Golf Digress

(From a BBC recording:)

You have driven off the last tee in the championship. You are playing well. Things have been going your way. Now, can you just play the final hole well and win? Can you hang on? Sometimes a player does not know what he needs to win. He might be setting the pace, out in front, but if he knows he needs a five to win, as I did in Carnoustie in the Open Championship in 1937, and, it’s a long with a with a second shot over a wide water hazard, then it requires a little more than average thought.

You cannot decide what to do until after you’ve seen the lie of your ball, and I did hit a good one up the middle. When I arrived there the lie was good, that was Part 1, I felt. Now, could I fly the ball over the water easily? Yes, I could. I thought a two-iron was enough. There was an out of bounds fence running all along the left of the hole. A fence of simle wire strands only. And that had to be avoided at all costs or else it was curtains. Any shot but a hook would be safe. Well, I took my 2-iron and aimed at the bunker, over the burn, on the right of the green hoping I wouldn’t hit it straight, but I did and it went straight in it. Now it was a long walk to the green under my umbrella for it was pouring with rain, had been all day. All I could see were umbrellas all along the left outside the fence. Well, across the bridge to the bunker. It all depended now on the lie. Well there it was lying clean, hard on the wet sand. That was another good break. So I said to myself – I always call myself Cotton on these occasions. I said, “Now, Cotton, any club but that wide-soled sand wedge. Well, I picked my 9-iron cause I knew with a wedge if it skidded a little bit on the bottom it could go over the edge of the green and it would go out of bounds. And that was the thing to avoid now so I took my 9-iron and played – sort of an ordinary shot hitting the ball down and through and put the ball half-way to the pin. That was all I wanted. What a relief. Then I thought two putts and you’re home. Well, I putted up dead, a foot away. I wasn’t very excited about getting up with a one-putt. I holed that and then I could hear the cheering, and I thought that my score might just be all right. Then the marker. Where was the marker? There he was under an umbrella. The sodden card to sign. That was another relief. You must check your card on these occasions. My score was 71. I went through it hole by hole. I walked off the green. I’d won the championship.

According to Henry Longhurst, after the grueling day in miserable conditions, the champion got in his car and drove all the way back to England in time to make an exhibition the next day, an indication, Longhurst thought, of Cotton's extraordinary drive and fitness. -0-

Before we let Jean de Barefoot get back to his mystery disease and his vineyards, there’s a story that Henry Longhurst included in his final account of what came to be called the Coronation Open, Hogan’s victory in 1953, though the kingly reference was not to the Hawk, that bears repeating. It seems, if Henry’s account is correct, that Jean has a predecessor.

It concerns the finish of a Monsieur Pelissier. We pick up the competitor’s tour of the final hole from the fairway.

“His second, a superb three-iron from a bunker, soared over the last green and lodged under the fringe of the border. A Walker Cup selector searching his limited French for “stroke and distance,” could only get as far as quartre and cinq, so Pelissier decided to play it.

“If I play right ‘anded,” he said, “I stay in the geranium. So I take a de blastaire and I play left ‘anded. It is a shot teach me by Auguste Boyer. I ‘it it – and it go out of bound.” (The shot, in fact, carried a full 80 yards, narrowly missing a public telephone kiosky.)

“I drop another. It drop in the same ‘ole. I ‘it it out and then I get down in a chip and putt. If ‘ogan do that, all the people they go ‘prrrr.’ “

Never a dull moment! concluded Henry. And that’s the way it was, July 12, 1953.

Jean Van de Velde on his infamous meltdown on the final hole at Carnoustie in 1999: “I have nothing to be sad about. The ending, fine, who would want an ending like that? In life you have a glass in front of you, in my case a glass of red wine, is it half empty or is it half full? Especially if you drank the first half, what are you going to be sad about?”

He is a millionaire, ten times over, obviously having enjoyed a very good living, especially for a former credit union teller. He has his degree, in Business Administration. He knows his business. It happens to be professional golf. You wouldn’t wait in line to watch him, or likely recognize him in an airport, but he’s very, very good. You couldn’t hang with him, ever. He’s a pro. Anyone who can survive and thrive, as he has, for 17 years, has succeeded by any measure in a business famous for chewing up young phenomenons and spitting them out.

