LOUISVILLE, Ky. (WDRB) -- Fuzzy Zoeller, the charismatic two-time major champion whose wit and flair made him one of golf’s most colorful figures and left a mark on the personality of the game, has died at age 74.
In these parts, we remember the laugh first.
It wasn’t subtle. It was a full-bodied, southern Indiana cackle, often followed by a wisecrack, a handshake, or a wink, and just as often, a perfectly struck iron shot.
Born Frank Urban Zoeller Jr. on Nov. 11, 1951, in New Albany, Indiana, Zoeller rose from local high school golf star to international prominence. He got the nickname because of his initials (FUZ), and it stuck.
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For a time, Zoeller was one of the biggest names in golf, and one of its brightest lights. He won two majors, joked his way through pressure, and made fans feel like they were walking the fairways with him. He was the guy who tossed his putter in the air at Augusta. The guy who waved a white towel at Greg Norman. The guy with the nickname that sounded more like a cartoon character than a three-time Ryder Cup player.
But he was also a man who carried regret. A man whose name, for many, would forever be linked not to what he did on the course, but what he said off it. That, too, is part of the story.
A green jacket and a white towel
Fuzzy won the 1979 Masters in his first try, a feat so rare it’s been done only three times in history. Gene Sarazen did it in 1935, when the tournament was still a fledgling thing. Horton Smith did it in its very first year. Since then? Only Zoeller.
He won in sudden death, no less, a six-foot birdie on the 11th hole at Augusta National. He tossed his putter skyward like a bouquet. The image became a signature.
Five years later, at the U.S. Open at Winged Foot, Zoeller stood in the fairway on Sunday as Greg Norman buried a 50-footer from the fringe. Thinking it was for birdie, Zoeller grabbed a white towel and waved it above his head in surrender. Norman had made par, not birdie, but the playoff was on.
Zoeller birdied two of the first three holes the next day. Norman doubled the second. It was over before it was over, an eight-shot rout by day’s end. When they reached the 18th green, Norman pulled out a towel of his own and returned the gesture.
That was Fuzzy. Playful. Sharp. Disarming. The kind of guy who could defuse pressure with a joke and still bury you on the scorecard. And he did it all, people often forget, while laboring through a lifelong back injury he sustained playing high school basketball.
Then came 1997
He was 45 by the time Tiger Woods arrived at Augusta in full roar. That week changed everything in golf.
And it changed Fuzzy, too, though not in the way he expected.
After Woods’ historic win, Zoeller, speaking to reporters, made a crack about Woods not serving “fried chicken” and “collard greens” at the next champions dinner. He was trying to be funny. He failed badly.
The backlash was swift, widespread, and lasting. Zoeller apologized. Over and over. “I’ve cried many times,” he later told Golf Digest. “If people wanted me to feel the same hurt I projected on others, I’m here to tell you they got their way.”
It never fully went away.
His sponsors left. The laugh got quieter. He remained part of the game, especially in southern Indiana, but always with a shadow trailing close behind. He knew it would never go away. More than a decade later, he would get mail, and later e-mail, angry about what he said.
This much should be said. He understood the anger. To the end.
A day I won’t forget
I didn’t know Fuzzy well. His time in the spotlight mostly came before my time a sportswriter here. But he did give me one of the great days of my sportswriting life.
It was at his Wolf Challenge, a celebrity golf event he hosted at his Covered Bridge Golf Club near home for 16 years. That year, he had Kevin Costner and Bill Murray in the field. Let that sink in.
I spent the day bouncing between them as a columnist for The Courier-Journal. Murray, worth the price of admission even if he never touched a club. Costner, whose sports films meant more to me than any actor’s résumé has a right to.
That day was pure joy. And Fuzzy made it happen. That event, over its run, raised more than $2 million for children’s charities, just one of the many philanthropic efforts he quietly launched in his later years.
He knew how to fill a fairway, with stars, with laughter, and once upon a time, with roars.
Remembering the man
You don’t erase the words he said. You don’t ignore the hurt they caused.
But to see him later in life — more humbled, more reflective — was to see a man who carried his mistakes openly. Who wanted to make amends, even when the world wasn’t interested. A man who loved his family, his home state, and a good story.
In his later years, he endured the loss of his wife, Diane. Through it all, he remained loyal to southern Indiana — and to his beloved Indiana Hoosiers on the hardwood.
Fuzzy Zoeller was not a perfect man. But in his best moments, he was something golf — and maybe all of us — could use a little more of.
Human.
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