for Championship play. It never lets its pants down. I can say with experience, Johnny was correct.

And almost before I realized it, we were leading off the day’s field on Number 1, the hardest starting hole in golf, according to Miller, the 1973 winner who carded a 63 in one of the most storied Sunday rounds in U.S. Open history.

When it was my turn to tee off, I almost fainted in my backswing. I managed to sail it down the left side, missing the fairway and finding the first of many of Oakmont’s infamous bunkers. The son of the developer, W. C. Fownes Jr., was said to place new bunkers wherever good players managed to miss the others lying in wait.

As we walked off the tee box, my caddie took my driver and said, “That was a good hit, just a little left, into the same trap Ernie Els found in the playoff round in the 1994 Open.” I thought, welcome to Oakmont, where every present-day shot can be tied to history. I’d never played a course with that kind of name-dropping pedigree.

Walking down the fairway, looking at Dad and John, with our caddie entourage, it felt like walking on hallowed ground. Quickly, the reality of the difficulties of the course took over and left no time for dreaming. It took everything we had to focus on the next shot in front of us.

As if the round meant anything of significance, I could try to take you through it all, but relax. I won’t. I brought some good parts of my game, including a lot of very good drives with my new Big Bertha driver.

“Yep, I think the boy done out drove his knowledge.”

On the seventh hole, I really connected. Rosemary, a great admirer of others’ shots, couldn’t get over how well I struck it and how far it traveled. Dad, in classic Homer style, quick with the needle, said, “Yep, I think the boy done out drove his knowledge.” When it was finally my turn to hit the approach shot, I fired it over the green. In trying to prove him wrong, I proved him to be correct.

My irons searched for targets, going off left, right, short, and long of my aim. I did hole a few putts that made me feel heroic, and also faced putts that shook me to my toes, as balls rolled by the increasingly tiny cup and continued and continued on as if gravity would never stop them.

None of us lit it up, but considering the difficulty of the course, we did pretty well. Dad, who was 76 years old then, put up the best fight and shot 93, as did Rosemary. To be fair, she was more focused on us than on her own play. John hit a lot of good shots and all in all, I felt good carding a 95 with a couple of three and four-putt holes.

Rosemary graciously hosted us for lunch on the veranda overlooking the putting green and ninth hole. And boom, we were through, loading our clubs back in John’s trunk. I saw his ball retriever in the trunk and thought back to our opening encounter with the brusk old codger, one of the many characters I’m sure inhabit the storied course. He wasn’t wrong. We certainly didn’t need a ball retriever at Oakmont.

That night, we hosted John and his wife, Gail, for a steak dinner. As we drank wine and enjoyed dinner, Julie, Mom, and Gail patiently listened to our stories of the day’s experience. It was a fitting way to end and savor a great day on a truly great and historical course – the best on which I’ve ever teed it up. It couldn’t have been any more special with Dad.

My caddie and I took photos during the round, then I picked the best, had them mounted and framed along with our score card and the pencil. I gave it to Dad for Christmas that year. It hung in their kitchen for over two decades until Mom downsized into assisted living in 2022.

It has hung in my home in Atlanta since. I put it and the hat that I’m wearing in the photos from the 1994 Open next to the TV while we watched the tournament coverage and JJ Spaun’s hard-won victory.