I
wished that I would just heave my guts out and get it over with. But no, my physical system seemed to cherish
the residual alcohol it still held onto.
Complete with all the unique negative side effects. The bright blue North Carolina morning did nothing for my raging headache. It was Monday, mid-August and as I drove down
I-40 towards work, I realized the scary fact that my alcohol tolerance had
progressed to the point where I could function pretty well even though I was
sporting a major league hang over. My
sorry situation was, I thought, worth the price. The day before, a perfect late summer Sunday,
I had been strolling down the legendary fairways of the Number 2 course at The
Pinehurst Country Club in Pinehurst, NC. The dream
round that I was living had a surreal air to it. This had been my first time playing the
Number 2 course. I had the opportunity
to visit as a spectator on several occasions.
The first time I set foot on No. 2 was shortly after I moved my family
down to North
Carolina from Wisconsin. The golf
occasion was the 1990 Tournament Players Championship. My wife Mary, our two young boys, Eric and
Josh, and I wanted to see the pros play.
We patiently waited to find an vantage point
where the kids could see clearly. We
found a spot along the right side of the par three seventeenth hole. Mary and I were
getting a kick out of the boys, who were peeking their
young blonde heads through the legs of extremely tolerant observers. They were trying to get a better look at the
pros who slashed away at the little white golf balls
in that year’s Tournament Players Championship.
Our offspring had just wedged themselves into a perfect spot when the
tour’s current superstar, Greg Norman, after executing a beautiful shot on
number 17, bent down, smiled and gave them each a souvenir ball as he walked
past. I had a feeling right then and
there that Pinehurst No. 2 held some special magic for me and for my
family. Little did I know how prophetic
this thought would become. The second time we visited, again as a family
unit, we all caught our first glimpse of the legendary Jack Nicklaus
as he teed it up for the 1994 Senior United States Open. I virtually dragged the young boys up the
path towards the huge scoreboard in front of the practice tee and got us all in
a position to stand in the rarified air of the greatest golfer of all
time. The Senior Open was won by Simon Hobday, who after stumbling up the eighteenth, desperately
sought a cold glass of beer. The smile
on his victorious face was a sight all golf fans appreciated. One of the “good guys” had won the Open. My whole family, and the friends that went to
the tournament with us, thought it was nice to see up close that the seniors
not only still had the fire of competition in their bellies, but that they
truly enjoyed the fans who came to see them play as
well. We had seen the Bear in
person. And we had seen a great
championship. Pinehurst still held the
magic for us. The last time, prior to my
playing there, was bittersweet in that I was now alone. I walked past the bronze statues of Donald
Ross and Richard Tufts and should have been at peace. Unfortunately I was miserable. But through my veil of personal blue I was to
experience what many golf addicts felt was the greatest U.S. Open ever
played. The 99th U.S. Open
Championship held during June of 1999.
Payne Stewart’s 72nd hole heroics
over Phil Mickelson marked another milestone in his glittering career and
another stumble in Phil’s. The event was
truly “one moment in time” made even more poignant by Stewart’s sudden death
less than a year later. His final
fateful airplane flight cast a mourning wreath over the world of golf, but the
tragedy may have succeeded in elevating Stewart’s already established “tour
star” status to the level of legend.
Those previous visits to Pinehurst No. 2 had set up my anticipation for
actually playing the course myself. It had been a great day, but oh what a
hangover. Even through my blur the
memory of playing No. 2 brought back feelings of sheer delight. From the bull shoulders of the elderly caddie
named Eddie, who looped my bag around Donald Ross’ masterpiece, to his tactful
advice, which earned me a smooth 75.
Without Eddie mumbling pointed little comments like, “better aim more to da
left Misser W”, which came to my ears most often
on the inverted saucer-shape Donald Ross greens, my putt total would have sent
my score well into the mid-eighties.
After we finished playing, our group sat down to a victory dinner in the
old hotel’s Carolina Room and a post-round celebration in the Ryder Cup
Lounge. The Sunday night party with my
playing partners had nearly done me in this morning, but I was supposed to have
a light day at the office. I figured
that I was going to make it.
