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

(As a quick aside, while I’m writing this, I just smelled myself—and it isn’t pretty. Perhaps skipping that shower last night is going to cost me tonight at the Bird’s Nest, where everybody and their mother parties like it’s 2010.)

All three players landed safely on the green on 7, but only Lehman was able to take advantage of it. He was farthest away at 25 feet, and when the putt dropped, the “Tom!” signs flew up and we all went crazy. The cheering here is a lot like a Ryder Cup, I’d imagine, except there’s a little more fermentation in the air. After picking his ball out of the hole, Lehman kissed it and acknowledged the girls to my left with the signs, who I’m sure were all part of his family.

As I walked to the 8th tee, I got really excited, because I saw some guy wearing a plastic beer helmet. I was wondering who would finally break the ice in that department. As Lehman set up to tee off on 8, the photographer off just left of the tee must’ve had a longer streak than me in the “not showering” department, and looked like he was swing dancing with his camera. Lehman backed off and cut in.

“Um, sir? Could you please stop moving?”

I love it. That guy has an enviable “inside the ropes” sticker and is behaving like a yam-bag who has never played golf before. GIVE ME THE PASSES INSTEAD. DAMN.

Lehman’s drive turned out fine, though, right up the gut. I was excited to finally get a good angle on Quiros’ swing, and I stood just above him on the hill and right down the line. It’s the sort of swing where you have to force yourself not to blink, otherwise you’ll miss it. My previous observations were correct—that the backswing and follow-thru are both abbreviated—but it was interesting to see his swing from my angle, as it reminded me of a more-upright version of Rickie Fowler, complete with a subtle loop into the downswing. It was a steep swing, no doubt matching his height (ahem, take note of THAT, Kuchar), and the ball went dead straight and relatively high, which I’m sure was also a by-product of a steep swing path. Once again, Quiros blew by both Lehman and Goggin by 30+ yards. The guy with the beer helmet behind me finally took the tube out of his mouth to comment.

“Huh. Uh-yuck!” That’s verbatim. This was Goofy if Disney allowed beer helmets.

Off in the distance, the crowd at 16 was heard loud and clear again: “USA! USA! USA!” It reminded me of my short time at the “Bird’s Nest” last night—for professional journalistic purposes, of course—seeing the group of t-shirts that read: “Wasted Management.” Sheer brilliance.

After Lehman hit his approach shot short right, I heard the 16th again, and because of my stint yesterday, I knew exactly how to translate the loud “Chug! Chug! Chug!” Those ASU boys had picked another victim out of the skyboxes above and were making him or her drink their face off. Ah, peer pressure.

After that massive drive, Quiros could only manage a wedge to the front of the green. Man—if Quiros keeps this up, he’s definitely not winning this thing. What good is all that distance?

When I walked up to the 9th green to watch everyone’s approach shots, Brandt Snedeker was just finishing up for par. The interesting thing, however, was that, as he set up his shot, the scoreboard behind him flashed a statistic: so far this year, from 3-5 feet, Snedeker is tied for 1st at 100%. I’m sure he isn’t looking at the scoreboard, but seeing that statistic as a backdrop for his seemingly easy putt certainly added something to it. I wonder how long he can keep the streak going.

Quiros hit his approach shot into the bunker, which almost made me laugh. Not trying to knock the guy, but he just can’t hit an approach shot to save his life right now. Behind me, the doors from the rows of porta-johns opened and closed like the British farce I saw at Torrey this year. A huge roar from the crowd erupted on 18, and I wondered how much of that noise originated from the Tilted Kilt, the Hooters-esque restaurant that has been following me since La Quinta.

A young girl walked by me wearing what I can only describe as a handkerchief, and when she sat down on the hill to my left with her ice cream, the young boy holding the neon-orange exclamation point for Lehman almost passed out.

Once again, all three players made pars, with Quiros making a nice up-and-in from the bunker. When I looked at the scoreboard, I saw that Scott Piercy was now at 13-under and leading the event. I had a feeling that might happen. So far, whether it was Turning Stone last year or the North Course at Torrey Pines this year, Scott Piercy has the ability to go extremely low during at least one round of a tournament to get himself into contention. He can also kill his drives—quite a good trait to have at TPC Scottsdale—and I would find out later today that he drove the ball 361 yards on the 10th, landing the ball 10 inches from the hole.

Getting through the beer / concession areas around the 10th hole was quite difficult today, and you had to find a current of people headed in your general direction in order to get anywhere. Everywhere I looked, I felt that the women who attended this event were all competing against each other for looks from the men with shorter and shorter skirts and shorts, lighter and lighter hair, tighter and tighter clothing, and taller and taller stilettos. I don’t think any of these girls planned on walking very far today. But I bet I’d be surprised at just how far some of them actually got before their feet cramped up and they started crying.

At lunch, I sat down next to a security guard in a red shirt. He greeted me with a “How are you today, sir?” and a smile, but I would find out very quickly just how focused and serious this guy is. Between bites, he was talking into his shirt microphone or ordering people around, and you could just tell this guy was a supervisor, if not THE supervisor for all of the security force here. I wonder if he’s already heard of me from my previous exploits over the past couple of nights.

When I heard him tell someone over the radio that he would be unavailable for the next 10 minutes, I decided to strike up a conversation.

“I just want you to know, I really respect what you do. I can’t even imagine the focus you must have to do this event. How do you do it?” I mean I’m having trouble focusing on WRITING, let alone trying to control this madness.