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Started By
Message
re: A friend's recount of the Waste Management Open from 10 years ago..
Posted on 3/20/20 at 4:47 pm to LSUAlum2001
Posted on 3/20/20 at 4:47 pm to LSUAlum2001
“Thanks. Yeah, this is definitely the hardest event I do. I’ve run two Super Bowls and an NBA All-Star game, and those are easy compared to this.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, the tournament runs all week long, whereas those events are just one day. And this tournament is known for drinking and craziness, so it’s hard to convince people to behave themselves.”
After lunch, when I went back to check my e-mail before deciding what I was going to do with my afternoon, a member of the media I hadn’t noticed before was talking to a few of the Waste Management representatives sitting next to me.
“Oh, today they’re pulling people out of the stands on 16 like crazy. So the crowd is a lot more...muted than normal. Yesterday was definitely the day to be there. It was nuts.”
Yeah, I was there. So does this mean I shouldn’t try to spend a little time on the 16th? Well, I think I should still head out there and see. From hearing all of the cheers and roars throughout my front 9 this morning, I couldn’t wait to spend some more time there.
Near the 10th tee in one of the many concession areas, a quaint little stand was advertising “Best Bloody Mary’s in the World.” Well, now that is just exactly why I’m sleeping in my car or in a tent. So I can save up enough money to spend the $7.00 and see if these guys are guilty of false advertising. Turns out they aren’t. I’ve had my fair share of Bloody Marys, and even worked as a bartender for 3 years. That was a damn good Bloody Mary. Not a lot of vodka—which I suppose is just good business for them—but that worked out perfectly for me, because I got to taste the nectar of the Gods and still keep my wits about me for the afternoon. For those that are curious: it was thick, slightly spicy, just a hint of Worcestershire Sauce, and rimmed with celery salt. Glorious.
When I walked by the 16, I immediately decided to avoid it. There were massive lines of people just waiting to get in. Today it looked like the entrance to an amusement park rather than a hole on a golf course. I found out later the interesting evolution of this hole: back in the early 1990s, there was a solitary beer stand on 16, which gave all of the college kids easy access to alcohol and a great place to sit—right on the hill behind the green. Soon enough, chanting began, then bleachers were put in to assist the college kids because the tournament directors liked the idea, and then after Tiger’s hole in one in 1997, the area surrounding the hole started to look more like Optimus Prime, with an intricate set of grandstands, walkways, and skyboxes, all completely closed off from the rest of the course, creating the Coliseum-esque feel to the hole as it exists today.
But, after seeing those lines, I decided I wanted to see as much golf as possible, not hear roars and look at porta-johns and miss most, if not all, of the golf for the rest of the day.
To the left of 15, children sledded down the hill using the Waste Management cardboard chairs. Just make ‘em flat, and have at it. It only gives more credence to my idea of the “Scottsdale Girl Downhill.”
Lehman’s group was just coming through at this time, and I followed them down the 15 near a couple of Shot Link workers just before the creek. As this is a par-5, most, if not all of the players would be laying up. Of course, Quiros is probably hitting a wedge or a putter for his second shot, but the rest of the field will probably lay-up.
I’m not sure whether Goggin meant to lay-up or go for it, but he went into the creek and elected to use the drop area in the middle of the fairway. After his caddie walked off the yardage, he positioned himself right near the edge of the circle, dropped the ball, and it came to rest right on the line. At this point, Goggin didn’t know what to do, and he threw his head back. He made a phone signal with his right hand and put it up to his ear, calling for a Rules Official. You have got to be kidding me. If he had done something like this on the 16 , he would’ve been booed for the rest of his life. The radius of that drop area had to be 10 yards, and you’re telling me you choose to drop right on the line? When the Official finally arrived, he was instructed to simply “play it as it lied” and Goggin knocked it stiff, to probably the most difficult hole location on the course—the hole was cut on top of a ridge back right, and the only safe play was short. Anything long was dead.
Well, what do you think Quiros did after bombing his second in the greenside bunker (probably with a wedge)? He went long, leaving a difficult up-and-down for par. Granted, he did make par, but still: Quiros, let’s work on those wedges, alright?
When the group arrived on the short par-4 17 , Quiros screwed up another chip, but because he had driven the ball right next to the green, he still made birdie. Lehman made a great birdie from about 20 feet, and the crowd went crazy, with the young lad and his exclamation point back in action after that terrible spill he had with the handkerchief girl on 9. This noise—even on 17—is incredibly loud. Makes those barking seals at Pebble sound like mouse farts.
