The most important thing he ever learned about golf, he learned from his grandfather with a fishing rod.

Back in January of this year, I went to watch The American Express Golf Tournament in La Quinta, CA. Out of all the players playing, I decided to follow Rickie Fowler the entire day. I think I am drawn to his style of play, his demeanor, his attitude, his bright orange attire, and his chill factor…all of which work together to gain my attention and respect. Not to mention, lately he’s been turning it on. He has already finished in the top 10 four times in 2026. He has made nine cuts in eleven starts, his consistent approach play is spot on, his putting has improved significantly, and during the right moments, he’s nailing his long iron shots in an elite manner. I am predicting he will win soon.

Last Sunday at the Truist Championship, Rickie Fowler stood on the 18th fairway at Quail Hollow needing par to give himself a genuine chance at the title. He’d opened the week sick with a 102-degree fever; he couldn’t feel his hands…but then shot 63 on Friday to claw back into it. On Sunday, he went out seven shots behind and carved a 65, birdie after birdie, making the course look like what it looked like when he won here in 2012. Then the wind shifted. He hit a 7-iron. It landed left of the flag. He missed the par putt. Game over.

Rickie Yutaka Fowler grew up in Murrieta, California, about an one hour drive from where I live. He didn’t grow up with much, but had something arguably more useful: a culture of going all-in without taking themselves too seriously. His father, Rod, won the Baja 1000 on a four-wheeler. His mother, Lynn, coached the USA triathlon team for the Beijing Olympics. Rickie himself was racing dirt bikes at age three. Not on a closed track somewhere safe, but on whatever terrain they could find.

He didn’t learn golf at a country club. He learned it at the Murrieta Valley Driving Range with his grandfather Taka Tanaka…a quiet man who had, years earlier, survived a World War II Japanese internment camp in Wyoming and rebuilt a life almost entirely without bitterness. Taka would pick Rickie up from school at 2 p.m., and they’d just hit balls and fish and be around each other. “He didn’t talk much,” Tanaka recalled. “When we fished, he did everything right, and he had patience where he didn’t mind if he didn’t catch anything.” Rickie has his grandfather’s name tattooed in Japanese on his left bicep.