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

Oh, and the final worthy notable is that the “Thunderbirds” count the number of people in attendance at the Waste Management Phoenix Open thusly: they multiply the number of cars in the lots by 3.2. So that’s how they figure out those astronomical numbers you hear on television—like over 110,000 on a Friday. But that makes sense: who would want to stand there with a clicker and count to 110,000? Your thumb would fall off.

...

When I came in this morning, I knew I wanted to follow Ian Poulter and Phil Mickelson during their back nine because of something Poulter tweeted last night: ”Do you think I should rock the pink pants tomorrow with Big Phil, I’m sure the crowd at 16 will have something to say...do I dare, hell yes”

The only problem was, they were teeing off this afternoon, and I didn’t want to sit and wait. So I decided to follow Justin Rose, Rich Beem, and Nick O’Hern, who went off first thing.

By the time Rose and company finished, I’d have time to eat lunch and do some writing before going out to join Poulterand Mickelson, who would be playing with Ryan Palmer today. By the time Poulter and company reach the 16th the crowd should be well lubricated.

I caught up with Rose’s group on the 7, and I recognized Rose’s strut immediately. His shoulders swivel with each step, giving his gait a distinctive and confident look. I’ve already perfected the walk myself, should the opportunity ever present itself to use it someday.

All three players were at even-par, and if Kenny Perry’s statements were correct yesterday—saying that 16-under would probably win this event—this group needs to throw up three or four birdies to stay in contention.

A family sat to my right, the parents in chairs drinking their “adult drinks” and their two young boys both on their knees peering out at the green just below the rope line. As soon as Rose’s caddie set the bag down near the family while Justin looked over his upcoming putt, the caddie reached into the bag and threw one ball to each young lad. He threw them rather hard, come to think about it. Those two boys are future Baseball Hall of Fame catchers.

O’Hern had put his tee shot in the greenside bunker, and he was unable to get the ball up and in, leading to a disappointing bogey. But hey: at least I found another lefty on the tour, which is the equivalent of a Where’s Waldo out here. Beem and Rose made par, and we moved to the 8.

Justin creamed his tee shot, and an older gentleman standing next to me started mumbling, “That’s better...that’s better, Justin Rose.”

Is this guy married to that witch with the poisonous apples in Snow White? Rose had heard him and stared back at us as he sheathed his driver. Hey, Justin? It wasn’t me. But Mr. Witch didn’t discriminate: he mumbled at each player as they teed off. “Perfect! Perfect Beem! Fine, O’Hern. That’s fine.” He enunciated each sentence with a forceful spit onto the ground. Was he a baseball coach?

On the 8th, Beem had left himself a chip from just off the back-left of the green. I stood looking right down his line, and he was aimed a good 10 feet left of the hole. From where I stood, the line to the hole looked pretty damn straight. Where are you going with this, Beem?

Beem hit a solid chip, right on his intended line, and the ball didn’t move an inch to the right. He waved his arm, clarifying for all of us that yes, he thought the ball would move way right, and no, he’s not stupid. Rose, on the other hand, rolled in a long birdie putt from the front of the green.

But that wasn’t the end of it: Rose birdied 9, 10, and 11 too.

On 13, Rose got home in two and two-putted for birdie. At that moment, I started thinking that if Rose took the first round lead, he would definitely be in the interview room. That meant I could finally ask him a question I had wanted to ask since Turning Stone last year. Just before his pre-shot routine, he used this drill where he extenuated a downward movement with his body into the ball, which looked more or less like he was squatting as he neared the impact position. I had seen him do this even as recently as Riviera, but so far today I hadn’t seen him do it. Was his swing finally where he felt it needed to be? Was this confidence translating into more birdies today? As I walked, I started reviewing the way I wanted to ask the question in my head, just in case Justin paid the reporters a visit this afternoon.

Beem three-putted the 13 , only further proving my theory about his difficulties with green reading today.