Alvaro Quiros absolutely destroyed his tee ball on 18, and it was one of the prettiest drives you’ve ever seen. The vantage point that fans have behind the 18th tee is perfect, giving you a clear view of the entire hole as it leads to the massive crowd behind the green. The ball was easy to track against a clear blue sky, too, which made watching each player carry over the water hazard all the more spectacular. Quiros hit it high, and I would later find out that his “pretty” drive only stopped after 341 yards had been traversed. Granted, he could only manage par after an 85 yard wedge—to be expected at this point, I suppose—but still, what a fantastic drive.
I positioned myself just right of the green on 18, and four young girls with outfits that I was sure they changed into at a friend’s house AFTER leaving mommy and daddy, sat down on the grass next to me. One of the girls put her head in her hands.
“My feet are about to fall off.” These girls—what troopers. What resilience. They just keep marching on, working through the pain. They probably “never say die” too.
“Why is that?”
“Well, the tournament runs all week long, whereas those events are just one day. And this tournament is known for drinking and craziness, so it’s hard to convince people to behave themselves.”
After lunch, when I went back to check my e-mail before deciding what I was going to do with my afternoon, a member of the media I hadn’t noticed before was talking to a few of the Waste Management representatives sitting next to me.
“Oh, today they’re pulling people out of the stands on 16 like crazy. So the crowd is a lot more...muted than normal. Yesterday was definitely the day to be there. It was nuts.”
Yeah, I was there. So does this mean I shouldn’t try to spend a little time on the 16th? Well, I think I should still head out there and see. From hearing all of the cheers and roars throughout my front 9 this morning, I couldn’t wait to spend some more time there.
Near the 10th tee in one of the many concession areas, a quaint little stand was advertising “Best Bloody Mary’s in the World.” Well, now that is just exactly why I’m sleeping in my car or in a tent. So I can save up enough money to spend the $7.00 and see if these guys are guilty of false advertising. Turns out they aren’t. I’ve had my fair share of Bloody Marys, and even worked as a bartender for 3 years. That was a damn good Bloody Mary. Not a lot of vodka—which I suppose is just good business for them—but that worked out perfectly for me, because I got to taste the nectar of the Gods and still keep my wits about me for the afternoon. For those that are curious: it was thick, slightly spicy, just a hint of Worcestershire Sauce, and rimmed with celery salt. Glorious.
When I walked by the 16, I immediately decided to avoid it. There were massive lines of people just waiting to get in. Today it looked like the entrance to an amusement park rather than a hole on a golf course. I found out later the interesting evolution of this hole: back in the early 1990s, there was a solitary beer stand on 16, which gave all of the college kids easy access to alcohol and a great place to sit—right on the hill behind the green. Soon enough, chanting began, then bleachers were put in to assist the college kids because the tournament directors liked the idea, and then after Tiger’s hole in one in 1997, the area surrounding the hole started to look more like Optimus Prime, with an intricate set of grandstands, walkways, and skyboxes, all completely closed off from the rest of the course, creating the Coliseum-esque feel to the hole as it exists today.
But, after seeing those lines, I decided I wanted to see as much golf as possible, not hear roars and look at porta-johns and miss most, if not all, of the golf for the rest of the day.
To the left of 15, children sledded down the hill using the Waste Management cardboard chairs. Just make ‘em flat, and have at it. It only gives more credence to my idea of the “Scottsdale Girl Downhill.”
Lehman’s group was just coming through at this time, and I followed them down the 15 near a couple of Shot Link workers just before the creek. As this is a par-5, most, if not all of the players would be laying up. Of course, Quiros is probably hitting a wedge or a putter for his second shot, but the rest of the field will probably lay-up.
I’m not sure whether Goggin meant to lay-up or go for it, but he went into the creek and elected to use the drop area in the middle of the fairway. After his caddie walked off the yardage, he positioned himself right near the edge of the circle, dropped the ball, and it came to rest right on the line. At this point, Goggin didn’t know what to do, and he threw his head back. He made a phone signal with his right hand and put it up to his ear, calling for a Rules Official. You have got to be kidding me. If he had done something like this on the 16 , he would’ve been booed for the rest of his life. The radius of that drop area had to be 10 yards, and you’re telling me you choose to drop right on the line? When the Official finally arrived, he was instructed to simply “play it as it lied” and Goggin knocked it stiff, to probably the most difficult hole location on the course—the hole was cut on top of a ridge back right, and the only safe play was short. Anything long was dead.
