Coppinwood

In 1994, I was sent to photograph several golf courses in Japan for Tom Watson’s course design company. My last stop was Phoenix Golf and Country Club, a stunning resort in Miyazaki, located in the far southern part of Japan on the Pacific coast. 

As a golf photographer, I never traveled with clubs or proper golf attire. So, when I was invited to play a round with the marketing director and the director of golf, Mr. Nakamura, I had to improvise. I showed up in walking shoes, Bermuda shorts, and a golf shirt, feeling ready for the course. But I quickly learned I wasn’t quite dressed to their standards.

The first adjustment? Shoes. My wide, size 9EEE feet were handed a pair of sleek white 11AA golf shoes that felt more like skis than footwear. Then came the knee-high socks and a hat—both part of the strict dress code meant to shield every inch of skin from the sun. I couldn’t help but feel like a misfit, but I was committed to the experience.

We arrived at the first hole, where we were introduced to our caddy. She was outfitted in a pristine, full-body uniform complete with a large bonnet that left only a small opening for her face. Pushing a small motorized cart, she managed all three of our bags, selected clubs, raked bunkers, fixed divots, tended the pin, and served us hot tea every three holes. It was a level of service I’d never seen before.

After finishing the front nine, a bell rang across the course, signaling every golfer to return to the clubhouse for lunch. And I mean everyone. We enjoyed a meal of steak, baked potatoes, and vegetables, accompanied by several toasts with chilled sake. But the real surprise came afterward—a communal hot bath. We soaked, relaxed, and then headed back to the tenth tee, refreshed and ready for what turned out to be a wildly entertaining back nine.

Following the round, we returned to the clubhouse for another tradition: post-game rounds of sake. By this point, the ice had been thoroughly broken, and the bond with my hosts had grown stronger. That’s when Mr. Nakamura confided that he’d always wanted an American nickname.

After thinking for a moment, I suggested he needed an alliterative first name to match his last. The name “Nick” immediately came to mind. “Nick Nakamura” had a great ring to it. When I shared the suggestion, he looked puzzled and spoke his first English words to me: “What mean, Nick?”

With the help of our interpreter, I explained that men named Nick were known for being handsome, intelligent, and, well… good lovers. Mr. Nakamura listened to our translator intently, nodded thoughtfully, and then declared with a smile: “I Nick.”

It’s one thing to name your children—it’s a privilege I cherished with my son Brett and daughter Paige. But naming a grown man? I never imagined that. Years later, I learned that the nickname stuck. He’s still known as “Nick” Nakamura. And every time I think of that day, I smile. He Nick.