In May 1997 I picked up Michael Clark II’s TaylorMade golf bag on the Nike Tour for a stretch of about eight tournaments. This was my second year in the caddy game, and my rep was evolving into one comprised of composure, practicality, intelligence and wit. I was one of the headiest loopers out there (check out the big brain on Scot) – someone who could quickly figure yardages in my head, knew the game, and was unafraid to speak my mind for good or ill.
We first teamed up in Richmond, Va., and finished in the top 20. Sadly, the prize money that far down the list in an event with a total purse of only $200K didn’t pay squat, and my standard percentage of squat almost always worked out to be diddly squat. With so little money, luxuries were few and far between. It was a lot like playing the lottery, there was only one big winner each week.
As luck would have it, just as I went to work for him, Clark II qualified for the US Open at Congressional CC in Washington, D.C. This would be my second consecutive US Open, so I was less intimidated and more eager about the potential of the event cuz we were playing for millions of dollars – life-changing money. He was in good form leading up to the event, and there was no reason to think that would change.
We were plodding our way along on Friday, well within the cut line, when we reached the 9th hole – a 650-yard monster of a par five, protected by a huge expanse of waist-high grass in front of the green that extended out into the fairway 80ish yards – let’s call it a hayzard. While not an official hazard, it was a punishing spot.
After parring #8, I handed Clark II his driver and headed up the next fairway to await him and his tee shot. It was a long hike back to the 9th tee box, so we (the loopers) would hand them the driver leaving the 8th green and forecaddie the hole.
He ripped his drive down the middle of the 9th fairway, and we met at his Titleist. Since this was a three-shot hole every day for everyone save John Daly, we didn’t ponder the situation much. I failed to realize (and he failed to mention) that the USGA had moved the tees up 20 yards from the day before, so his drive was that much closer to the green. Undeterred by the sprinkler head at our feet with the correct yardage (not the yardage I’d given him), he flushed a five iron, and we both watched in horror as it one-hopped squarely into the trouble.
“Did that go through the fairway, Scot?”
“Uh…”
“Well, @#$&/+%&@$##*@$$#)(/+%!!!!!,” he screamed.
There is a moment in every golf tournament when you realize that you aren’t going to win. Hopefully, that time arrives late on Sunday afternoon, if ever. More times than not, it occurs much earlier in the week. So it was then, when he was hacking it around the hayzard that it hit me – not gonna win this week.
To make matters worse – we went on to miss the cut by a single shot. The USGA sets up US Open courses ridiculously hard, with brutally long rough and firm and fast greens, so any self-inflicted penalties are compounded exponentially.
Sam Pittman and company need this upcoming week off to lick their wounds and form of a new strategy for the remaining games. His job may depend on it. Texas comes to Nam next, and it is up to us, the fans, to ensure that the Longhorns and their fans feel as unwelcome as possible while visiting the Natural State.
Wooooo…