After checking out the solar-paneled waste compactor on the 14th tee, I saw Rose blister another drive, sending his ball a good 30-40 yards past both Beem and O’Hern. Rose would say later that he’s using a new driver this week, and I guess it’s working like a charm. After I walked behind the green to watch Rose’s approach shot, I lost the ball in the air. A moment later, the ball landed and stopped 10 feet from the pin.

I jumped.

“Holy crap!” Then I noticed the older woman in front of me. “Oh, sorry.”

She was laughing. “No, that was a perfect reaction.”

From there, I moved behind the green up onto another steep slope that forms a natural grandstand for patrons, many of whom were lounging on their chairs with a perfect view of the green. Two older gentlemen were sitting on “Waste Management” cardboard chairs – that I suppose they received at the front gate. I had to admire the fact that they were actually using them, and had unfolded them correctly, because I had seen so many patrons fight to unfold these things like they were origami balls or Chinese finger-traps. Nobody could figure out how to unfold them so that the cardboard would a) support them and b) actually be comfortable. I saw one lady fight with hers for 10 minutes before I started walking in a different direction. I wonder if she a) succeeded in figuring it out or b) jammed the thing up her arse and took her chances on comfort.

Rose missed his birdie, and I rolled back onto the grass in agony, unknowingly getting dead brown grass stuck on the back of my shirt and hat.

An announcer came on and introduced each golfer before they hit, and I was amazed at how loud the crowd got when Phil was introduced, and then how quiet the stadium became when he was about to hit. But, I learned that this crowd does not play favorites: Phil missed the green to the right, and the crowd booed him just the same.

From there, I drank 4-5 cups of coffee in an effort to wake myself up and write. I made an effort to start writing this section this morning, but threw it out because I had been writing it when I was half asleep and I hated the way it sounded.
Right now, however, I’m putting the finishing touches on this segment from my car, because I believe I did in fact piss off the night security supervisor with my whole “laptop charger” excuse last night.

Mark Stevens, another PGA Tour representative right alongside Mark Williams, was finally relaxing and watching some basketball two tables ahead of mine. I was busily typing away, trying like hell to leave, when a night security guard walked in. I hadn’t seen this one before.

“You guys have to pack up your stuff and get out, because we’re locking everything down.”

Mark flipped a switch. “Look, you get on the radio and call your supervisor. We still have someone writing here. This is a media center. You can’t just kick us out.”

“Well, I’m only doing what I’ve been told to do.”

“Just call your supervisor and tell him to give us another 15 minutes.”

With that, the young lad walked out with his radio to make the call. I didn’t say anything, but I started to type faster. After a few minutes, the guard came back in.

“What are your names, and who are you with?” Not this again.

“Mark Stevens, PGA Tour.”

“Tom Collins, Universal Golf.” Great. If that was the supervisor from last night on the other end of the radio, he’ll probably hear my name and come down again to say hello: “Oh my God, that a-hole again?”

I tried to focus on typing and watched the clock. When I turned, I finally noticed Amy, who had been seated behind me the whole time. She looked at me almost hesitantly, and her face said it all – I bet she got reamed by the security supervisor last night after I left, for aiding and abetting a fugitive or something.
I didn’t want to cause her trouble. Also, as nice as he was for speaking up, I didn’t want Mark Stevens putting his two cents in when I’m actually writing for myself. I mean what I’m writing right now is not going in tomorrow’s paper or anything. I soon packed up my laptop and my unfinished work, just to get out of there. When he saw me load up my backpack, Mark stood up to leave.

“Take it easy, Tom.”

“Hey, Mark. Thanks so much. I really appreciate it.”

So now, here I sit, typing these last few words in the darkness of Lot 6. Collective Soul is performing at the Bird’s Nest across the street, but I need to try to catch up on sleep and prepare for one hell of a day tomorrow.

Waste Management Phoenix Open – Friday, February 26, 2010 D-Day

10:02 am

In “Flowers for Algernon” by Daniel Keyes, one gets to read through the progress reports of Charlie, a mentally disabled patient undergoing surgeries to try and increase his intelligence. The book is extremely creative, as Charlie’s writing ability goes from elementary school level with poor sentence structure and misspellings to an eloquent graduate thesis level when the experiments hit their peak. Near the end of the book, Charlie unfortunately reverts and we see the obvious decline in his writing ability, but overall the book is definitely worth reading if you haven’t already done so.