Well, what do you think Quiros did after bombing his second in the greenside bunker (probably with a wedge)? He went long, leaving a difficult up-and-down for par. Granted, he did make par, but still: Quiros, let’s work on those wedges, alright?
When the group arrived on the short par-4 17 , Quiros screwed up another chip, but because he had driven the ball right next to the green, he still made birdie. Lehman made a great birdie from about 20 feet, and the crowd went crazy, with the young lad and his exclamation point back in action after that terrible spill he had with the handkerchief girl on 9. This noise—even on 17—is incredibly loud. Makes those barking seals at Pebble sound like mouse farts.
Alvaro Quiros absolutely destroyed his tee ball on 18, and it was one of the prettiest drives you’ve ever seen. The vantage point that fans have behind the 18th tee is perfect, giving you a clear view of the entire hole as it leads to the massive crowd behind the green. The ball was easy to track against a clear blue sky, too, which made watching each player carry over the water hazard all the more spectacular. Quiros hit it high, and I would later find out that his “pretty” drive only stopped after 341 yards had been traversed. Granted, he could only manage par after an 85 yard wedge—to be expected at this point, I suppose—but still, what a fantastic drive.
I positioned myself just right of the green on 18, and four young girls with outfits that I was sure they changed into at a friend’s house AFTER leaving mommy and daddy, sat down on the grass next to me. One of the girls put her head in her hands.
“My feet are about to fall off.” These girls—what troopers. What resilience. They just keep marching on, working through the pain. They probably “never say die” too.
This post was edited on 3/20/20 at 5:22 pm
1
Posted on 3/20/20 at 4:47 pm to LSUAlum2001
The 18th hole is a great finishing hole, as it allows at least 10,000 fans to surround the green. It also contains skyboxes overlooking the green, which really adds something to the noise when you count the drunks over at the Tilted Kilt. Those boys overhanging the railing were probably the loudest and most offensive on the course. I wonder if there were ever any security guards over there this week.
“Nice shorts, you hottie!”
After I walked into the media centre, three things caught my attention. First, during the Rickie Fowler interview, I couldn’t help but notice that Rickie kept checking out his fingernails as he talked. Like the interview and subsequent questioning he received was either a formality or a waste of his time. He just didn’t seem interested at all. Then again, I know these players go through at least four interviews if they’re leading on a particular day, so maybe he was just tired of regurgitating canned responses.
The second thing that caught my attention was Steve Sands, who approached two PGA Tour representatives to get their three picks each for a $5.00 pool they were doing to see who could pick the winner. For some reason, I guess I didn’t see Steve Sands as a betting man. Then again, in the game of golf, who isn’t?
The third thing, and most importantly, was that I watched some of the broadcast today and saw the ASU section on the left of the 16th tee. I wondered: did all of them wear diapers today? The security guards were escorting all sorts of people out of there, whether due to rowdiness or just to bring new people in. How did these guys stay in one spot since 7 am this morning? Did they have people getting them beers?
Waste Management Phoenix Open – Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Hangover
This tournament is ridiculous. I don’t know how any of these reporters, commentators, media administrators, whomever, can produce any worthwhile news this week. Steve Sands looked like crap again on the television this morning. Last night, all of the guys running the media center looked like they had their watches synchronized, disappearing as soon as possible to head over to the Bird’s Nest where OAR was playing. I’m sure a sizeable percentage of the 121,221 people in attendance for the tournament yesterday were doing the same.
When I finished writing last night, it was 7:15 pm. I had become pretty good friends over the course of the week with a couple of the PR people who were in the media center for Waste Management, and one of them yesterday had joked that she would like to be my “wingman” at the Bird’s Nest. So I had to go, but because I finished up at the media center so late, I wasn’t going to have time to take a shower. I had quite the nice “manly” odor wafting off of me—that’s right, ladies, drink it in—and I started laughing, thinking about how early some of the other writers had left to get ready.
So changing for a big night out was “tricky”: I had to change in my car, stripping and re-dressing at timed intervals to avoid detection from the drunks either heading to or coming from the Bird’s Nest. Once that stage was completed, I had to chug the remaining beers in my car—once again, at timed intervals— to save on buying drinks and to make sure I had the courage necessary to dance my face off. The third stage was critical: deodorization. It started with the Febreeze, which I used quite effectively on my shoes because I couldn’t find that powder stuff to put the stank out. Then came the Old Spice, which I applied quite generously to cover up the calcified Old Spice from earlier. Finally, I whipped out the cologne, trying to find that delicate balance between covering up my smell and applying an amount even Fabio couldn’t handle. I decided the litmus test was to see how much I could apply before I started tearing up.
