A friend's recount of the Waste Management Open from 10 years ago..

He wrote for an online golf publication and drove from event to event in his car (sleeping in it where necessary) and ended up at the Masters in Augusta back in 2010. I met him there during the Wednesday practice round. His goal was to write a little differently than any other golf writer.

This thing is huge and I figure this is the perfect time for you guys to read it with nothing else going on.


Waste Management Phoenix Open – Thursday, February 25, 2010

Anticipation and Anxiety

I feel so gross. After sleeping in my car for most of last week and for a couple days so far this week—last night being my first night back in a tent—I think the golf shirts I have hanging in my car have absorbed some of the smells I’ve brought in from the golf course, as well as any of the other wonderful smells that have been gathering in my car as of late. So the last couple of days I find myself sniffing—often—while I sit in the media center, wondering if I totally reek and could potentially turn off some of my newfound cohorts.

What makes this concern quite prevalent in my mind is the fact that the media center is underground, in the same area that normally houses all the carts and golf bags for the golf course. Having worked in several bag rooms in my life, I know how unforgiving odors can linger much longer in an area such as this, especially when it rains. To combat the smells and make myself more approachable, I’ve been caking on the deodorant and spraying myself with cologne, which for all I know could be even MORE offensive than some of the BAD smells I feel are wafting off of me. But hey: I’m making the effort here, people.

I’m glad I got here on Monday, because finding this media center and getting some sort of “routine” down for this week has really been a chore. When I left Marana and the Accenture Match Play, I was given bad directions and actually started heading in the opposite direction towards Tucson before I decided that I might get a second opinion. Besides that, while I was in Marana, my media credentials were sent to New York, which meant I was going to have to “talk my way” into the front gate, and I didn’t even have a good idea of where the media parking lot was.

Once I finally figured everything out, the course was another matter altogether. While the massive hills on the sides of each hole are great for “framing” purposes, as well as to provide natural grandstands for optimal viewing, they really suck to walk and I foresee people tossing their cookies after a few of the forced up-and-downs. The ropes guarding the players from all of US are also hard to get used to. You could be standing by a tee box for 10 minutes, watching players tee off, and then start to walk down the fairway and the volunteer will just stand there with the rope and not let you through. Then, just as he feels you’re getting a little impatient, he’ll turn and say, “Oh, by the way—you have to go all the way around...you can’t cut through here.”

Thanks.

The volunteers here are hit and miss, too. I suppose you get that everywhere, but I’ve really only run into two kinds of volunteers: individuals that are just psyched to be here, and volunteers that loathe the ground drunks walk on. The latter are all like ex-bartenders, grizzled from years of fighting to close down a bar after last call. I’d say most volunteers are really nice, but I had an experience last night that made me feel like a criminal.

I was the last person to leave the media center. I suppose that’s going to happen at just about every event, but I am moving up in the world, as my tent is currently situated right next to an 8 X 12 foot pool in an RV park just east of Glendale. It’s really a cute place, and I have three metal clotheslines next to me where I can hang my clothes. Oh, and there’s a bathroom with showers right there too that actually locks. I tell you, some people just know how to live right.

So for the past couple of days I’ve been hearing about this massive party tent that the Thunderbirds— the organizers of this event, who wear clothes that resemble something Christopher Columbus would have worn from the belt up—have erected. It’s called “The Bird’s Nest.” Apparently, my media credentials mean that the $25 entry fee is waived, and it’s supposed to be a huge party every night. So last night, after finishing a couple of articles for Universal Golf and pre-gaming with a couple of beers, I dropped off my backpack in the car and walked over. I mean the “Nest” is RIGHT next to the parking lot.

I’d say the only memorable thing about my experience there last night was when I walked to the entrance and one of the ticket sellers—a jock who looked as though he had lost the State Championship for his High School in ‘94—said: “No media.”

“You know, that makes sense to me. I’m sure there are a lot of things in there that you wouldn’t want people knowing about.” At least I was still pretty quick. The other ticket seller—your stereotypical blonde “Scottsdale girl” I’ve heard so much about—just laughed. The dude acquiesced.

“I’m just kidding. Go straight ahead to General Admission.” I would find out later why he selected to use that wording, because my media credentials don’t give me access to the VIP section. Now THAT’S probably where the real news is happening.

The cover band looked and dressed like Poison and rocked out to whatever the crowd wanted. Girls danced on either side of the stage, trading off with other girls every so often. Men were everywhere, standing in place like zombies, staring at the stage, doing and saying nothing. I think the only female I saw—aside from the dancers and all the girls serving drinks at the bar—was one 40+ year old plastered out of her mind and dancing backwards. I knew it was time to go.

But because I hadn’t had any dinner, I was a little tipsy from the beer I had in the Nest after the beers I had imbibed in the media center. So, I thought it would be a good idea to head back to the media center and talk with Amy, the girl who was assigned to sit underground from 6 pm to 6 am, just to make sure the laptops stayed where they were. I had started talking with her a few days ago and she was just good company—she is obsessed with English Bulldogs and has started a 501(c)3 to care for and shelter abused or abandoned dogs. So I figured: I’m tipsy, and after 30-60 minutes talking with her and some water, I’ll be fine to drive.

Well, of course the security guards are going to be suspicious of me going back in when they’ve already locked down the media center (they do this to keep out the crazies at night). So I gave them an excuse:

“I think I left my laptop charger down there. I’ll be right back.”