I mention this because I’m hoping you, the reader, will find it in your heart to view the following piece of prose as a great creative writing experiment. I will be imbibing alcohol and my subsequent writing this evening may be a little weird. This won’t be like the aforementioned novel, because I think my writing will simply decline rather than improve at some point. But that’s all part of it.

If the last couple of nights are any indication, I will be forcibly removed from the media center by 8:30 pm this evening. This means, if you’re working backwards, I should probably come off the course around 5 pm to allow “ample” time to write. Working even further backwards, that means I need to start drinking alcohol around noon today to allow enough time to reach my own personal peak of inebriation.

I’m hoping all of this planning won’t hinder my creativity and spontaneity out there on number 16.

But this is the Waste Management Phoenix Open, people. I’ve never been out here, and I’ve been trying to do my best week in and week out to bring you, the reader, into the action. By not spending at least one day experiencing the 16th hole in all its glory, I am not fulfilling a promise I made to you when I started this whole thing.

So again, to summarize: by not drinking and spending most of my day on the 16th hole, I’m not doing my job. The logic is simple, yes?

So, let’s see what happens. Similar to Charlie, the following is my own personal “progress report” from the 16th hole at the Waste Management Phoenix Open.

5:19 pm

I think I’ve almost lost my voice. When I was sitting at lunch today, I met Michael Collins, a PGA Tour reporter for XM Radio. After finding out that he was a caddie, and that he has played the same course where Steve Marino and I used to caddie, he gave me one very valuable piece of advice: “If you’re going to the 16th hole, go and stand in the first section on the left. Those are my ASU boys that just love to Google information about players and I have to say... If I ever get fired, it’s going to be on that hole, with that group of guys, and you know what? I don’t care.”

8. Once the players and scoreboard boy walked past, the ASU guys spun around to the skyboxes above and would pick someone out of the crowd and order them—via peer pressure—to chug whatever they were drinking:

“Red shirt! Red shirt! Red shirt! Chug chug chug chug chug yeah!” “Sweater vest! Sweater vest! Sweater vest! Yeah!”

“Silver fox! Silver fox! Silver fox!” (to an older gent)

“That’s my mom! That’s my mom! That’s my mom!”

Those were the most noticeable patterns, and every so often people would walk by down below that would elicit a cheer from us. Some guy walked by with a “Canada” shirt on that got us all screaming like we were on Jerry Springer: “USA! USA! USA!”

Memorable moments with players throughout the afternoon included Mark Calcavecchia, who flew his shot over the green, to which we all responded with a loud “boo.” Calc calmly walked over to the edge of the tee to address us, pulled up a sleeve on his shirt, and flexed his muscle.

When David Toms hit the tee, everyone in the crowd started screaming “LSU! LSU! LSU!”

One of the funniest moments came next, because after Toms’ group walked by, everyone started passing out pieces of newspaper. I learned very quickly that everyone below hated Rory Sabbatini, so when he was about to tee off, everyone was supposed to turn and look the other way and pretend to read the newspaper. When Rory walked out into the open, the ASU boys booed him like never before, and that was the first and only time I heard a player booed before he even hit a shot. Sure enough, just when Rory was about to hit, 40 people turned and pretended to read the newspaper. I have no idea where Rory went, but when I finally turned, I saw some media woman with a camera snapping a photo of our exploits.

So far, even though the back left hole location looked easy enough to run a shot up close simply by aiming at the middle of the green, I saw a lot of shots off to the right, playing it safe. But when Martin Flores hit the tee, that all changed. He was playing with Jay Williamson, who got to the tee first and pulled out a camera, videotaping our section as we went crazy. The third member of the group was my favorite, Billy Horschel. Horschel and Williamson stuck it close, which of course we all loved, but when Flores hit it, the ball hit the flagstick and it didn’t even matter where the ball ended up. I was screaming until I felt like my lungs were going to cave, and everyone around me seemed to yell even longer. It was loud, and it didn’t stop.

