Thoughts From the Road

I've a few minutes available for hunting and pecking of the keyboard variety, so some thoughts from here as well as the wider golf world.

It's The End of the World as We Know It - That's perhaps a bit on the melodramatic side, but let's throw together some observations and writings.  One of the best commentators on the Brussels power grab has long been Andrew Stuttaford, and this post sums up the current state of play in forthcoming the Scottish Independence vote:

Scotland votes on whether to break from Britain on September 18. It’s long been assumed (including by me) that the “no” vote would win pretty comfortably, but, particularly in the wake of a disastrous performance in the second of two big independence debates byLabour’s Alistair Darling, the momentum is now clearly with the nationalists.

And this from a WSJ piece to which Andrew links (behind paywall):

A poll released by YouGov on Tuesday showed a surge in support for Scottish independence, giving a boost to the “yes” campaign and its leader, Alex Salmond, currently head of Scotland’s semiautonomous government.The YouGov poll showed that the margin of voters opposed to independence over those in favor has shrunk to six percentage points, from 22 points less than a month ago.

And Andrew gets to the crux of it here:

In the abstract, I’d be in favour of Scottish independence. As it happens, my ancestry is about forty percent Scottish, but beyond that I like nations taking control of their own

First Minister Alex Salmond with "Aye" cakes.

destiny (Flanders, soon, please, and Catalonia too), not least because it gives the lie to the claim by Brussels that the nation-state is over (it says something that there are now more countries in the world — and Europe too — than ever before: It is the centralizing, top-down EU model that is old school). In Scotland’s case, however, I don’t think that full independence is yet the way to go. The country already has a great deal of autonomy, with more ( the misguided “devo-max“) on offer. The best next stage from here would be to move to a fully federal U.K. not least because the English deserve self-government too, something that David Cameron is too unimaginative and too arrogant to grasp. Tellingly, UKIP’s Nigel Farage does not make the same mistake: He’s sympathetic to the idea of federalism.

My impression is that the Salmond-led independence movement is all too ready to cede control to the rampaging bureaucracy in  Brussels.

The one-size-ill-fits-all currency is a big part of the problem, but so is immigration.  We spent a bit of time in conversation with a waitress in Drogheda, who used phrases like "It's not our country any more."  I know I'm jumping around a bit between Scotland, the U.K. and Ireland, but the issues overlap.  The Irish have been ill-served by their E.U. and Euro membership, and it was foisted upon them through undemocratic means.

I hope dearly that Scotland votes to remain in the U.K. and that the English wake up to the threat that Brussels represents.  But these lands that we love so dearly are changing in ways that cause only the vaguest ripples in the remte reaches of Donegal (substitute Dornoch if you prefer) at present, but will fundamentally change these countries if allowed to metastasize.

So while I'm extremely happy to have Theresa's Irish passport in our kit bag, we're clinging to her American passport as well.

No more downer rants, I promise.

Scenes From the Road - Our favorite town name thus far is Termonfeckin, a small townland just

outside of Drogheda.  For those who care about such things, in the original Irish it means "Feckin's Refuge," though of course that's only useful to those that know what a Feckin is.

It's now entered our trip lexicon, with the following example of its usage: "Shouldn't we have reached the termonfeckin golf club by now?"  Feel free to use it amongst yourselves...

Our favorite town name remains the mellifluous Ballgally, where Lowell's wife Carol has a home.

As Ye Reap... - I've not seen a lick of the golf from Cherry Hills, a shame as it's a golf course worth a look (and certainly has its place in the history of the game for that 1960 Open as well as Phil's U.S. Amateur.  I shan't include Birdie Kim on that list).

But I've read a bit about our Phil's withdrawal, and I'm of a split mind.  There's this obvious note:

Call me old school, but I prefer mid-tournament withdrawals to occur when a player comes down with a slight case of pre-round broken leg. Or maybe when – apologies for the mental image - he can’t keep any food down on the course. Or even in the rare circumstance when he’s going to become a father and chooses being in the delivery room over 18 holes.

On the other hand...

Mickelson has never been shy about using his actions to help his agenda. He was never happy about four straight weeks of FedEx Cup playoff events, saying recently, “I want to

do everything I can to support the PGA Tour … But I don’t ever play four weeks in a row, outside of weeks that I’m staying at my house. To play four in a row is very difficult for me.” 

