Roaring with Rory at The U.S. Open

I have been a jock my entire life.  I played a variety of sports growing up and find enjoyment in watching any and all athletic games and matches.  But, for some reason, a professional golf tournament, and one with VIP perks at that, was something that had managed to elude me.  That is, until this past Thursday.

 I was fortunate enough to have been gifted with tickets for Thursday, Friday and Sunday play at the U.S. Open at Congressional Country Club in Bethesda, MD that included access to a corporate hospitality tent.  Since I was a novice to both golf and high-rolling at a sporting event, I inquired of my generous benefactor what to expect from the hospitality tent and if alcohol would be served.  His response, “Of course.  What do you think we are, barbarians?”

That was all the incentive I needed to accept the tickets.  As I said to him, “You had me at free alcohol.”

For the record, I am no golf aficionado and that will become abundantly clear as you continue to read  my musings.  I have recently taken it up in the last two years via group lessons with a bunch of girlfriends and am quite enamored of it but I have a long way to go before you’ll see me playing on the LPGA tour.  To give you a better understanding of the caliber of my play, I offer this.  Upon completion of my six group lessons, our pro took us onto the course to play three holes.  Teeing off at the first hole, one member of our group drove the ball, shanked it right, ricocheted it off a tree and watched it land two feet…behind her.  And she is one of the better players in my group. 

So, the notion of me, at the 2011 US Open, with 156 of the top players in the world, at one of the most prestigious golf courses in the country…definitely brings the word poseur to mind.  But I figured as long as I wore plaid shorts, whispered while talking and peppered my sentences with words like “bogey”, “par” and “birdie”, I could pretend to run with this crowd.  And that I did…

We utilized the free parking and bus shuttle service that originated from Montgomery County Fairgrounds in MD.  It was definitely a little frustrating to go 20 miles out of our way on 270N past the course in order to have to turn right around and get transportation back up to the course located fairly close to 495 (The Beltway) but I have to admit, the logistics in place were pretty seamless so actual pain was quite minimal.  We parked in the free lot (having a 4-wheel drive vehicle was an asset as it was basically a big field), went through security (main purpose was to ensure no one was armed with a cell phone;  loved the Washington Post article that said “the only tweeting going on was in the trees”), were cordoned through a meandering, quick-moving line (think ride line at King’s Dominion) and promptly loaded onto a fleet of plush motorcoaches  which dropped us off 25 minutes later at the Main Entrance of Congressional. 

Upon walking towards the entrance, I felt like Dorothy approaching Emerald City, minus the ruby slippers (because with my Midwest DNA I am practical by nature so opted for sensible footwear.)  Knowing this would probably be the first and last time my eyes would ever set sight on Congressional Country Club, I inhaled the beauty of the place…the lush greens, the stately clubhouse, the amount of real estate the course covered, just the flat-out opulence.   It truly was a lovely sight.

Once we entered, we were presented with a course guide handout that also included groupings and starting times.  Thank God because I felt like the country cousin and was sorely in need of some direction.  With guide in hand, we oriented ourselves in pretty short order and started by planting ourselves in the viewing stands of the 18^th hole, not at first realizing it was one of the most demanding par 4’s (do I sound like I know what I am talking about?) on the course.  But duh, it was the 18^th hole, it had to be hard.  This particular hole was the 4^th longest on the course, had a blind start and a green that was surrounded by water…a hole that was guaranteed to be the recipient of much profanity…and sure enough, we observed many a  player struggle with it.  Each time, we saw someone place a ball in the water or overshoot the green into a sand trap, we would jokingly turn to each other and say “he sucks” and then burst into laughter.

In all seriousness though, the level of play was unbelievable.  The pros (and even the amateurs that made the cut) made it look so easy.  Their swings were so effortless and fluid and unlike mine, they didn’t take out an acre of grass with each one.  

I was also struck by how good these guys looked playing the game.  Most were not just fit, but actually ripped with flat abs and tan, lanky, muscled limbs.  Their outfits of choice showcased bold colors- fuchsias, teals, tangerines, lime greens.  They featured oversized belt-buckles, outlandish sunglasses and fitted, lower-slung, ankle-grabbing, form-fitting pants (think Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day in electric pastels and minus the guyliner.)   A lot of the younger players were punk and edgy in a BMX-er meets country-club kind of way.  Two standouts, especially for the female fans, seemed to be Rickie Fowler, 22 and Bubba Watson, 32.  Fowler, the 2010 PGA Rookie of the Year flaunted vibrant Puma attire (to include a flat-billed cap turned a bit askew) and I’m certain was mistaken for Zac Efron by the crowd most of the weekend. Watson, a leftie and one of the most exciting current American players, was another one full of bravado and eye-catching attire.  He sported camouflage golf pants and golf shoes that looked like combat boots (per The Washington Post he was raising money for charities benefitting military families.)  At times, the fairways resembled a mock catwalk as the players strutted down them with purposeful swagger.  Provided, the level of swagger seemed to correlate with the placement on the leader board but the players who were jacked up favored long, undulating strides while their heads rotated back and forth as they soaked up the adulation and roars of the adoring crowds.  