At that moment, I’m sure the noise and enthusiasm rivaled a Ryder Cup crowd. All golf tournaments should be like this.

I remember looking up at the sky, and thanking God and sunny Jesus that there were clouds today. I had already caked on the sun-block, but with no clouds, I knew I was safe from skin cancer, at least for today.

Below, near the ASU guys, Steve Sands looked like he was playing beer pong with some of the guys in the crowd. He threw a ping pong ball into the cup of an ASU fan, and then gave the kid a look like, “Alright, I made it...so...you gonna drink that or what?”

When Chris Stroud approached the tee, he did something that rivaled Happy Gilmore. Just before he stepped in to his setup to hit the shot, he turned to the crowd and started raising his arms, asking everyone to cheer for him while he hit. When a player does something like that, it doesn’t matter WHERE on the green he hits it—people are going to scream for him regardless. He ended up right of the flag, in an area that we as a group had already agreed was a “safe” area, and therefore open for the “safety sign,” but we disregarded that and cheered for him anyway.

After a few more “manly” Heineken’s, I started making fun of the girls in front of me with the Michelob Ultra’s in the plastic bottles.

“Hey, how are those Ultra’s treating you? Need a pacifier?”

“Oh, ha ha. Well what do you have there, a sippy-cup?”

It was a manly plastic Waste Management STEIN you stupid stupid girls. But I think I made my point. Who stands right here and simply talks with friends? You’re not going to comment on the golf at ALL? Stupid girls.

On one of my beer runs, I was held at bay from coming back into this magnificent mini Coliseum until players had finished hitting. I guess my media badge flipped around and became noticeable, and the guard told me I could keep moving. Three older women wearing clothing that SPELLED cougar followed closely behind me, and the guard called to me.

“Hey man, are they with you?”

I can’t believe he thought I was anyone important, but I’ll be happy to play along.
“Yeah, man.”

Just before I went up the stairs, one of the ladies grabbed my arm.

“Hey, thanks a lot. You know... we just used you. How does it feel to be used?”

“Pretty great, I have to say. This feels like a rock concert.” And with that, I went back to find my seat.

When Villegas came to the tee, even before he was able to tee up the ball, our entire section was screaming: “Yellow pants! Yellow pants! Yellow pants!” The fact that he hit the green was amazing to me.

The 3rd hole at TPC Scottsdale is actually a good par-5, because it’s just long enough to leave a Tin Cup yardage for your second shot. The green itself is elevated and over a creek, and if you go right, you’re in a collection area with a difficult flop shot to hold the green, which looks to be one of the smaller greens on the course. Lehman laid up short of the creek on his second shot—a predictable smart play from the newly dubbed Assistant Ryder Cup Captain for 2010. Goggin tried to rip at it, and ended up left in the creek, but not to worry, because this is Arizona and that creek’s been dry for years.

Quiros, whose length off of the tee has spread far and wide to river and dell at this point, went wide right near the “creek” on the right side of the hole in the trees. From there, he took an iron—and frankly, it doesn’t matter what it was, just that it was an IRON—and hit a low stinger that ended up in the collection area on the right OVER the creek in front of the green. He was only slightly farther up than Goggin, who hit a WOOD, mind you, and Quiros cleared the creek with a freaking IRON.

Everyone made par, with Lehman hitting his safe approach within two-putt range, Goggin flubbing the crap out of his pitch from the “creek,” and Quiros predictably hitting his flop shot long to a pin tucked right against the bunker he had to clear.

To the left of the par-3 4, the steep hillside provides for optimal viewing, and if people weren’t walking by me with some sort of “adult drink” in their hands they were laying out blankets and lounging.

Another roar erupted from the 16 , making me jealous and antsy, wishing I was there already. One of the girls with the neon-orange signs stood right next to me, which I was really surprised at because there was nobody standing around us. She had her pick of the entire rope-line for the most part. So, I took the hint and decided to ask: “So what do the signs spell?”