Maybe he’s using his status as a pulpit to get this point across. Maybe he really feels like two more days at home will leave him better prepared for the Ryder Cup. Maybe he’s just burnt out on golf right now and needs to get away from it. Maybe there are other factors at play that he simply didn't want to make public. For a man who has dealt with his own health issues as well as those of close family members, we can only hope he isn't masking any further problems in that area.

OK, Phil is is absolutely correct on the merits, as the schedule is quite insane.  Way too much high-pressure golf between the PGA (or even the Open Championship) and the Ryder Cup.  And that's why you see players skipping events.

But Phil wasn't one who would need to play the four straight weeks, because he hadn't done enough to qualify for East Lake.  But the zero-dark-thirty withdrawal is unbecoming and quite childish, especially at the venue where he won his U.S. Amateur and should not be condoned.

On the Ground at Lough Eske - It's very much as beautiful as it looked from a distance, and I can also vouch for their breakfasts (dinner was also quite exceptional).  As we walked the grounds yesterday, the wedding party dropped in on us:

The amusing part of the above, not caught by my camera, was that the bridal gown came equipped with a pair of hip-waders to get the sweet young thing across the wet grounds.  Not only was their transport more impressive than our own, but they were greeted a bit more regally than the lowly Yanks:

But the bride says I shouldn't be bitter.  Enjoying a drink later in front of a roaring fire, we were treated to a parade of the bridal party, more unfortunate hairdos per kilometer than is typical, but we wish the crazy kids the best.

Somewhere between Drogheda and Donegal we ran across this church and graveyard:

This was the oldest marker we identified:

The Wide World of Sport - A last minute improvisation on our itinerary is that this Friday Lowell and Carol are taking us the an Ulster rugby match.  They are quite mad about the game, having traveled as far as New Zealand to watch their boys compete.

At least I thought it was the game about which they are mad.  Carol e-mailed Theresa to explain the allure of the outing, including this photo:

Yes, the appeal of the...errr...game is becoming clearer.  Carol added that the gent in question has also played for the Irish, which I suppose makes it all a matter of patriotism and the like.  He looks a nice young man but I'll wager that he's no Lowell Courtney.

Rio Floppo - It's been one disaster upon another, but this one could prove fatal:

Gil Hanse

The Rio 2016 soap opera took another strange twist this week when a Brazilian judge ruled that no more ground could be broken at the site of the Olympic golf course. 

The irony is that course construction was completed months ago. Recent work at the Gil Hanse-designed layout, which will herald golf's return to the Summer Games after a 112-year absence, has been focused on grassing the course. Ten holes have been grassed, and five more are scheduled to be sown when Hanse makes another site visit next week.

One assumes that the right palm will get sufficiently greased, but I remain amused that the golf powers that be think our game will be enhanced (or, if you will, enhansed) by association with the notoriously corrupt IOC.  Their interests are their own and don't include golf, as the award of their games to the even more profoundly corrupt Brazilian government should, to those paying attention, clarify.

Perhaps the best outcome would be to have the course remain unfinished as a lesson to all.  

The Matches - As I peck away Madam is off getting a massage to ready herself for the resumption

Eddie Hackett

of matches this afternoon at Donegal Golf Club..  Built on the Murvagh Peninsula by the great Eddie Hackett (Waterville, Carne, etc.), the club is more familiarly called Murvagh and nestled between the Atlantic Ocean and Donegal Bay.

Madam has requested demanded an adjustment to our scorekeeping that would credit her for her back nine win at Baltray.  Awarding a point for each nine and a singular point for the overall I believe diminishes the value of the overall, but as the world has been saying for ages, "When Mama's unhappy, everyone is unhappy."

Thus the current standings are 3.5 - 2.5 in my favor, though my appeal is still pending.

The tenth hole at Murvagh, called "Round the Bend."

Fear and Louthing

County Louth Golf Club ("Baltray") dates back to 1892, though the current links only took their form under the ministrations of Tom Simpson (no relation) back in the late 1930's.  Simpson was an eccentric Englishman who dressed sharply and drove fast cars, and his resume is not without a smidgen of uncertainty, as it includes notables such as Balybunion and Cruden Bay, in addition to Baltray.