He is PGA Tourist Woodrow Austin. And he’s not going to Carnoustie. Woodrow, my boy, you know best what’s right for Woodrow, and no one would ever deign to tell you differently.

You, sir, are the reason that these United States is turning into a third world power in golf. Don't kid yourself, if it weren’t for Tiger, the bottom would have dropped out. Australia, Argentina, Spain, we’d be right there in the mix but far from preeminence. The best golfer in Texas right now? K.J. Choi of The Woodlands in Houston. Not that the current state of affairs wasn’t inevitable or part of the ebb and flow of golf. Once, Great Britain had to look itself in the mirror and realize that we, upstarts from a new world, had dug their grave and were dancing on it, and it wasn't going to change anytime soon. That was a long time ago. We've had a good run. It's now just about over.

You sir, are the new poster child; all because of this self-deprecating statement and your fateful decision.

For the record, Woody told the BBC:

"I don't know how to play that type of golf. I would probably go and shoot two high numbers and make a fool of myself."

Maybe so. Stay home. Wear your silly shirts. You’re my pick to win the Fruit of the Loom Points Race. Fat and sassy. Soft. That's us, Yanks. You stick with home cooking and a favorable exchange rate and all the comforts of home. But please, friends, save your angst the next time – and the time after that, and, likely, the time after that – when someone from Fiji or Paraguay or Sweden gets it done, and wins what Faldo called the little cups. The meaningful wins don’t come easy, wrapped in nice neat packages. You have to go get them. Even Hogan understood that. But of course he never made anything like the money a champion the caliber of Woody Austin makes. And, no, he won't be missed.

(Good on you, Hunter Mahan, for showing the right attitude.) -0-


http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/golf/6285310.stm

A last exchange from my recent conversation with Dr. Mike Hurdzan, recipient this year of the Donald Ross Award from the American Society of Golf Course Architects at the end of April.

He laughed when I mentioned the major championship winner who, the course owner boasted, had spent the WHOLE day overseeing developments at the new golf course.

Then he laid it all out quite succinctly, saying what many architects, skilled at their craft, must feel when they lose a bid to someone with the name but not necessarily the expertise.

“I am constantly amazed at the celebrity worship that we have not just in this country but around the world, where someone through their skills or good fortune has reached that celebrity status and are assumed to have some God-given powers. You know, I really resent that.

“I think it diminishes the real professional aspect. I guess it’s sort of like the people who assume that Chef Boyardee really makes the stuff that you find in the cans. It’s such a silly idea. And when we think of how fleeting celebrity is... You know, if I said we had a golf course designed by Olin Dutra, or somebody else who was a U.S. Open winner from the twenties, or the forties or fifties, everybody would go, ‘huh, who the heck’s that?’ So it won’t be long that we’ll have a generation that will go, ‘Arnold Palmer? Who the heck’s that?’

Comments?

-0-

For some reason, I’ve felt compelled lately to ask those who’ve been around the block a time or two how things look to them. The question is simply (though, perhaps not so simple after all): Is golf a better game now than when you came in?

Not generally nostalgic; I’ve always liked Red Smith’s observation that he figured he got more liberal as he got older. We’ll start with Mike Hurdzan’s reply. (I know I asked Jack Burke, who thought I was after his thoughts on the pro game, but then he started talking about societal change - I know, heavy stuff – with regards to the way we now approach the whole notion of child's play, and the consequences of it to...the Big Picture.

I think I posted his response, thought provoking stuff, I tell you. Bud Shrake, too, got the question. I can’t remember what he said. I’ve been too scared to check the tape in the event that I somehow screwed it up and lost the better part of a two-hour conversation.

Hurdzan, incidentally, is a former Green Beret, not the first military man to turn to the craft of course design; we’d have to start, I suppose, with the good doctor MacKenzie, who honed the art of camouflage in the savannahs of Africa.

“You know,” Hurdzan said, “in lots of ways the reason that golf has been around for 600 years is that even though the swing and the ball and the clubs, and the people and the golf course, have changed, there is a magic about being in and out among nature and fresh air and being with great friends. And I think that’s the timeless heart of what golf’s about – that companionship of being out in a shred activity pitting yourself against yourself. So despite the fact all those things have changed, I think that golf still has the same allure and it always will.”

