The ringing of the telephone breaks the sultry silence of a late Sunday afternoon. Though intensely engrossed in the tingling drama of the Buick Open, I, out of character, answer the phone. It’s a friend calling the only sicko he knows who might be talked into playing 18 holes of golf, the last two holes in the dark for sure. I offer some token resistance but if I’m watching the Buick Open … well, enough said.
I do have some issues. I tell Dick about a column due tomorrow … not only is it not started but I don’t have a clue what I’m going to write about now that the Howling Wolfs of Summer are scratching and snarling at my door and there is (in fact) nothing to write about and won’t be for months and if all that isn’t bad enough I’m off to Colorado tomorrow morning on a college hunting trip with my daughter, and, if I forgot to mention, no column in my computer or in my empty head to send to the people at the Chronicle who — though they’re nice enough people — don’t really care about sports droughts, angry wolves and whatnot; they want the words. Dick dutifully takes this in, but in the end, good old American common sense prevails. “You can always,” he notes, “write it on the plane tomorrow.”
Okay, so the U.S. Open was two weeks ago. A few points are still worth making:
1) The putting fiasco on the 18th green and the drama leading up to it was so riveting even my non-golfing wife was groaning and hiding her face, because she couldn’t watch the pain of another missed putt. The singularly distinct, different flavors of the group collapse on 18 was weird, unheard of at that elite level of golf. Mark Brooks had a long way to go on a sinister green to get it in the hole in two: a legitimate three. Stewart Cink made a great effort on his second putt, which would’ve assured him of at least a tie. When his gentle putt went right over the hole, settling a few feet past, he looked like a man who had lost a winning million-dollar lottery ticket. He wanted Goosen to say, “That’s good Stewart, pick it up.” But, alas, this is golf in the Big Time — no gimmies. An emotionally spent Cink, knowing Goosen only needed a two-putt from a few feet, paid no attention to his own little two-footer, a disastrous mistake revealed moments later when Goosen gagged his way to his three-putt: a classic choke. That was the oddest single hole of golf I’ve ever seen.
2) I’m starting to wonder if Phil Mickelson will ever win a major. The longer a tournament goes on, the more Phil resembles a quivering bowl of Jell-O every time he approaches a five-foot putt. Watch his face the next time he sinks a routine pro putt. It’s a look all duffers can relate to: It’s pure relief. As he stands over his putt I can hear him saying, “Please God, make this go in.” This look of intense desperation belongs to Mickelson alone.
3) Weekend golfers think pros are such great putters but, in fact, putting may be the only part of the game where Tiger and you look somewhat alike. The seldom-mentioned reason why pros make two-putting look so easy is their approach shots are so pure they rarely see a putt of over 20 feet.
4) When you consider your club or muni pro is probably a scratch golfer, and then consider they’re almost as far from the PGA Tour as I am, you get a glimpse at the astonishing talent of touring pros. Golf (and tennis) are the toughest ways for an athlete to make a living. A pro’s family survives on the basis of how dad or mom played today. No guaranteed contracts. No help if you blow out a back. No one cares if you’re going through a nasty divorce. You better play, and play well, or you’re back on some Dot Com tour playing Sundays in Muncie, Indiana … or worse. That’s pressure.
Pete Sampras is the odds-on favorite to win his eighth Wimbledon title, but I must disagree. The Great Pete — the best tennis player America has ever produced — better at his best than Agassi at his, hasn’t played a decent set of tennis since last summer. He’s only 30, but 30 is very old for a tennis pro. Agassi, older than Sampras and looking magnificent, is a freak. Pete’s richer than a Saudi sheik, married and drenched in Grand Slam titles. In short, he’s “old,” injury prone, and not a lean and hungry young man any more. Grass is kind to Pete but you can’t just turn the magic on and off. The genie’s stuck in the lamp. I’ll be pleasantly surprised if Pete survives week one. And I’m worried about Jennifer Capriati, whose personal comeback from Teenage Mallsville to tennis champion is a cool sports story. The media attention she’s getting now will be worse than it was when she publicly imploded as a 16-year-old. Sure, she’s more mature, blah, blah. My guess is she still doesn’t like her bad hair days and her bad weight days discussed at length in the media. She won’t self-destruct, but she won’t win, either. On a surface where speed and power kills all, look for a Williams to repeat as Wimbledon champ.
This article appears in June 29 • 2001.