The uncertainty is due to the fact that in each case he reworked an existing links, and the extent to which credit should be allocated remains murky.  But Simpson also wrote extensively on design principles, as per this excerpt from Planet Golf:

Throughout his career Simpson wrote beautifully on the subject of design. His work was

Tom Simpson

guided by principles that included the desire for courses to demand ‘mental agility’ and for a hole to either ‘be more difficult than it looks or look more difficult than it is’. Further he believed that the centre of the fairway should never be the ideal place to drive your ball, his best courses reflect these views through strategic bunkering and angled greens that generally encourage an approach from one side of the fairway or the other. One of the strangest anecdotes about Simpson was that he had an obituary written about him a full five years before he passed, apparently so he could approve its contents.

In any event, one could do far worse than those three names on one's resume, and in the case of Baltray the club gives all credit to Simpson.  And indeed it is a fine example of the genre, winding through the dunes of prefect golfing grounds.  The routing is two distinct nines, but with a zig here and a zag there so that each successive hole plays with a slightly different wind direction.  There are only fifty bunkers on the course and several holes that have none, but each one is there for a specific reason.  

The bride with Lowell, who unfortunately misplaced his St. Louis Cardinals cap.

Our good friend Lowell Courtney made the trek from Portrush for this round, providing the cheering section for Madam.  For those new to my blogging, Lowell is the proprietor of Lynchpin Tours, and anyone contemplating a trip to Ireland should consider dropping a dime on Lowell.  Far more personalized than the larger touring companies, Lowell and Partner David Hudson will customize an itinerary to suit any needs and as a bonus you'll actually see what things cost.  

On a day promising rain, we found ourselves behind an outing of fairly horrible golfers, and their

scramble format had surprisingly limited effect on their pace of play.  The oncoming showers were the only issue with the pace of play, but we made it in just in the nick of time.  Because of the income storm the little wind we had was from the opposite direction of the prevailing winds, always a bit of a shame though in this case the winds wasn't much of a factor.

There's no way to sugarcoat this, but Theresa simply wasn't herself.  Her putting, in particular, was so bad on the outbound nine that at one point I asked her who she was and what exactly she had done with my bride.  Speed kills, as the saying goes, and it certainly killed her first nine as she vacillated between putting with the headcover on and powering them off the green.  As Theresa typically finds the speed better than your humble correspondent, I shan't be getting cocky.

She did settle in on the back nine, winning the last three holes to win that nine.  She finished with two strong pars, one on a 173-yard Par-3 where she put her driver dead center of the green.  Just a momentary blip to ensure that I become overconfident, the reader can be assured that she'll come roaring back.

My play was better, though strangely absent the excessive hookage of the prior day.  In fact, trouble arose when I needed to draw the ball and found that skill eluding me.  Funny game we play...

Some views from the links for you:

The view from behind the Par-3 seventh.

The view from the raised tee of the short Par-4 sixteenth.

Looking back down the sixteenth.  That ball close in became my first birdie of the trip, but only after a fortuitous bounce.

I'm writing this on Saturday morning local time, and today is a travel day.  We've been staying in Drogheda, which means Bridge of the Fjord, a town of some 40,000 souls a half-hour north of Dublin.  It was a significant trading center in Roman times, and sits on the River Boyne.  The city is somewhat gritty as befitting its industrial, but quite interesting with many beautiful old stone buildings and narrow, winding streets ill-suited to the modern automobile.  Everything is within walking distance and we did go see the primary tourist attraction, St. Peter's Church featuring the remains of Sir Oliver Plunkett, who lost his head....literally.

The town's name is pronounced Dra-ha-da, with the accent on the first syllable.  The guest services manager at Willow Ridge is a delightful Irish lass named Gillian, who has spent the last several weeks instructing me on how the name is pronounced.  All I can say is that it's a good thing she didn't go into the educational field, at least judging by the performance of this one student.

Lough Eske

We drive across the country today to County Donegal,in fact to Donegal Town.  We'll be slumming it at Lough Eske Castle, and the area offers a wonderful cluster of links that we've not previously played, including highly regarde Donegal Golf Club ("Murvagh"), the delightfully-named Narin & Portnoo and Cruit Island (pronounced Cricht), reputed to be one of the best nine-holers in Ireland/Europe/The World.  In fact, sight unseen, I designated Cruit Island a "Great Place in Golf " in this post based upon a David Owen reader's trip report.  

The Torch Is Lit

Let the matches begin....