Read it over the next time you feel like holding your head in your hands. Not bad for an early Saturday morning. I hope to hell, he’s right. -0-

Just back from a couple of whirlwind visits, to the Westin Stonebriar in Frisco, Texas, and to La Costa. More to follow. First, an excerpt from a recent conversation from Dr. Michael Hurdzan, recipient this year of the Donald Ross Award from the American Society of Golf Course Architects.

We were talking about a theory I heard Mike, a former past president of the ASGCA espouse, that golf had suffered a devastating loss from the First World War. He believed that a valuable link had been severed, including many of those who had, in fact, known Old Tom Morris, the grand old man of golf. It would take time, even generations to recover, to reconnect with the bedrock traditions of the game that had served golf for so long and so well.

He thought that same had occured with respect to the U.S.

Certainly, when we went from the Great Depression in 1929 and then right into WWII when this country was just hoping to survive for 15 – 16 years, we actually lost a number of golf courses and we lost all those skillful designers. And it has taken a couple of generations of people learning from other people to be better designers. I would suggest now that we’re moving into a time when the golf courses that are being produced will be as timeless as those golf courses produced in the 1920s before the Great Depression. As an example of that I would certainly use the Bandon Dunes development, a project we did in Medora, North Dakota, Bully Pulpit, but all over designers have been so sophisticated that we’ve been able to recapture that Golden Age of Architecture.

http://www.hurdzanfry.com
http://www.medora.com/attractions/golf/index.html

It’s not always like this, as I’ve tried in vain to convince several friends, but, yes, it can be a very good thing to sometimes be a golf writer. Here, in fact, is the menu for one of the dinners for what should prove to be a magnificent 20th anniversary celebration commemorating the founding of the Texas Golf Writers set to take place at the lovely Westin Stonebriar Resort in Frisco, Texas. A proud, albeit Yankee past president, who owns neither belt buckle or cowboy boots, I will be proudly in attendance – and in line at the buffet. (We do need a slogan, perhaps: Near and Uncertain?)

Open Bar. Caribbean Rock Lobster with Mango Pico in Mini Phyllo Cup. Gorgonzola Cheese Mousseline atop Anjou Pear and Prosciutto. Sesame Crusted Chicken Skewer with Asian Plum Sauce. Belgian Endive and Boston Bibb Salad with Marinated Asparagus, Portobello Mushrooms and Pepper Confetti with Sun-Dried Tomato Vinaigrette. Chef's Choice of Market Fresh White3 Fish with Appropriate Sauce paired with Petite Filet of Beef with Caramelized Shallot-Sherry Cream Sauce. Chef's Selection of Starch. Chef's Selection of Market Fresh Vegetables. Assorted Rolls with Sweet Butter. Individual Triple Chocolate Mousse Torte with Chococlate Anglaise, Fruit Sauce and Belgian Cookie. Freshly Brewed Starbucks (R) Regular and Decaffeinated Coffee and Assorted Gourmet Hot Teas and Iced Tea.

Anyway, at considerable personal risk, I’ve transcribed below an unexpurgated excerpt from a recent press trip diary:

Woke up with head cold from virulent AC inexplicably switched on at the tail end of previous day’s yoga class. Left for airport on time. Had to drive back home having forgot sandwich and water. Check-in a madhouse. Treated myself to one of those $3 trolleys. It wouldn’t fit in the back seat so drove around the airport to long term parking with left hand on cart, back door of Honda open, right hand on steering wheel. Parked miles away, walked clubs, case, 38 pounds of radio equipment to airport, got in wrong ticket line. Managed to get through security without a strip search. Got in wrong line at correct gate for wrong flight. It’s 8:46 a.m. Wonder why I brought pair of black shoes. Radio equipment weighs 38 pounds, golf clubs 35, small suitcase 12. Nose running. No idea what golf course I’m supposed to play when we land nor how to get there. Perfect. Roaming toddler has just spotted me. He seems interested.

