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Brehaut is holding a 12-ounce bottle of Poland Spring and swinging it like a miniature golf club. When he gets to the top of his backswing, he releases the bottle, sending it tumbling through the air to Rodgers, who is sitting directly behind Brehaut. The drill is designed to get Brehaut's swing on a more upright plane, and it seems to be working.
"That's real pretty there!" Rodgers says. "Reeeeeeeally pretty!"
If Rodgers never met his potential as a player, he has exceeded it as a teacher, never more famously than in 1980 when his old pal Nicklaus forgot how to chip. "It was almost to the point where I had to putt around bunkers," Nicklaus recalls. So Nicklaus beckoned Rodgers, and what was to be a two-day tune-up at Nicklaus's place in Florida turned into a two-week transformation. "Phil totally revamped my short game and gave me confidence," Nicklaus says. "It was a significant part of why I won the U.S. Open in 1980." And, two months later, the PGA Championship.
Even as a kid, Rodgers was fascinated by the minutiae of swing mechanics, studying the moves of Runyan, Snead and Hogan as if they were holy scripture. His curiosity carried over to golf equipment, an interest he later applied at Cobra Golf, where he helped develop the three-wedge system and the "rusting" wedge (his "Trusty Rusty" wedge was an instant classic). Rodgers was wired for the game, both physically and intellectually, and he still thrives on infusing his aptitude in others, especially on the practice tee.
"He was a bulldog in that he'd sink his teeth into you," says Fred Griffin, the director of the Grand Cypress Academy of Golf in Orlando, where Rodgers taught for two decades after retiring from the Champions Tour. At the Hills of Lakeway, near Austin, Texas, where Rodgers also taught, he once showed up on the range dressed as a drill sergeant. "Sometimes he'd swear at you," Griffin recalls. "Sometimes he'd beat on you. But he'd always motivate and inspire you, and that's what separates a great teacher from a good one."
Rodgers' Tour experience has also helped. "I know if I ask him about this hole, this shot, he's been there and succeeded and failed at the same thing," Brehaut says. "If I'm hitting a pitch shot to a pin on the top tier of a green, he'll say, 'I want your second bounce to be right here.' That's how precise he is. He teaches like no one else."
That much is obvious in Rodgers' home office, which is cluttered with teaching awards and certificates. On a wall by the door is a print of Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Nicklaus and Rodgers at L.A. Country Club in 1962. "It's amazing," Rodgers says. "That photograph is in art galleries in La Jolla, Carmel, San Francisco. It's all over. Those guys are still a very viable item."
Rodgers is careful not to include himself in their class, nor would he want to be, he says. See, without the burden of being a major champion, Rodgers can teach golf, fly fish, and eat his steaks in relative anonymity. And that suits him just fine. "I'm a lot more comfortable where I am," Rodgers says. "I may be disappointed that I didn't accomplish what I wanted to, but I hate people bringing it up — 'Oh, yeah, you were the runner-up at the British Open.' I hate that. I didn't do it. I didn't get the trophy, so it's over. Thank you very much."