On an unseasonably warm day at a suitably storied venue, the 2014 matches began, though with uncertainty caused by Theresa's ribcage injury.  But she's quite the trooper, or perhaps just can't pass up an opportunity to kick my posterior.  And really, who can blame her in that...

The venue was Royal Dublin Golf Club, on Bull Island in Dublin harbor.  In the early 1800's William Bligh, of

HMS Bounty fame, recommended the building of a sea wall to facilitate safe passage of ships into port, thereby creating a sand bar that grew into Bull Island.  The club was formed in 1885 (it received its Royal sponsorship in 1891), but converted to military use during World War I.  After the war, the great Harry S. Colt was retained to create the links, and one doesn't pass up the opportunity to sample Colt's work.

An aerial view of Bull Island with the clubhouse in the foreground.

In the early aughts Martin Hawtree was brought in to "modernize" the links, stretching it 7,269 yards.  This bit from the club's website might make a purist scowl, but the reader will be spared a rant as I've not previously played the links:

Hawtree made several significant changes. First of all, he raised and introduced significant contouring to all of the greens. Accompanying this raising of greens is a series of run-offs from which golfers of all levels must demonstrate imagination, touch and ability to achieve the coveted ‘up and down’.

They certainly were challenging green complexes, though the club was in the midst of a topdressing program (we were warned and received a suitable discount for the conditions) which undoubtedly made them more manageable.  

A couple of examples of the green complexes.

The outbound nine is closest to the water, and features tight corridors surrounded by large dunes.  The dunes are covered in Marram grass, about which I had intended to write a separate post for my Ballyliffin blog.  Marram grows long and tends to fold over from the winds, creating a truly evil set of conditions (the post was to be titled Marram de Sade).  One needs to follow the ball closely, because if it bounce there's a chance...if not it's likely plugged.  The folded over grass also affects the player's stance, approximating the feeling of trying to hit a shot while standing on a trampoline.

Bags of divot mix for one's trolley.

The quality of play was quite middling on the outbound nine, some good shots but we struggled to keep the ball in play.  We left a few balls out there, curiously enough one of mine from a fairway bunker necessarily hit with my 58 degree sand wedge.  That last will indicate that when even a short shot plugs in the Marram, fining it is Mission Impossible.

Theresa gifted me the front nine with a missed four-footer for par on the ninth, though again the top-dressed greens were no doubt a factor.  But then she found her form, rattling off a series of tight bogies that had me in a hole most of the back nine.

Some good back and forth late in the round, for those who enjoy a blow-by-blow account.  A tasty up-and-down from a greenside bunker won your humble blogger the 15th and squared the overall.  

The 16th.

The 16th is a fairly well-known short Par-4, driveable for the big boys.  I was hooking everything in my bag all day, but didn't think I could reach anything troubling with a hybrid as the bunkering appeared to all be greenside.  Of course I hooked the hybrid some thirty yards and caught that first bunker on the left, which was more like forty yards short of the green and left me absolutely dead.  Took me two to get out of the steep bunker and only by bouncing it off the face, but that left me in an even worse position, with Theresa on the back of the green in regulation.

Theresa's was definitely in three-putt territory, but I would need to get up and down for a halve.  

The ball was resting at the center-bottom of the frame in the photo above, known euphemistically as "one of those."  One could chip safely to the right, but the only way to get the ball close is to chip into the bunker surrounds, knowing the bounce will be leftward but hoping it carries enough speed to hop over the the face, which it miraculously did to gimme range.  A reminder to the reader that the turf is roughly the consistency of concrete, so opening a sand wedge and hitting that high, soft pitch is not an option.

Fresh off my miraculous halve on No. 16 and determined not to hook any more irons, I of course push a

The 18th.

seven iron into the deepest greenside bunker you'll ever find and, well, it didn't end well.  Theresa mades a well-earned five and cames to No. 18 with a one-up lead, whereupon hilarity ensued.

The finishing hole is a brutal Par-4 that makes a 90 degree dogleg right.  To reach in two the player needs to carry that out-of-bounds on the right, a daunting and disorienting shot (the latter at least the first time through).  I had some 200 yards in but had to give it a go, albeit spectacularly unsuccessfully, and Theresa was already in there in three.

We instituted a retroactive local rule declaring the area to be a lateral, as we hadn't known it was OB and weren't trudging back.  I hit an 8-iron that I was convinced was also OB, but found in play.  Convinced that I had lost the hole, I made a nifty up-and-down off for six, but only realized that I had won the hole and thereby earned an undeserved halve of the match upon a post hoc forensic accounting.  