To my chagrin, small bottle of distilled water is viewed as security threat. Toddler agitated. Throat sore. In Celebration of Golf Store next to gate. No copy of Golf Etiquette on display. No Gigantic Book of Golf Quotations either. Took sales manager’s name and address. Woman manning counter stands in front of a large painting of the home fairway of the Old Course. Has no idea what it depicts. Shard of glass in my rubber sole. Absent-mindedly pull it out. Tip of thumb and forefinger now bleeding. 9:07. 9:15 Thunderstorms in Dallas. Flight delayed. 10:05 departure, now 10:20. There are 20 or more people wearing red t-shirts, “Texas Tracers Victoria to Utah" on their shirts. They wear their Ids around their necks like children. They’re Betty, Martha & Hilda, and they have the same bowl haircuts as Jody Conradt. They’re taking photos of each other. Lord, get me to Reno.

A man who spoke to me in the golf store butts in front of me in line. I cut him off. Then go sit and read the comics, bummed from a passerby. He’s right behind the Tracers. He can listen to them. 9:35 Flight now delayed to 10:45. Now 10:55. 10:30 Sneezing in bunches. Moved to Gate 12. Adept gate agent, knowing I’d miss my connection, has rerouted me and two others to LA, then to Reno, theoretically only arriving an hour or so later. 11:15 on LA flight. Will clubs make it to Reno? Does station equipment get off Phoenix flight?

Noon. Seated next to the Bush twins…discussing..Halloween costumes?! “Penis” as a faux Crayloa color? Actual quote: “I don’t get nude golf. Sunbathing nude has a purpose.” Other twin: “…to get a tan.” First twin: “But nude golf?” (They’d been reading a USA Today article, apparently, on nude activities.)

“L.A.’s like, really, I don’t know.”

“I feel like a black hole today.”

(Reading People magazine:) “Forty’s kind of gross, but 60’s a whole nother ball game.”

Thrilled to see Wyatt’s article in the magazine in the seat back pocket. [Spirit, June 07, Southwest…I’ll post the link.]

12:35 Officially coming down with something. Hanky soaked. Throat sore.

-0-

Actually, it's just the first draft for the opening of tomorrow's radio show, That's Golf! on Your Longhorn Flagship Station, AM 1300, The Zone, in Austin, TX, as we like to say, "a proud part of your Saturday morning cartoon line-up."

Scripts are funny, sometimes chucked, sometimes followed to the letter. I figure they're akin to scripting the first few plays of a football game, as I believe Andy Reid does. Some backstory: the day after Ronald Reagan was shot, I happened to be on a class trip that went into the bowels of NBC at Rockefeller Center. There was the studio, and there was John Chancellor's script on onion skin paper from the previous night. I swiped the first page, which I still have, which included his lede, that the president had been shot, along with the opening camera cues. I never forgot. There's also a conversation between Studs Terkel and a very young Woody Allen. They're backstage at some club in Chicago. Allen says that he feels that improv is kind of a cop out, that folks deserve a show and, by implication, the fruits of good writing and adequate preparation. I'm not going to make either claim here. Will I use it tomorrow? Probably, but like a good coach, you have to be willing to go to Plan B, or, in my case, Plans C, D, E & F.

That's Golf! 6/23/07

Could there really be anyone in this great land who still believes that America has a hegemony on the professional game?

The U.S. may have the most lucrative tour. It may have the No. 1 player in the game. The best teachers? The best juniors? The best courses? No, arguably, on all three counts. This is an international game. (In fact, it always has been.) The U.S. no more dominates the top echelon then Britannia still rules the waves.

Golf geo-politics is not one of our topics this morning, but you have to understand that when Tim Finchem, the PGA Tour commissioner, talks about the fifth major and the sixth major, and so on, he’s living in a dream world.

Oakmont was a major championship. The course, the field, the pressure & the stakes exemplify why majors are so compelling. The PGA Tour can run all the ads with footage of Jones and Hogan and what all else, trying to generate some sort of excitement for a corporate end-of-season points race that’s so unforgettable by comparison to the sort of golf we had last week, that it hardly warrants discussion.

Good morning, an irritable Jim Apfelbaum inviting you again to the golfer’s slice of the Saturday morning cartoon line-up here on the Zone. I’m delighted both of you could drop by. We’ll visit later with David Mackintosh who is in fact the golf correspondent for the Buenos Aires Herald. We’ll talk about golf down Argentina way, and about Senor Pato Cabrera.

