Fear & Loathing in Rochester

[Scott McKee]

There is no established method to covering the practice round of a major golf tournament in any accountable manner that will achieve the “feel” of the event for your readers and convince them you have your finger on its pulse other than to infiltrate the club house, and player’s recreational vehicles and hotel suites in order to get the strait, unfiltered dope from the parties involved.

When my brother Bruce and I received this assignment, filled with its extremely ominous overtones of orthodoxy and conformity, we decided we would disguise ourselves to move more freely into the player’s midst.  Donning the traditional golf fan uniform; khaki shorts, shiny synthetic wrinkle free fire hazard golf shirts, and baseball caps replete with a country club’s logo in order to convince the casual observer we were 100% died-in-the-wool and financially liquid golf fans, we moved into their ranks at the well-attended final day of practice for the 95^th annual PGA Championship at Oak Hill Country Club in Rochester.  While our ruse would guarantee the average gawker would accept us as one of their own, I gave our chances of infiltrating the player’s only areas at 1 in 5.

The fatal flaw in our disguise was our belts and watches.  Every professional golfer and looper spends most of their tour winnings on belts and watches.  Every player’s belt and watch probably costs more than most people’s yearly income.  These two pieces of the golf uniform are how they identify their own, and Bruce’s and my shorts were woefully cemented to our ample guts with plain pieces of leather and our wrists were bare save my medic-alert, and Bruce’s parachute cord bracelets; a dead giveaway for sure to educated eyes.

Our initial strategy to gain access to the player’s sanctuaries was to bribe security guards with Bocce’s pizza slices and cold hard cash.  Predictably our pizza supply was reduced severely on the trip to Rochester and eliminated entirely when we were overwhelmed with pity for a robustly stout parking lot attendant who just looked hungry, and our cash reserves were necessary to gorge ourselves on BBQ at Dinosaur after our mission was completed.

Our second plan of attack was to follow a professional golfer into the clubhouse, under the guise of sycophantic hangers-on.  We failed miserable with this plan while riding Ángel Cabrera and his caddie’s coattails while speaking Spanish.  The problem was Bruce and I speak very little Spanish.  When Mr. Cabrera asked us who were?  Our only reply was “burrito” and “nachos”.  Our response, coupled with our lack of men’s high fashion accessories, made us stand out like a burnt tortilla chip in a bag full of Doritos.

We thought we might be able to tunnel into the clubhouse from under the grandstand on the 18^th hole, but the warm August air and our desire to not get more sweaty, forced our hand and made a full frontal assault our only course of action.

The first security guard was distracted briefly when I fell to the ground screaming I had sprained my ovaries.  As the guard glanced in disbelief in my direction, Bruce B-lined it for the front door.  Fleet of foot for a fellow pushing 300 pounds, my brother eluded two guards before being tackled by a onetime USC linebacker who had been recently cut from Buffalo Bills training camp roster.  Struggling to gain his release from the iron grip of the freshly chided Trojan, Bruce hysterically yelled, “I’m a doctor of journalism dammit!  Do you realize who you are dealing with man?”  After expending all of his strength attempting to wriggle free, which took all of three seconds, Bruce turned into jelly in the guards clutches and started crying about his fear of releasing metabolic waste in a port-o-potty.  His horrible attempt to gain sympathy fell on deaf ears.

On the verge of being thrown out Oak Hill in an embarrassing fashion, we were allowed to stay provided we purchased hundreds of dollars of souvenirs at the PGA store, which, predictably enough, was the most air conditioned refuge on the course.

Of course, none of this is true, but Bruce and I did have a great time walking around Oak Hill and we even chatted briefly with longtime NMA member Alan Hoerl on fourteen.  If you are a fan of golf, or if you like dressing in golf shirts, head to Rochester this weekend.  You won’t be disappointed.  Do me a favor, pull for Jason Day.  He signed at least one hundred autographs for children while walking from the thirteenth green to the fourteenth tee box.  Nice kid Jason Day.  I really hope he wins.