A plaque honoring the club's most famous member on the 16th tee.  That eagle on No. 18 is inconceivable.

We had a lovely moment on the staircase up to the bar, when we passed an elderly gentleman member in coat and tie.  He noted that he had watched our struggles on the 18th from the bar, and consoled us that we were far from the first to straggle in.  I explained that Madam was one-up necessitating the senselessly aggressive ply, but he correctly surmised that I'd have given it a go under any circumstances.  

The view back down the 18th from the bar.

The club also boasts some of the finest practice facilities you'll find in this part of the world.

Also from the bar, a view of the driving range, part of the large putting green and that bunker on the left is part of a large short-game practice area.

A wonderful piece in the clubhouse from the coronation year of 1902.

The good news is that Theresa's rib issue was not a factor and, while she'll be nursing it the entire trip, there's reason to hope that she might just muddle through.  Fingers crossed...

Today is famed County Louth, and Lowell will be trekking down from Portrush to join in the revelry.  There's rain on its way, though the current forecast is that we should finish before it hits.  But they lie, you know.... Lowell is nursing a sore back, and added to T's ribs and my elbow tendinitis, we've applied for a Red Cross brigade to accompany us.  

Eire We Go Again

The bride and I are on the ground in Ireland and struggling to make it through that dreadful first day.  It's like a Monday on steroids....  But we arrived safely, on-time and with all of our bags intact.  Plus a nice note from the TSA.  So thoughtful, but they really shouldn't have.  OK, our phones didn't work, but not like that's never happened before.

I've at long last convinced Theresa that the only logical way to spend the day of arrival is...never saw this one

A Foggy Day in Dublin Town...

coming....to play golf.  It being a golf trip and all... Not serious golf, mind you, but fresh air and physical activity of the moderate persuasion being helpful to the task of making a reasonable bed time.  So something not too taxing, expensive or far fits the bill, and Lowell had one at the ready. Specifically Seapoint Golf Club, adjoining the renown and Friday-booked County Louth Golf Club, d/ba/a Baltray.

A perfectly fine day in these here parts, with just the proverbial wee breeze.  Seapoint opened as a bit of a muddle, hard to define and surprisingly unlinsky given its neighbor.  On an early short Par-4 is a feature with the reed-out -of-the-water look more typical to the South Carolina lowlands.  And mu ch more water in play than I've ever seen.

We teed off shortly after a foursome of men and moved at a leisurely pace.  There was a bit of waiting on

A credible bunker escape though, alas, not my first bunker on this hole.

shots now and again, but they were moving consistently well for a four-ball, obviously not their first loop at the joint.  Our golf wasn't horrible either, though Theresa's dealing with some kind of muscle issue around her rib-cage.  Timing, eh?  The links was built in the 1990's and as is typical the ninth hole returns to the clubhouse.  She availed herself of the option to not push it and I dumped her clubs in the car and hustled back to meet her on the tenth tee.  

I should note at this point that the course routing meanders back and forth towards the water, the closer to which we got the more linksy it became.  We closed to the group ahead and as we walked through some dunes onto the 13th tee, that fourball was only now clear to hit.  offered to let me play through, but where was I going?  One of them suggested I play along, and that's a bigger thing than you might realize.  Some of our most prized moments are those inadvertent times we actually get to tag along with the indiginous golfer, genus and phylum Eurus Golfeus.

In any event, I watch them tee it up and two of the four just bomb it out there, and the other two could also

It's different here.

play.  The oldest of the four is a character named Noel, who plays a nice consistent fade that repeats, not a bad thing on a firm track.  Alan is the other non-bomber, but hits it long and straight enough to be annoying.  Alan tells me he and Gary are struggling at two-down.  As Jared was throwing up the birds, that proved to be a bridge too far.

That Gary was bombing the ball shouldn't have been a surprise, as he's this guy, Euro Tour player and all.  Noel, meanwhile, is grabbing my camera to take pictures of T and I, and at one point insists that I show him how to take video.  Here's Noel the auteur in action:

I didn't get a photo of Gary, but that's him at the start of the video.  As you can see, the final holes along the water were quite spectacular.  A huge dune ran down the right side, and the tees, fairways and greens were nestled between the dunes.  It would be hard to mess up the architecture there, and they didn't.