It’s almost too soon to go back to watching. Just tune in for a minute. They’re playing a TPC course in Connecticut, and I do think it’s fair and proper that the tour should visit New England, a place of considerable significance to the heritage of golf in America, and home to some exceptional courses. Our own Ben Crenshaw said on his first visit to the Country Club outside Boston, it was the first time he saw people wearing coats and ties coming out to the golf course.
Let’s break this down just for a minute, and I promise to get off this. We’ve got far too much to talk about. Of course, Bryan Gathright will join me in about 20 minutes, and we’ll make time if there’s something gnawing at you. He sidles by and kindly offers his insights on everything from the swing to club selection to effective practice.

Here’s just one difference, one thing that, in my uninformed opinion, has helped transform America from a golfing power into something less than the success we’ve grown accustomed to. And we’re seeing this develop from an aberration into a trend. Ernie Els, Retief Goosen, Angel Cabrera, Michael Campbell, Geoff Ogilvy. Take Tiger Woods out of the equation and how would things look for the good old red, white and blue?

Oakmont's fairways were 22 to 35 yards wide. They were lined by bunkers and extremely dense rough that was 1 1/2 to 5 inches deep. The greens registered 13 1/2 to 14 1/2 on the Stimpmeter. By contrast, TPC fairways are 30 to 40 yards wide. The rough is 1 1/4 to 4 1/2 inches and the comparatively flat greens run about 11 feet. And there are an estimated 91 fewer bunkers this week at the TPC River Highlands than the 210 at the U.S. Open. And, you had best believe that our boys are glad to be back where the rough doesn’t cost them a shot….where the bombers rule the roost… -0-

It never quite worked as well for me as it did for the guy going about oh 6' 5" 235. You need swing speed. Eighty, 85 mph doesn’t really cut it, but it is a fun trick and I’ve seen it successfully performed by more than one long knocker. The thought is prompted by the story, maybe you saw it, about the fire started out in Reno by a golfer striking a rock in the rough. Oh, I believe it.

Missed it? Here’s the wire account:

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/national/1120AP_ODD_Golf_Fire.html?source=mypi

You need a match book, the kind that used to be found in the bay of cigarette machines, or handed out at restaurants. You open it up so a ball will rest inside. Stand it up on the ground with the matches facing where the clubhead will strike. Take that metal big-headed driver and hit the heck out of it. You’ll see some fireworks. But, please, Only you can prevent golf course fires. -0-

I guess we’d have to say the comment was fairly naïve, all things considered, but anyone of right mind would have to agree with the hope behind J..J. Henry’s sentiment. The AP account of the Finchem announcement with respect to a drug policy carried this comment from the former T.C.U. golfer:

“A lot of people have talked about that integrity and honesty of golf is what makes it so special," he said. "I'd like to think there's none of that going on out here, to be honest with you."

Do you think someone’s already tinkered? Nick Price thought so. Heart medications, wasn’t it? The ability to slow adrenalin in the heat of the moment, which I think even Mr. Henry would concede could be a distinct advantage. Those golfers looking at putts for the third or fourth time? They’re not looking for anything. They know what the putt's going to do. They’re dancing, in the true boxing sense, buying time, just trying to control their breath, and their nerves.

Given the stakes, the sophistication of modern sports and advances in pharmacology, I’d have to assume that if there is a way, the will exists. Perhaps someone on the mini-tours, perhaps a coach, perhaps, hate to say it, but yes, perhaps a parent, has sought an illegal edge. What Henry didn’t add, which he might’ve of, is that by its very nature, golf is far too complex for a cure-all. One generic drug ain't going to do it. Touch, distance, clarity, creativity? Is there a drug with all these properties? I don’t think so.

Smokes seemed to work well for Mr. Cabrera, though didn’t they? But then, tobacco, I gather, is a very complex herb. -0-

This is what I find remarkable. Resignation. Not something we’re used to hearing in his voice, or from him. I wasn’t there, didn’t hear the comment but just to see it mentioned in print is something Holmes might find instructive. Now, of course, we know in hindsight that he was playing golf while his wife was on the verge of giving birth to their first child. And that his birdie drought, including so many sensitive putts down to the final attempt, could not be charged, surely frustrating enough to wear down even someone of Tiger’s mental fortitude.

There it is, just the same. We will have to wait until Carnoustie to assess the damage and scar tissue. As it stands, Tiger is still running away with the statistical measurements for Player of the Year and the Vardon Trophy.