At a certain point, the sun and humidity had begun to take their toll so we went in search of the infamous hospitality tent.  After going through a checkpoint to ensure we had the proper credentials, we opened the door to our tent and were greeted with a blast of air-conditioning, linen-covered tables, a catered lunch, big screen tv’s (that provided a far better view of the goings-on than any we had been able to muster due to the dense crowds), a full complimentary bar and, I know this is going to sound strange to comment on, the most gorgeous porta-potties (faux-cherry doors and interiors with brass hardware.)   It didn’t take long to assimilate to the atmosphere of our fancy tent and we all agreed we could get used to being fabulous.

We partook of the bountiful pleasures of the corporate good life, to include imbibing in our fair share of adult beverages.   For our first drink, we bellied up to the bar and placed our orders.  For subsequent rounds (and probably because we had the foresight to tip the bartender and because the tent wasn’t yet crowded) it became a game of blackjack.  We’d make eye contact with the bartender, lightly tap the table and he’d hit us with a refill.  It was glorious but also a little dangerous…as it certainly didn’t compel us to want to leave the creature comforts of our new home.   But eventually we managed to ply ourselves from our placated states, but not before the bartender hooked us up with big to-go cups of our favorite spirits, and ventured outside again for more fun in the sun. 

Our afternoon strategy was to plant ourselves at the 1^st or 10^th tee (which were the starting tees) a little early and check out some of the bigger-named golfers.  Well, evidently, all 250,000 other attendees at Congressional had the same plan-of-attack.  On Thursday, we did manage a good glimpse of Phil Mickelson (actually heard people serenade him with “Happy Birthday” on his approach to the tee as it was his 41^st that day), Rory McIlroy (wow!  Tiger, who?) and Dustin Johnson and they were definitely the premiere threesome that day.   And I think Phil might have waved at me at one point too but it could have been to one of the 300 people that were in front or the 400 people that were in back of me…it was kind of hard to tell but it was in my general direction so I intend to regale my grandchildren with tales of it.

Along the course stood an army of course marshals whose job was to keep order in the court.  They were lined up and down each fairway in striped white polo shirts and varying displays of headgear and handled crowd control.  When we needed to be quiet and still, they would raise their arms in the air a la a football referee signaling a field goal.  It later dawned on me that it had all of the makings of a really fun drinking game.   And judging by some of the impaired individuals in the crowd, I think others had thought so too.

I also noticed that there were a lot of golfers with peculiar names and there was a proliferation of alliteration in many of the names.  I have moved around a lot in my life and have come in contact with many people.  But in all of my years, I have never, in the flesh, actually met anyone really named Bubba.  Yet at this tourney there were two---the aforementioned Bubba Watson and also Bubba Dickerson.  Go figure.  Also, alliterative names abounded---Briny Baird, Brad Benjamin, Bennett Blakeman, Chad Campbell, Ernie Els, Fred Funk, Kenichi Kuboya, Matteo Manassero, Robert Rock, Sam Saunders, Steve Stricker, Ty Tryon and Will Wilcox---12% of the field.  Take note expecting parents who hope to raise a PGA champion…apparently, the magic can start just with the right name.

Certainly the US Open had much excitement to offer climaxing in the historical and record-breaking win for the very likeable and humble Rory McIlroy, who at 22, was the second youngest player to ever have won the Open and was also the second consecutive tournament winner from Northern Ireland.   After his implosion at the recent Master’s tournament in Augusta, GA where he lost after maintaining a commanding lead up until the last round, it was hard not to root for him.  Afterall, who doesn’t love a good “when you fall off the horse, get back on and ride it” story that has such a perfect ending?

After my long weekend of spectating at the Open concluded, I called my less sports-enthused sister and giddily shared some of the highlights I had born witness to even though she did not share my passion.  I also admitted to her that I had gotten so caught up in it that I had even started watching the Golf Channel.   To which she replied, “Oh my God, it’s official.  You really are a man.”  At that, she wished me a Happy Father’s Day and we hung up.