Looking back at the Par-3 seventeenth.

The Par-5 eighteenth is a double-dogleg along the duneline.

Theresa with Noel and Jared.

A delightful chance encounter with wonderfully-welcoming and helpful folks.  After saying our goodbyes, on the walk to the car Theresa noted, "Well, someone really stepped up their game."  Indeed I had played quite well in their company, including a couple of suitably-linksy knockdown shots.  Of course those will be long gone when next we play, but the "Praise from Caesar" was enjoyable all the same.

Time to Kill

I've a bit of time on my hands before our chariot arrives, so let's see whether we can amuse ourselves:

Working Class Solidarity - As noted above, I'm Biden my time until we start our journey (heh, did you catch that little pun?), but our Vice President is voting "Present".  Turns out he was in Detroit yesterday expressing solidarity with the downtrodden working class on Labor Day, and had these pearls of wisdom for us all:

• U.S. workers deserve a "fair share" of any improvement in corporate profits;
  
  
• A job is "about your dignity. It's about your place in the community. ... You can't do that unless you get a fair wage;
• Workers don't want a handout, Just give them a chance;
• He would repeal Michigan's right to work law, which makes union membership voluntary. He called it "right to work for less."

I know, suddenly I need a nap....it's all so drearily predictable.  And I'm even going to pass on the venue of Detroit, the city singularly destroyed by the "working man," or more accurately those allegedly representing them.

No, today's insight comes courtesy of a reader of Shackelford's, doing the job this American won't do.  This reader delayed throwing something through his flat screen long enough to notice the shirt Joe picked out for this august occasion....that "S" just happens to be the logo of tony Sebonack Golf Club, the one where initiation fees start at around $500,000.

'Cause nothing screams working class street cred quite like a golf club that costs the lifetime earnings of Joe's target audience.

Bucket List, Tour Pro Edition - Michael Whitmer had or was given a reasonably good idea, ask Tour players what course or courses they're still itching to play, and the results are alarmingly normal.  This is how Whittmer summed up the responses:

Those who have never played in the Masters often said Augusta National, and those who have never played in an Open Championship at the Old Course frequently included St. Andrews. Not surprisingly, private clubs that don’t host PGA Tour events were named the most, led by Pine Valley, Cypress Point, Seminole, San Francisco Golf Club, and the exclusive designs on Long Island: National, Shinnecock Hills, Maidstone, Friar’s Head, Sebonack. 

Here's one of the more thoughtful responses from one of the more thoughtful (and knowledgeable) pros:

“I’d love to do all of Long Island properly, and play them all as the members play them,” said Geoff Ogilvy (his list: National, Crystal Downs, Pasatiempo). “We see these courses in such ridiculous setups.”

You'll note two of Dr. Mackenzie's gems on that short list, no surprise from a guy who grew up playing the great Sand Belt courses near Melbourne.  But his comment about set-ups is also apt.

And of course nothing here will surprise you:

Bubba Watson, Boo Weekley, John Daly, Ryan Moore, Jeff Overton, Charl Schwartzel, and Phil Mickelson were among those who declined to provide even a single course they've never been to but still have an interest in playing.

“I've played them all. All the ones I've wanted to, anyway,” Mickelson said.

Bubba is just being cautious, because you never know when an impromptu long-drive contest will spring up.

There were a number of respondents that indicated that they don't play any recreational golf, only some of which seemed related to family obligations.  Golf is there job, but I can only suggest that perhaps it might feel like less of a grind if they could find a way to keep some hit-and-giggle golf in their lives.  Adam Scott, for instance, had this:

“I played at Shinnecock last summer because I was out there, and that was enjoyable,” said Adam Scott (Sand Hills, Royal Portrush, Bandon Dunes). “I like to go with my mom and dad if I can. It’s hard every year, but two years ago we took a golf trip to Tasmania and played Barnbougle and Lost Farm. If I can do it with them that’s good, because I don’t get to spend much time and they’re both golfers, so it’s fun for them. I like some social golf. It used to all be too serious. It’s just fun to play.”

That's the attitude I'd encourage others to take, find a way to periodically remind yourself of the pleasures of the game.  It might be your job, but you've got a better office than most... and good news, Adam, I think you'll have a tee time at Portrush in your future.