Ready or not, here I come.
The night didn’t start out as planned—the Bird’s Nest was absolutely packed, and I arrived at the front gate just in time to stare at horse’s asses. Literally. Four to six police officers on horseback blocked the entrance, and somebody on a megaphone was shouting: “Look people, you’re not making my job any easier! Just turn around and go home!”
The directions were clear enough, but I just had to ask the nearest police officer.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“What?”
“So am I to gather that there’s no way of getting in, regardless of credentials?”
“Yeah. You need to leave.”
Now, I could have easily just given up right then and there and called it a night. But then I realized that tonight isn’t over until I say it’s over. When am I going to be in Scottsdale again? So I found the nearest blonde “Scottsdale girl” and started to get a consensus.
“Excuse me, but if the party isn’t here tonight, where is it?”
“You could go to Four Peaks. It’s not far. Just take the 101 South and take Frank Lloyd Wright and it’s right there.”
On my journey back to the parking lot, I queried a few more people, and most of them agreed that Four Peaks was the place to be. So I got in my car, got lost for about 40 minutes and hit another bar on the way—paying the toll of one drink just to get reliable directions, rather than “it’s right there,” off of the 101—and finally arrived at the Four Peaks around 9:30 pm. It’s a great little bar, with homemade microbrews, a draught called “Kiltlifter,” and the best Golden Tee setup I have ever seen. The trackball and controls were set a good 3-4 feet before a massive flat-screen television in one corner of the bar. After ordering a homemade Oatmeal Stout—one of my favorites—I asked the bartender if the arcade game to my right was in fact Golden Tee. She smiled, and I almost started crying I was so happy.
Ten minutes later, just after one of the guys to my left convinced me to try a shot of pomegranate vodka in my oatmeal stout—which, although creative, I wouldn’t recommend unless you’re a chef with a flexible palate—two girls approached the bar and ordered a shot.
When the bartender poured the drink, I thought it was a Soco and lime, but after seeing the salt on the rim and getting a whiff of the tequila, I threw my head back with a melodramatic “Oh my God” and almost collided with the girl behind me. I apologized and told her that the tequila smell startled me, and that was my cue to start a conversation. Turns out the girl I almost head-butted is going to graduate school at Pepperdine, and is only in town to party with her ASU alumni friends.
Then, out of nowhere:
“Hey, we’re going to Sand Bar, you want to come along? You can ride with us.”
You know, I love Scottsdale and the Waste Management Open. Did I say that already?
So, just when I thought my night was over and I was staring at horse’s asses—literally—I decided to be proactive and ended up partying like a rock star with a bunch of former ASU students, who arguably party harder than anyone. And the best part? They bought me all my drinks. How serendipitous.
So while I look at Steve Sands on the television this morning and want to judge, I really can’t, because I was doing the same thing last night (plus, who knows if he even went out—he could have a cold, right?). Birds are chirping outside, which means that the rain that moved in last night and this morning has finally stopped, but the combination of chirping and the florescent lights hurt my head.
Today, I’m going to follow Rickie Fowler, because he was backstage at the Bird’s Nest last night, and I want to see how his game handles it.
“Nice shorts, you hottie!”
After I walked into the media centre, three things caught my attention. First, during the Rickie Fowler interview, I couldn’t help but notice that Rickie kept checking out his fingernails as he talked. Like the interview and subsequent questioning he received was either a formality or a waste of his time. He just didn’t seem interested at all. Then again, I know these players go through at least four interviews if they’re leading on a particular day, so maybe he was just tired of regurgitating canned responses.
The second thing that caught my attention was Steve Sands, who approached two PGA Tour representatives to get their three picks each for a $5.00 pool they were doing to see who could pick the winner. For some reason, I guess I didn’t see Steve Sands as a betting man. Then again, in the game of golf, who isn’t?
The third thing, and most importantly, was that I watched some of the broadcast today and saw the ASU section on the left of the 16th tee. I wondered: did all of them wear diapers today? The security guards were escorting all sorts of people out of there, whether due to rowdiness or just to bring new people in. How did these guys stay in one spot since 7 am this morning? Did they have people getting them beers?
Waste Management Phoenix Open – Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Hangover
This tournament is ridiculous. I don’t know how any of these reporters, commentators, media administrators, whomever, can produce any worthwhile news this week. Steve Sands looked like crap again on the television this morning. Last night, all of the guys running the media center looked like they had their watches synchronized, disappearing as soon as possible to head over to the Bird’s Nest where OAR was playing. I’m sure a sizeable percentage of the 121,221 people in attendance for the tournament yesterday were doing the same.
