The hour is early.It’s muggy and hot. There’s no time for breakfast. We’re going to watch a golf tournament. Which of these circumstances disturbs my friend the Whipp more I can’t say. The Whipp isn’t a morning person. Hot weather doesn’t top his favorite list. The Whipp does not miss breakfast. He despises golf.
“Coach,” he said the night before, trying to boost my spirits as another birthday passes, “look at it this way. It’s better than being dead.” His advice is good and well- intentioned. He notes, as we speed toward Onion Creek, that this is a fine way to acknowledge his good council. He’s calmed somewhat when I describe a sumptuous repast of donuts laid out in the media lounge. I’d smuggle him some breakfast.
I find the Whipp lounging in the shade, leaning heavily against a wall, a blue, battered KC Royals hat covering his closed eyes. We’re too late. The donuts are gone. He belches contemptuously at this bad news. He’s found someone to sell him a beer. He signifies — with a rigid middle digit — that this Bud is indeed for me.
The news that “we” decided to follow a group comprised of Dottie Pepper, A.J. Eathome, and Carin Koch is met with a reaction somewhere east of unresponsive. I admit (and I tell the Whipp as much) that this hurts my feelings. The previous day, scouting the field, I choose Ms. Koch — trusting to her professionalism that she won’t be overly distracted by my friend’s raw, animal magnetism — with the Whipp in mind. The fourth-year pro is an attractive Scandinavian from the town of Kungalv, Sweden. This dovetails nicely with the Whipp’s keen interest in Northern European geography.
The Whipp does indeed perk up a bit when I point out Ms. Koch on the putting green. Unfortunately, when I reveal we’re walking along with this threesome for 18 holes, he sags noticeably, never really recovering his natural bonhomie.
I, however, have my own agenda. I’ve lost my putting touch, admittedly a relative thing. It feels all wrong. Short putts. Long putts. Flat putts. They all have me rattled. I approach each putt knowing — with a dead certainty — that I’m going to miss.
I take the proper first step (as any golfer would) tossing the bad putter deep into my garage before buying a new one. Sadly, my new putter can’t make putts either.
I remember reading somewhere that Ben Crenshaw, when asked his advice on putting, told the novitiate, “Eat breakfast with good putters.”
With the option of breakfast unrealistic, I improvise. I find the only golfer who’s in the top 10 for putts-per-round and scoring average, Dottie Pepper. I’m going to follow her every step, breathe in her putting technique, feel her languid putting stroke. I share this information with the heavily perspiring Whipp now polishing off his second beverage. He glares at me like I’m mad, muttering, “Whatever, Coach.”
Dottie Pepper’s a legitimate star, a 16-time tour winner. To talent she adds personality, not a notable character trait among professional golfers, the most anal of athletes. When she hits a shot less than perfect, Pepper loudly berates herself. On any Saturday, from the rocky fairways of Morris Williams to the verdant turf of Barton Creek, pained cries of “moron,” and “fucking idiot,” will pierce the sultry air. Dottie’s like a normal person.
It’s a rare round when a weekend hacker doesn’t pound an offending club into the ground. On the difficult no.15, Dottie sends her tee shot skittering right through the fairway. Instead of taking it like a robot, she stalks down the fairway smashing the offending driver not once, or twice, but four times, each whack increasingly violent, into the indifferent grass. Dottie’s one of the guys.
These subtle nuances are lost on my friend, whose normally cheerful disposition slips further as the sun rises in the sky. He edges ominously toward belligerence when repeatedly confronted with some of the stuffy customs of the game. To wit: the absolute silence necessary for the golf professional to strike a ball. The Whipp’s contention is, if a high-school basketball player can shoot free throws in the face of thunderous obscenities, why can’t he, standing 50 yards away from the golfer, chat about this and that. I have no answers, none that would pacify my friend anyway. I implore him to give me a break. I didn’t make these rules. I just want some putting tips. I offer to buy him a late-morning vodka & tonic if he’ll only stop haranguing me on this tedious subject.
As it turns out, putting tips are few and far between. Though the threesome plays dead-solid golf all day, each on the green in regulation an astounding 17 of 18 holes — with birdie opportunities plentiful — nobody can make a putt. Balls are left teetering on the edge, slipping past, left and right. It’s a little heartening to see professional golfers struggle with five-foot putts — just like me.
After watching these perfect swings for five hours, I’m stoked. I propose to stop on the way home at the Ben White Driving Range and hit some balls. The Whipp allows he’d “rather not.” There’s an edge of menace in his voice.
Dottie Pepper made a Sunday charge and finished second, two strokes behind Laura Davies. Carin Koch, distracted perhaps by the Whipp’s absence, shot a mediocre final-round 73.
This article appears in May 12 • 2000.