The following appeared well along in the game story from Newsday’s Shaun Powell:

“I haven’t gotten it done. Put myself there,” Woods said, his voice lowering, “and haven’t gotten it done.”

HIS VOICE LOWERING? Get out! Tiger’s voice? Unbelievable. When have we heard Tiger appraise his performance with his voice lowering? But, hey, let’s cut an expectant father some slack. He gave himself an opportunity down to the wire and that’s all a golfer can ask.

Thomas Boswell of the Washington Post mentioned it some years ago in a collection of columns, but it surely predates his telling. “Golf doesn’t teach character,” the old saw goes, “it reveals it.”

So it was with mild interest that I came across the adage in another context. Kerry Wood, the hard luck pitcher, was talking about his first pitching coach in pro baseball, Oscar Acosta. It’s in Buzz Bissinger’s piece in the New York Times magazine, Play, June 2007. “The game doesn’t build character; it reveals it,” Acosta told Wood.

Wood continues to reflect on the advice of his coach, who we learn was killed in a spring traffic accident in the Domincan, “more than ever before.” Perhaps this iinherent to all sports played with sincerity, and part of why we find them so compelling and, at times, maddening. -0-

The cheapskates are never going to put up their own money in a real skins game. That leaves us with only one other truly compelling silly season event. And I'm going to give it away right here, a million dollar idea, to you, gentle reader.

So much has been made of Senor Pato’s predilection to light up, a positively ancient tradition in the game. Quick aside:
it was the perceptive Bobby Locke, always looking for an edge, and himself a smoker, who recognized that when he saw an opponent repeatedly light up that it was a sign things were turning decidedly in his favor. Perhaps there's a clause in the contract not to show golfers smoking ("Think of the Children!" I know of at least one who is very good at hiding.) And, I’m sure you’ve seen it – that wonderful studious snapshot in time of Hogan and Palmer at the Masters - smoking never looked cooler - which just has to be one of the true and best-selling gems of the Watts Collection.

Look, I think it’s a disgusting habit and I’ve seen friends and family taken down by the addiction, but for funzies, you could pull together a pretty good all-time match between the smokers and the non-smokers. And given that Tiger has now been taken down by a cigar-chomping Darren Clarke in the match play, and by the duck, let’s pull Philip Morris or whatever it’s now called, and all the Camel bucks it takes to bring on the only team match that matters.

Yes, Buff vs. Buffalos. The cardios against the could care less. The push-ups against the push-aways. You got Lumpy Herron. You got Daly. You got Clarke. You got Cabrera. Gary Player would naturally captain the fit team. Who to stand in on behalf of the flab? Buffalo Bill Casper himself? Patron saint Ed "Porky" Oliver (who, incidentally, should've won a U.S. Open. Long story.)

Tiger’d obviously be there for the healthy squad, of course. And there’s a slew of weight room rats who have followed suit. Who would win? Probably the team that has more fun, and, frankly, after watching the recent Ryder Cups, there’s not much doubt about which team that would be, is there? Maybe they might slip in one of those funny cigarettes to help loosen up things the next time the U.S. team bumps headfirst into expectations. My goodness, they couldn't get flax seed up their asses with a knot maul, eh? (See below.) -0-

Yes, I do think he will have to entertain, or at least acknowledge the front runner critique. It would seem it's his bete noir. Golfers don't get everything. And when you think of great putters does anyone think of buff? Of those Nadal-like guns? Ben Crenshaw? Loren Roberts? Bobby Locke? Billy Casper? Brad Faxon? Not exactly guys you'd look for when the tables are overturned and someone's head ends up going through a drum. Could Tiger be overdoing the cardio, and especially the weights at the risk of messing with his putting fine tuning?

Every tournament is a passion play, and this one was an opera, with a chain-smoking, former caddie, though part of an excellent tradition of golfers from the Argentine going back to Jose Jurado and Antonio Cerda. Carnage now officially enters the golf lexicon. We have a U.S. Open winner who thankfully was wearing a shirt with a collar. Mr. Baddeley will have a few more, well deserved, lines on his face, and perhaps be the wiser for the experience. Phil Mickelson may never win his national championship joining two other very good golfers named Sam Snead and Kathy Whitworth. And, in contrast to the observations of an old Texas pro that, “Good shots get good bounces and bad shots get bad bounces,” in this tournament good shots get bad bounces and bad shots get good bounces.

