Coach's Corner
By Andy "Coach" Cotton, Fri., June 18, 1999
My son is in college only an houraway from the Mecca of American public golf: Pebble Beach. Pebble and its three stately sister courses -- Spanish Bay, Poppy Hills, and Spyglass -- are indeed public in the most democratic sense of the word: Any of us scum, as long we can ante up the handsome greens fee, can, with some planning, walk the same meticulously kept fairways as Palmer, Fat Jack, and Tiger, and feel as welcome as the King of England. Isn't America a grand land? What golfer, with a ready-made excuse to be in the area, could resist this temptation?
Ah, but although Pebble Beach is "public," there's a catch. Call-in tee times at the Pebble course canonly be made 24 hours in advance,which means you probably won't get on. But if you stay at one of the two lovely but heinously expensive "inns," you're guaranteed a tee time. I mentioned Dunn was well-connected in the hotel industry, did I not? My old friend temporarily made up for some of his many glaring personality deficiencies by scoring us a room, heavily discounted at that, in the Inn at Spanish Bay, along with a precious Pebble Beach tee-time.
The first tee at Morris Williams makes me nervous. The first tee at a country club gives me stomach cramps. But if there's a more intimidating first tee than the one at Pebble, I don't ever want to play it. It's basically in the middle of a snotty shopping mall. Only about 10 yards and a short stone wall separate the terrified hacker from a throng of golfers waiting to start, a massive pro shop, blue-haired ladies shopping for trinkets, and busloads of curious tourists killing time until the next picture stop.
Completely unnerved by the gallery, my caddie Bob's advice on how to "attack" the hole, the multitude of course officials, and Dunn's mindless prattle, I begin poorly. I dead shank my first shot into an out-of-harm's-way work shed (the crack of ball against tin was quite loud). I slice my mulligan into the wood fence, maybe 100 yards up the course. Much to my annoyance, Dunn clobbers his first drive right down the center, though for some damn reason he shakes his head and grumbles.
'Tis a lovely day; a little fog, no wind, a soft sun which frames all of Pebble's famous holes -- the green hills, fishing boats at anchor, white beaches, sea lions, and the famous lone California cypress on the hill -- in a soft-focus, postcard-quality light. I have no excuses as ball after ball finds the dense, wet coastal rough. When I hack out of the suffocating grass, I find myself, invariably, inside sand traps deep as a coal mine. It even reaches the point where my caddie -- whom I am paying! -- takes to calling me Omar of the Desert. At the end of the day, my scorecard looks as if I'm playing a private game of 7's and 8's ... and doing it quite well.
There is little more annoying to a struggling golfer than playing with a guy who's having the round of his life, at Pebble Beach no less, but who carps and grouses at every lucky shot. "Shit, I didn't get all of that," he groans or, "Damn, where's that fade when I need it?" as the ball flies down the center of the course. But as I mentioned, Dunn's an annoying fellow. I decide on a no-more-"nice shot Dunn" strategy. Fuck 'em! Here I am, trying to be gracious, and he gripes about the nine iron that "got away left" as it lands mid-green.
The picturesque par-five 18th runs along the ocean for a long wind-in-your-face 600 yards. I whack a rare drive: long and straight. I'm pleased to see Dunn hit a lousy shot that stays lousy. Maybe I could win one hole from the little twerp. Bob says, "Omar, I think this one's yours." Dunn's still two miles out as he snap-hooks a fairway wood. I watch, with intense satisfaction, as the ball's flight takes the orb well out over the ocean retaining wall. This one's going to hit a sea otter or something. I'm tempted to yell out "fore" to warn the hapless creatures. I track the ball into the surging green sea. I wait to see that wee splash. Ker plunk!! Then, I witness a pure miracle. Instead of a splash, the ball -- defying natural law -- is airborne again, flowing in a gentle arc back over the seawall, back over the huge sand trap, finally nestling softly, directly in front of the green.
Dunn's response to this wonder is about as much excitement as you'd get from Bill Gates if you offered to buy him a Whopper. Like all the other rich dilettantes out here, Dunn figures he's entitled. Bob and I watch this spectacle from the green side bunker, where only the top of my ball is visible beneath the sand.
"Tough break, Omar," says Bob. "Plugged lie."
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