When I finished writing last night, it was 7:15 pm. I had become pretty good friends over the course of the week with a couple of the PR people who were in the media center for Waste Management, and one of them yesterday had joked that she would like to be my “wingman” at the Bird’s Nest. So I had to go, but because I finished up at the media center so late, I wasn’t going to have time to take a shower. I had quite the nice “manly” odor wafting off of me—that’s right, ladies, drink it in—and I started laughing, thinking about how early some of the other writers had left to get ready.
So changing for a big night out was “tricky”: I had to change in my car, stripping and re-dressing at timed intervals to avoid detection from the drunks either heading to or coming from the Bird’s Nest. Once that stage was completed, I had to chug the remaining beers in my car—once again, at timed intervals— to save on buying drinks and to make sure I had the courage necessary to dance my face off. The third stage was critical: deodorization. It started with the Febreeze, which I used quite effectively on my shoes because I couldn’t find that powder stuff to put the stank out. Then came the Old Spice, which I applied quite generously to cover up the calcified Old Spice from earlier. Finally, I whipped out the cologne, trying to find that delicate balance between covering up my smell and applying an amount even Fabio couldn’t handle. I decided the litmus test was to see how much I could apply before I started tearing up.
Ready or not, here I come.
The night didn’t start out as planned—the Bird’s Nest was absolutely packed, and I arrived at the front gate just in time to stare at horse’s asses. Literally. Four to six police officers on horseback blocked the entrance, and somebody on a megaphone was shouting: “Look people, you’re not making my job any easier! Just turn around and go home!”
The directions were clear enough, but I just had to ask the nearest police officer.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“What?”
“So am I to gather that there’s no way of getting in, regardless of credentials?”
“Yeah. You need to leave.”
Now, I could have easily just given up right then and there and called it a night. But then I realized that tonight isn’t over until I say it’s over. When am I going to be in Scottsdale again? So I found the nearest blonde “Scottsdale girl” and started to get a consensus.
“Excuse me, but if the party isn’t here tonight, where is it?”
“You could go to Four Peaks. It’s not far. Just take the 101 South and take Frank Lloyd Wright and it’s right there.”
On my journey back to the parking lot, I queried a few more people, and most of them agreed that Four Peaks was the place to be. So I got in my car, got lost for about 40 minutes and hit another bar on the way—paying the toll of one drink just to get reliable directions, rather than “it’s right there,” off of the 101—and finally arrived at the Four Peaks around 9:30 pm. It’s a great little bar, with homemade microbrews, a draught called “Kiltlifter,” and the best Golden Tee setup I have ever seen. The trackball and controls were set a good 3-4 feet before a massive flat-screen television in one corner of the bar. After ordering a homemade Oatmeal Stout—one of my favorites—I asked the bartender if the arcade game to my right was in fact Golden Tee. She smiled, and I almost started crying I was so happy.
Ten minutes later, just after one of the guys to my left convinced me to try a shot of pomegranate vodka in my oatmeal stout—which, although creative, I wouldn’t recommend unless you’re a chef with a flexible palate—two girls approached the bar and ordered a shot.
When the bartender poured the drink, I thought it was a Soco and lime, but after seeing the salt on the rim and getting a whiff of the tequila, I threw my head back with a melodramatic “Oh my God” and almost collided with the girl behind me. I apologized and told her that the tequila smell startled me, and that was my cue to start a conversation. Turns out the girl I almost head-butted is going to graduate school at Pepperdine, and is only in town to party with her ASU alumni friends.
Then, out of nowhere:
“Hey, we’re going to Sand Bar, you want to come along? You can ride with us.”
You know, I love Scottsdale and the Waste Management Open. Did I say that already?
So, just when I thought my night was over and I was staring at horse’s asses—literally—I decided to be proactive and ended up partying like a rock star with a bunch of former ASU students, who arguably party harder than anyone. And the best part? They bought me all my drinks. How serendipitous.
So while I look at Steve Sands on the television this morning and want to judge, I really can’t, because I was doing the same thing last night (plus, who knows if he even went out—he could have a cold, right?). Birds are chirping outside, which means that the rain that moved in last night and this morning has finally stopped, but the combination of chirping and the florescent lights hurt my head.
Today, I’m going to follow Rickie Fowler, because he was backstage at the Bird’s Nest last night, and I want to see how his game handles it.
This post was edited on 3/20/20 at 5:25 pm
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