And, yes, I do think that the homogenization of PGA Tour courses week in and week out has a deleterious effect on our boys’ ability to nut it up for that one week of the year when the rough is high, and everything is just so, though not as high as when Bobby Jones couldn’t find his golf bag when it was set down in the rough, nor when Bobby Cruickshank, variously listed at between 5’ 1” and 5’ 4” had to wave a club over his head to signal his location to his fellow competitor, Bill Mehlhorn.

Finally, about the NBC coverage, Ben Wright likes to tell the story of the advice he received from Henry Longhurst. "We're only caption writers in a picture business," he said. My gosh! How quaint that seems with the magpies talking incessantly about...not much at all. I'm afraid I'll always be partial to the less-is-more school, the caption writers, or what I like to think of as the "Mr. Ed School of Sports Broadcasting," those who like the famous talking horse, never speak UNLESS THEY HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

There were two complaints today. Will, a caller to the radio show found watching our national open a frustrating viewing experience. Later, a young head pro said he was not entertained by watching pros struggle mightily, pitching out of the rough back to the fairway. These sorts of claims would undoubtedly fall on deaf ears among the U.S.G.A.; oh, sure, there were a chorus of similar complaints, about the length of the holes and the difficulty, etc. etc. Whiners. You never hear the South Africans or the Aussies complain, wot?

I do recall Betsy Rawls, who only won four U.S. Opens observe that she and her contemporaries often hit three- and four-woods into par fours - routinely - and it was her opinion that golf was a better, more exciting test for it.

Tiger had 250 yards to the green - to a par four - after driving safely with one of his patented stingers. That's what this week is all about.

To the first point, I had to profess some sympathy. As anyone lucky enough to attend championship venues to see for themselves, particularly Augusta National, television – despite all its sophistication – has not yet come close to replicating the sophistication of the naked eye. Of course, golf is a full sensory experience and television comes up wanting there, too. (Perhaps Smell-o-vision will get around to releasing their golf version 3.0 soon.)

There is this, however, if we can take a moment to overstate the obvious. Golf is inherently harder to televise than sports that exist on a court or a diamond or a field. Oakmont, five thousand less trees or not, is no smaller in square miles. The play, especially with split starts, is happening on over 200 plus acres, at the start with 156 competitors. Imagine a baseball diamond filled with 156 or a tennis match. (Odd thought this, but, yes, true enough). Logistically, it must be a nightmare, and expensive to telecast. Certainly there is a story line to follow, several to start, hopefully one sufficiently compelling that it can be packaged and sold to those tuning in. There are the leaders that must be followed.

Perspective is necessarily sacrificed, and not just for technical reasons. No one can take it all in. It’s inconceivable that every important moment will be captured on film. There is too much putting. Yes, on a links course, there is nothing really to aid but a few occasional, tentative graphics and the skill of the commentators in describing what they see. Someone likened shooting to the Oakmont greens as akin to shooting three-point shots without a backboard. Links golf is like that, and it’s not for everyone whether playing, or I suppose, also, watching.

Boo Weekly’s earthy anatomical reference with respect to playing in difficult windy conditions is still in regular rotation at my sports talk station, so on behalf of perspective, never more in vogue than at a place like Oakmont during the transaction of such important national business, that I pass along a reflection from the late Sam Snead.

It’s included in the delightful collection of tales, rude and glorious, cobbled together by Robert Sommers. Golf Anecdotes is published by Oxford Paperbacks (1995).

In it, the Slammer is asked how tight he’d been, this after being just a stroke off the lead starting the final round and finishing with 76, six shots back to Ben Hogan, in 1953.

“Tight?” Snead tells Merrell Whittlesey from the Washington Evening Star. “I was so tight you couldn’t a drove flax seed up my ass with a knot maul!”


A native may still win our national championship but could it be that the homogenization promulgated by the PGA Tour with regards to green speeds, rough, bunker sand put us at something of a cultural disadvantage when it comes to tougher conditions? I know you don’t like hearing it any more than the late Grace Marr, mother of the 1965 PGA Champion, and my good friend Jack, liked stomaching foreign winners of OUR championship, but there you have it.
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