“Tom.”

How the hell do you spell “Tom”? There are four of you. I’m no Scrabble Champion by any stretch, but that’s messed up. Do you spell it “Tome” and make the “e” silent or something? Do I just need a few beers for it to make sense? But then I saw that the young lad had the sign with the exclamation point on it. Oh, now I see. So clever.

Although I hadn’t been able to see a close-up of Quiros’ swing yet, from where I stood on the 4th I was able to get a good look, simply because of his pre-shot routine. He stands behind the ball and takes practice swings that are perpendicular to the target line, staring down his upcoming shot. I thought that setup was a little weird, because I feel like this sort of pre-shot routine is only appropriate for putting. But, to each his own. I’m sure with his length a lot of these shots seem like putts. His swing looked somewhat abbreviated for his height and build, and you could just feel the full extension of his left arm, held perfectly straight on the backswing. No wonder he hit an iron that far on 3—he definitely knows how to torque it on the backswing.

The whole group made pars again, with two-putts all around. Quiros had a tricky downhill 15-footer for birdie that made a banana left down at the hole, and he almost missed it coming back. Part of me wished he did miss it, because this round had been a little too exciting for me thus far. I reasoned that the perpetual roars I kept hearing from the 16th reminded me of how much fun I had yesterday, and made me feel like once you get that sort of high while watching golf, a round like this just doesn’t “do” it for you until you re-acclimate yourself.

On the 5 , Quiros hit his first fairway of the day, blowing by Lehman and Goggin by a good 30 yards. I had my pin sheet handy, and used a nearby sprinkler head to pace off the yardage for Lehman and Goggin, who ended up right next to each other. Looks like 121 front, 141 pin. Lehman hit a peach of a shot in, which I would later hear from the Shot Link guy at the green that it ended up 1’1’’ away, and was the “best shot in all day so far.” Quiros also made birdie, but then again, he probably should have, being less than 100 yards in to an easy pin, located on a flat section on the right side of the green.

All week so far, I had been hearing on television and from media people around me that this course really is a bomber’s paradise, so I felt that if Quiros could actually keep it in the fairway off of the tee, he would probably win. What a monster.

On the 6 , Lehman’s drive ended up in the right rough, leaving a difficult approach shot to a pin tucked way left over the trap. The left side of the green is quite narrow, and out of the rough Lehman would have a hell of a time trying to stop the ball before it went over the steep bank on the back of the green into a collection area. Lehman opted for the fat part of the green right of the trap, and put his ball about pin high. Quiros, again 30 yards ahead, went right at it, but ended up just off of the green in the fringe left of the hole. Well, maybe Quiros won’t win this thing. He can drive the ball really far, sure, but his wedge game wasn’t taking advantage of his yardage off of the tee.

Standing high above the 6th green on another steep slope for patron viewing, I heard screams from the 16th again, loud and clear.

“Nice hit! Nice hit! Nice hit! Yeahhhhhhh!”

Man, that hole is so tempting. Lehman had a great two-putt from across the green and onto the upper tier, and the other two players made wonderful ho-hum pars as well. If it weren’t for admiring Lehman’s smart play, this round might be boring. That reminds me, though: just like Paul Goydos, Lehman’s game has stepped up after the nod from Corey Pavin. Maybe that boost of confidence was all that these guys needed.

Just before I moved to the 7th tee, I saw something inspiring. A tan girl with short jean-shorts (with frills) and a low cut top was trying to traverse the steep slope to get to her nice boyfriend with the super-spiky hair. He wasn’t HELPING her across, mind you, only waiting. Due to the slick flip-flops she was wearing, the dry, sun-burnt grass acted like grease, and she started sliding down the hill while she tried to walk towards him. She finally gave up, and crawled to him on her hands and knees up the hill until she reached the top and could walk safely.

What was truly inspiring about this moment was that they could easily have a downhill race—much like the Olympics, but with more alcohol and less training—with these gussied-up dames with designer flip flops next year. Maybe whoever has the fastest time gets a free pair of sneakers or something. But how much fun would that be to watch?