He'll Be Manning the Beer Cart - Our man Phil is buying himself a new gig, in case this touring pro thing doesn't pan out:

The Fairbanks Ranch Country Club, site of the 1984 Summer Olympics equestrian events, is being sold to U-T San Diego Publisher "Papa" Doug Manchester and golf legend Phil Mickelson by its roughly 400 members. 

Board President Mike Kendall said told members Thursday that Manchester and Mickelson had a signed a letter of intent and details will be shared at the annual meeting Sept. 9. The members will have to approve the sale.

The property includes three golf courses and is near to Phil's home in Rancho Santa Fe.  

Goose, Gander - Stephen Colbert recently speculated that a bad break-up is the ultimate PED, and in the case of Wozilroy that seems to be the case.  The entertainingly-named Flip Bondy files a report in the N.Y. Daily News on Caroline Wozniacki's upset win over Maria Sharapova, that includes this failed bit of gamesmanship:

“I deserve to have some chocolate,” Wozniacki declared, right there on the court. 

She also asked to be iced, though Sharapova had already attempted that tactic, to no avail.

Among Sharapova’s many distracting court habits — some would call them downright annoying — is her fondness for taking overlong bathroom breaks between sets. She pulled such a stunt against Madison Keys a few weeks ago, and the young American was forced to sit forever on a chair in wait, before dissolving in the third set. 

On Sunday, Sharapova dawdled again. While she stalled during a mandated heat break, Wozniacki managed to change her sweat-soaked dress and return to the court in plenty of time, less than 10 minutes. When Sharapova finally returned to the court, chair umpire Marija Cicak nailed her with a time violation warning. 

Sharapova argued, lost all momentum from the second set and committed 13 unforced errors in the next eight games.

But the take away was this lede:

Everyone but Rory McIlroy wants to marry Caroline Wozniacki right about now.

Yup, there'll be no shortage of candidates for that open position.

Methinks Someone's Compensating -  Sam Weinman catches us up on a raging Twitterstorm:

1. Jordan Spieth        ✔ @JordanSpieth

   Flying with @ZachJohnsonPGA @Keegan_Bradley @GaryWoodland and company.. Not enough storage for bags Going to ask @McIlroyRory to help haha

Rory Mcilroy        ✔ @McIlroyRory

Follow

@JordanSpieth need to get yourself a bigger plane youngster happy to help

It goes on in that vein, as they jostle over the size of their respective....errr...fuselages. I suppose it's possible they were talking about airplanes, but that was naturally not my first instinct.

How He Hit That - This is a recurring feature at Golf Diget's The Loop blog, typically describing a key shot struck by the winner of each week's event.  In this case, however, they're all over the ill-fated second shot of Billy Horschel yesterday on his finishing hole:

Horschel was in the middle of the fairway, 198 yards away from reaching the par 5 in two. He trailed Chris Kirk by a shot, but was playing a hole he had birdied the previous three times he played it.

Instead of setting himself up for the win -- or at least a spot in a playoff -- Horschel made what he called his worst swing of the week at TPC Boston, chunking his 6-iron so badly that it not only didn't carry the hazard in front of the green, it barely made it into the marsh. After dropping, pitching on and missing his putt, he signed for a 69 and a three-way tie for second with Russell Henley and Geoff Ogilvy.

It's always a complete shock when a Tour-caliber player lays the sod over one, but it does happen.  Here's a more technical dissertation on the phenomenon:

"A chunk isn't uncommon when pressure is at its highest," says Jorge Parada, a head instructor at the Tour Academy at TPC Sawgrass. "Your body is physically reacting to the pressure -- your pupils dilate, your muscles constrict and your breathing gets shallow. Your body moves slower, and your rhythm isn't the same. It's easy for a motion as complex as a golf swing to get thrown off."

And here's a gif of the shot:

Just a lay analysis, but I'm quite sure that constriction and dilation were in evidence, just guessing it had little to do with his eyes.

But let whoever amongst us hasn't experienced this cast the first stone.

Today's History Lesson - Loyal readers will know that I'm not a fan of the FedEx Playoff nonsense, but I do like great golf courses.  And if the circus goes to a place like Cherry Hills, which is both good and historic, then I'm apt to tune in (excepting, of course, when I'm out of the country).

So give a read to this Denver Post piece on the 17th hole at Cherry Hills, or at least resd this excerpt:

During the final round of the 1960 U.S. Open, the 48-year-old legend stood about 50 yards from the island green after his second shot on the challenging par-5 — two holes from what

would become the last time Hogan was in serious contention for a major championship. 

