It was the summer of 2005 in Dallas, and three kids who’d grown up within a five-mile radius of Brookhaven Country Club were about to turn junior golf upside down.
Jordan Spieth was twelve, skinny as a 5-iron, with a swing that already looked like it had been photocopied from a textbook. Jordan’s little brother Steven, two years younger, tagged along everywhere, usually carrying a basketball instead of a golf bag. And then there was Will, their neighbor and permanent third wheel, the kid who could chip it backwards over his head and still make you laugh when it went in.
They called themselves “The Brookhaven Bandits, though nobody outside their zip code had any reason to know the name yet.
Every afternoon after school let out, the three of them would pile into Ellie Spieth’s Suburban—clubs rattling in the back like wind chimes—and head to the course. Jordan always rode shotgun, already studying yardage books like they were Harry Potter novels. Steven sat in the middle row dribbling an imaginary basketball against the seat in front of him. Will sprawled across the third row, making up rap lyrics about whatever par-5 they were about to play.
The ritual was always the same. Eighteen holes. Loser bought Sonic drinks. Jordan almost never bought.
But the magic wasn’t that Jordan won (everyone already knew he was ridiculous). The magic was what happened on the walk between shots.
When Steven’s tee ball sailed into someone’s backyard for the third time in a week, Jordan didn’t sigh or lecture. He just laughed, handed his little brother a new ball and said, “That one had a manufacturing defect anyway. Try this one.” When Will chunked three chips in a row and started fake-crying into the flagstick, Jordan waited until the theatrics peaked, then quietly rolled a ball across the green and knocked it in with his putter still in one hand, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “See? Even the ball feels bad for you,” he grinned.
Years later, reporters would ask Jordan where his preposterous short game came from. He always gave the same answer: “Hours and hours of trying to beat those two idiots around Brookhaven.”
By the time Jordan was fifteen, college coaches were camping in the Spieth driveway. He chose Texas, mostly because it was close enough that Steven (now a lanky high-school freshman) and Will could still come heckle him on weekends. They showed up to his first Longhorn matches wearing homemade T-shirts that read “Jordan’s Entourage: Population 2.” Steven’s had a cartoon basketball on the back. Will’s just said “Designated Caddy (Tips Appreciated).”
In April 2015, when Jordan stood on the 18th green at Augusta with a four-shot lead and the whole world watching, the camera caught something most people missed. As the final putt dropped and the roar went up, Jordan looked straight into the gallery, past the patrons and the azaleas, and found two familiar faces losing their minds near the back rope line.
Steven was jumping up and down like he’d just hit a game-winning three. Will had both hands on his head, screaming something that definitely wasn’t family-friendly. Jordan just smiled the same half-cocked grin he’d worn at twelve years old when he knew he had you beat on the 17th at Brookhaven, and tapped his heart twice.
Later that night, wearing the green jacket that still looked two sizes too big, he FaceTimed them from Butler Cabin.
“You owe us Sonic,” Steven yelled into the phone.
“Extra-large tater tots,” Will added. “And cherry limeades. National champion tax.”
Jordan laughed until he couldn’t breathe.
Ten years, three majors, and one fedora-wearing baby girl later, the three of them still play a few times a year, usually the weekend before Christmas. Jordan’s swing is a little tighter now, his hair a little thinner. Steven finally grew into his arms and actually beats him sometimes. Will still chunks the occasional chip, then blames the lie.
The score doesn’t matter much anymore. They don’t even keep one most days.
They just walk the same fairways they did when they were kids, trading the same jokes, remembering when the biggest dream any of them had was making the high-school team.
Three kids from Dallas.
One of them happened to win the Masters at twenty-one, then again at twenty-nine, and probably a couple more times before he’s done.
But if you ask any of them which version of the story they like best, they’ll tell you it isn’t the one with the trophies.
It’s the one with the Suburban wind chimes, backyard tee shots, and the summer three brothers (two by blood, one by choice) ruled a little country club in Texas, long before the rest of the world ever knew their names.
And every time they tee it up together now, Jordan still looks over before he hits and says the same thing he’s said since 2005:
“Try to keep it in
the county this time, boys.”
They never do.
