The day dawns (literally … I'm up at 5 again) with the realization that it's the weekend, and I'm closing in on the end of my transatlantic summer-of-2010 golf adventure. I laugh out loud in my hotel room at the thought that, maybe if I move reaaaalllly slowly, time will correspondingly slow down and I'll stretch more out of the final weekend.
A Google search reveals some favourite players have completed their second round and, unfortunately, their PGA week. Our Canadian duo of Mike Weir and Stephen Ames is out, as are Chris Wood, Graeme McDowell, Miguel Angel Jimenez, Angel Cabrera, Ross Fisher, and Colin Montgomerie. Big John Daly is out, not based on score but because of a shoulder injury.
In contrast to 3 weeks ago, I don't know when, if ever, I'll actually see those guys in the flesh again. It was a treat to see them and they are burned into my memory cells.
A glance to the south from my room towards Kohler, where the course is located, reveals huge clouds billowing up in the rising light of the morning. Uh, oh, maybe the weather forecast of a rainy morning will be accurate. I promptly chide myself for my old fart-like focus on the weather (wait a sec …. tomorrow is my 55th birthday …. could I actually qualify for membership in an old farts club?). Instead, I resolve today to just forget about the conditions in the air above Whistling Straits and just soak up as much enjoyment of the golf action at ground level.
My feeling about the Whistling Straits weekend ahead differs from St. Andrews. There, the realization that I would soon be bidding the Old Course (and Scotland) goodbye prompted me to spend the final two days focusing on the course itself rather than the play on the course, hoping that somehow the spirit of the place would soak into the soles of my running shoes. I felt quite a bond with the gentle surroundings and people of St. Andrews.
Today, I'm eager instead to see players. I want to see how different players handle some select holes (#2, 5, 6, 10, 14, and the sky-high tee box of #15 have become the favs) and will keep a closer track on the leader board (still no ear bud-delivered play-by-play … aside from not wanting that constant barrage of information in my ear, they just look butt ugly).
I don't ponder my St. Andrews-Whistling Straits dichotomy. Instead, it's time for a jog, some chow, and head for Whistling Straits.
Off the bus and into the course I go. It's a beautifully benign day; no problem for players and spectators this day.
I stake out a spot by hole #16 (a big par 5 along the lake) and watch some groups. Once again, I experience the approach and passage of Tiger Woods. It is kind of neat to see the spectator tsunami. In generations past, the thousands following Woods would have been following Hogan, Jones, Palmer and Nicklaus. I'm lucky to be able to see this man who has redefined golf in action. Even though he is in turmoil personally and has a game that is creaky right now, those of us here this week have Tiger stories that we will tell out grandkids.
The day has some examples of golf as played by the young and the not-so-youthful. One example is the aforementioned hole 16. The threesome is veteran Cory Pavin and relative youngsters Ian Poulter and Camillo Villegas. Pavin plays two shots in the fairway to set up an approach shot while the preceding group is still on the green. Meanwhile, waaaaay back up the fairway, Poulter and Villegas wait for the green to clear so they can bomb in shots from about 230 yards away. They do so, to within about 25 feet of the pin. But, Pavin puts his approach shot less than 5 feet away and sinks the putt for birdie. Poulter and Villegas both miss their eagle putts and settle for birdies.
The scores are the same, but the way of achieving them differs. Testosterone doesn't always trump prudence.
I watch as Sergio Garcia plays the 16th during his second round wrap-up (for the final time it turns out, as he misses the cut, and is now off on his hiatus from golf). He takes advantage of location and a delay to zip down toward the beach out of sight (almost) to seek some bladder relief. He's down there for a long time. Geez, these pros are even in a different take-a-whiz league than me!
The second round concludes and, while waiting for the third round to rev up, I grab my now-ritual lunchtime brat and head to the practice range. Tiger Woods is working out again today under the tutelage of Canuck wonder-coach Sean Foley. I guess this player-coach dance is on.
During the afternoon's third round, I decide to park on a few holes on the back nine and watch players come through. The most significant result of this decision is when I strike up a conversation with a guy from Madison, Wisconsin, who decided on a whim this morning to make the 2 hour drive to be here.
He has an extra ear bud. I decide to try it out. After all my grumbling about these things, it turns out to be really cool. I can watch what's going on in front of me while hearing some play-by-play from elsewhere on the property.
I may be an old dog, but I can learn new tricks, it seems. But they still look butt-ugly.
Other random sights from the day:
• A hill by the 13th green that is home to dozens of dragonflies, who delightfully helicopter around.
• A now-spry Brandt Snedecker playing #13. He has shaken off whatever leg woe laid him up yesterday.
• "In the hole", bellowed at lung busting levels by a merciful few.
• The amphitheatre around the 9th and 18th greens, which by late afternoon is occupied by an estimated 20,000 spectators.
• The volunteers who hover over hot barbeques preparing those yummy brats on another hot day.
And so comes the final day of the great golf adventure. The last day of the PGA and the first day of my 56th year should be a joyful blast.
Also read: Friday the 13th
SATURDAY
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In my daily life, I'm a science writer and editor. Playing with the language of science is my craft. The image of the stuffy scientist spouting incomprehensible sentences belies the excitement of scientific discovery and the relevance of science to our everyday world. I make science come alive for my readers. I also spin some tales about golf. I am almost 'Freedom 55' vintage, and took my first golf swing at about age 8. I've got decades of middling golf under my wings. It's my non-human love affair. There is nothing better than spending a week at a tournament just hoofing it around, yakking with fellow spectators and watching folks who are the very best at their calling. This summer the British Open turns 150 and fittingly will take place at the home of golf - St. Andrews, Scotland. Four weeks later the final major, the PGA Championship, will be played in the heart of bucolic Wisconsin dairy country at Whistling Straits. I plan to attend both events. It will be a four-week adventure of this golf fans' life. To top it off, the final day of the PGA is my birthday. Not just any birthday, but number 55. My years are building up. It is time to live some dreams, not shelve them away for another year.