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.

On the 8 , Fowler and friends had to wait again, and I felt I had found the source when I walked up the 8th fairway: Lee Janzen. A patron next to me at the start of the event had said that Janzen was slow, so I just assumed when my friends back at the tee had to wait—again—that Janzen was to blame. But when Janzen walked onto the green and I took a look down the 9th to see how far behind Janzen’s group was, Mahan, Allenby, and Couch were all just getting to the 9th fairway. So, I guess Janzen isn’t really off pace at all. You win this round, Janzen.
Another huge roar came from 16, and I could tell from the build-up that a long putt must’ve dropped. I know it’s already past noon, but something about today being a Sunday made me surprised to hear a roar that loud.

Fowler played conservatively on his approach shot to 8, making me wonder if this Oklahoma boy is misjudging the wind a bit. Must be leftover gusts from the storm last night. To my right, an XM Radio announcer parked his cart and narrated the rest of the hole to me as I watched it, making subsequent notes on my pad sound ridiculous. I felt like I was merely repeating what this guy said, exactly how he said it. Damn.

Over on 16, the ASU boys were at it again: “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

I don’t think I could’ve handled that school if I had gone there.

Villegas came alive a bit on 8, sticking his approach shot close and barely missing birdie, making me think he must’ve heard some salsa music playing nearby and worked out the kinks in his timing during the downswing. But, on 9, I guess somebody had stopped the music, because Villegas left his tee ball out to the right again, and ended up in what looked to be the smallest bunker on the course.

On the right side of the fairway and dug into a slope on 9, there is a bunker complex with three circular bunkers. The bunker closest to the tee is where Villegas ended up, and you can’t help but wonder why the architect didn’t just extend the second bunker and change the complex from 3 bunkers to 2—that’s how small that first bunker is. I suppose it makes it all the more penal, but how the hell Camilo keeps getting himself into these jams all day is beyond me. Maybe the architect was a prophet, and knew that Camilo would land the ball right there in 2010 during the final round.

Villegas hit the lip on the way out, but still carried the ball near the green, leaving another 30-yard pitch, which of course meant a guaranteed up and down. Villegas is just MONEY from those yardages. Rickie hit a shot from the left rough, which seemed to swallow his white and orange shoes, and managed to stick it close. I think that was just one more piece of proof that Fowler would be a force this afternoon.

The scoreboard by the 10th showed Y.E. Yang at 12-under par. You’ve got to be kidding me. Where did he come from? I went into the media center to change, as the sun kept coming out and annoying me. Last night was fun, but this morning / afternoon has not been good for business in the stomach department. But, on a lighter note, I took a shower when I got back last night and I smell great today.

When I came in to change, I heard from one of the guys in charge of the flat-screens around the course say that none of them were protected last night, so they now have to throw away 30 flat-screen televisions. Televisions just full of water.

On the walk back to meet up with the group, I passed another scoreboard and got a peek at Calcavecchia’s scorecard. Man, it looks beat up. Bogeys galore and one birdie. Somebody buy that man a Bloody Mary. The beverage cart over here near the tee makes the “World’s Best” Mark! I also got a glimpse of the log-jam that had formed at the top of the leader-board, and it looked like there were 10- 15 players within two shots of the lead going into the last 4-5 holes.

Fowler narrowly missed birdie on the 11 . After passing 3-4 “Scottsdale Girls” wearing clothing that at this point I have become numb to, I couldn’t help but notice all the make-up. Some of these girls just CAKE it on, making me think that the make-up doubles as sun-block. If that isn’t true, I should start a company with a line of products that does just that and make millions. I could start it right here in Scottsdale, and then I’d never have to leave.

Another thing I realized, as if my life weren’t chaotic enough right now, was that if there was a massive playoff into the darkness this evening and the tournament finished tomorrow, I might even miss the first round of the Honda Classic next week with all of the driving I have to do. Come on Rickie! I don’t want to miss the Honda! Make some freaking birdies!

Calcavecchia’s par putt across the green on 11 hung right on the edge of the hole, and I’m not sure if what he did then was to keep the attention of the crowd or just to try and bend the 10-second rule as long as possible to see if the ball would drop, but Mark turned and stared at all of the birds in the lake as soon as the ball stopped, and just kept staring. Then he slowly walked to his ball—taking the longest route possible around the fringe of the green—and finally tapped in his par. It took so long it almost felt like overkill.

As Calcavecchia rolled in his par and then threw his ball into the lake, I noticed an old volunteer with a “Quiet” sign, holding it high and shaking it at people. Talk about a waste of time. I wondered if some photographer had a shot of a volunteer like him with the 16th stadium in the background. Personally, I’d love to have that photo for my home someday, as I’d probably laugh every time I saw it. I mean, I’d have to actually OWN a home first and not reside in a tent next to an 8 X 12 pool, but I’m working on it.

But here’s the bottom line, Mr. Volunteer: Dude, you’re 400 yards away from the loudest party in golf, and people are going absolutely bonkers. The wind is blowing. It’s loud and noisy outside, and I think you’d have better luck peeing on a house-fire and saving a puppy than quieting down this crowd. Try to relax.
Janzen and company were just getting to the green on 12, so Fowler and friends had a while to wait when they arrived at the 12th tee. The view of 11, 12, and 15 is really something with the sun bouncing off of the lake. It’s all... glittery.

Granted, it doesn’t feel that great when you don’t have any sun-block on your face because you forgot about it when you were all hung-over and cranky this morning, but the lake still looks nice at this hour.

Rickie’s second shot on the 13th ended up just short of the green, and I was surprised to see him use a wedge with quite a bit of loft on it to hit his chip. I would’ve thought with all of the green he had to work with, the fact that it was flat, and that he could almost putt the ball, should’ve resulted in him hitting a textbook bump and run. But he used the lofted wedge to hit a low, spinning shot that checked up a little farther away than either he or I would’ve liked.

Fortunately, after consulting with his caddie, he was able to roll in the birdie.
After moving out of the way and letting the “close talker” find someone else to lean on, I joined the rest of the crowd in a textbook gym class “red light, green light” game across the gravel near the 14th tee. There’s so much gravel around each hole that finally, during the last round, the volunteers made it a point to single out those patrons traversing across these areas and tell them to freeze.

“You two! Stop right where you are!” Verbatim.

Once I was able to get around the 2nd period gym class, I moved up to the green to watch the approach shots. Calcavecchia hit first out of the left rough, and the ball hit the green about 15 feet short of the hole and released to about 4 feet. Villegas ended up a little outside of him at 15 feet, and Fowler ended up about 25 feet away. The interesting thing, however, is that from where I was standing, all three balls were in a perfect line. Villegas would get a read off of Fowler, and Calcavecchia would get a read off of Villegas. The patron next to me finished the last of his beer and chuckled.

“Well, Calcavecchia should get a great idea of what THAT putt is going to do.”
I couldn’t resist: “Well, if Calcavecchia misses that 4-footer, somebody needs to buy him a drink, because he’s playing like absolute crap today.”

After a careful read, Fowler put quite a bit of pace on his putt, but it rattled around the cup and dropped. That was huge. I better get to 16 so that I can watch this group come through there; otherwise I may not get a seat. I walked by Rickie’s mom and girlfriend, who were standing up at the top of the hill right of the 15th tee, and Rickie’s mom was smiling wide and clapping her hands together at who I can only assume was a friend of hers on a cart.

“Yay!”

When I walked by the 15th green just before the entrance to the stands on 16, I saw that the pin on 15 was front left, in a perfect position to make birdie. Granted, if you go right or left of that portion of the green, you’re either in the water or the trap, but still: that portion of the green is relatively flat when compared to all of the undulations and tiers in the middle and back right portions of the green.

“Ladies and gentleman, please continue to show courtesy for the players. Quiet please. Quiet.”

Finished

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