The cup was cut near the front of the green, situated just above the moat. Hogan was tied for the lead with Arnold Palmer. He could have played it safe by knocking a routine wedge to the center of the putting surface and all but guaranteed a par. But, as Hogan acknowledged later, he believed that Palmer, playing a group behind, would make a birdie on at least one of the final two holes. 

This was the time, Hogan thought, to take dead aim at the cup and put pressure on Palmer by making a birdie. Hogan waggled his club and attempted a delicate punch-cut pitch. His playing partner, 20-year-old amateur Jack Nicklaus, recalled in his 1997 autobiography that Hogan's pitch shot looked terrific while in the air and appeared headed straight at the pin.

But the ball landed about a foot short of perfect and it spun back into the water. Hogan removed the shoe and sock from his right foot, took a stance with that leg in the water and splashed his next shot safely onto the green, about 8 feet above the hole. He missed the par putt, however, and knew all was lost. 

No doubt you'll get your fill of that picture of Hogan with his feet in the water, though that's not how any of us should remember him. But it was truly an historic Open, with the best player of three successive generations battling down to the wire.  

And that, Dear Reader, is all for now.  Next time we meet I'll (hopefully) be on the other side of the pond.

A Glass Act

The professional staff at Willow Ridge is charged with keeping the members amused, and good luck with that, folks...

When the golf schedule was released in early Spring a new events was included, three Big Break events (one each for the ladies and gents as well as a mixed event).  The concept was clear, ask your average club hacker to break the glass or clear the flop wall in front of a jury of his or her peers with beer in hand, and hilarity will surely ensue.

The ladies held their event in June and by all accounts had a delightful evening.  Theresa was unfortunately unable to attend, but the favorable reviews were unanimous.  But despite that, virtually no one signed up for the subsequent events and they were ultimately cancelled.  I don't quite get it, as free food and drink is typically sufficient to ensure adequate turnout to watch paint dry.

I've been told that they will try again next season, and perhaps with that objective in mind they pulled a little switcheroo on us Sunday.  The Sunday of holiday weekends features our typical mixed tournament, and the last few years that has also included a whacky putting contest.  The pro staff (Tish Certo expecially) create a three-hole putting course on the practice green, including sand traps, out-of-bounds and the like, with qualification taking place before the shotgun.  Then the finalists attempt difficult putts on our ninth green (or sometimes on the 18th) under the lights and in front of a huge, boisterous, alcohol-fueled crowd.

But Sunday was different, as they incorporated the Big Break glass breaking competition.  They did a great job, using plexiglass in lieu of crystal, but even painting the Willow Ridge logo on the panes.  Each participant got three shots in qualifying, and all who broke the pane advanced to the finals.  Good fun, and seven of about sixty were successful at this stage.

I was one of the seven, and at least in my accounting did it twice.  Former client (and former would be the key word here) Kunta Kente ruled that the first shot hit the frame, but are you going to believe your humble

correspondent or Kent's lyin' eyes?  I know, I get no respect...  In any event, completely nonplussed I calmly stepped up and drilled the second through the heart of the willow tree.  Don't believe me, check out the photo at right.

As for my outfit, well that was by directive of the tournament committee... but feel free to express your approval in the comments.  The shoes were an integral component of the outfit, but you'll just have to take my word for it.

I actually thought the finals would be cancelled by the heavy showers that hit towards the end of the main event.  We managed to finish, but many of the groups came in after only sixteen holes.  But the skies cleared and the glass was set up on the back tees of the first hole, right under our newly-expanded deck and mere steps from the bar.

The finals were a time-trial, keep hitting balls until the glass is broken or until the crowd turns hostile.  I strategically hung back to see what might be required, and the early players were cleverly lining up about six balls on the mat.  Clever yes, but that meant the player had to stand on the grass, requiring an adjustment for the height differential.  Of the contenders, the standout was our friend Lorraine Quitman, the only woman to qualify.  Lorraine broke the glass on her second shot, taking only some 6.2 seconds to accomplish the task.

Besides being happy for our friend, Lorraine is recovering from a shoulder injury and has only recently been able to resume her golf.  Good on her, but it was the expression of shock on her face that won over the crowd and makes the subsequent events so tragic.

By the time I dramatically emerged from the crowd, the die was cast.  Drill it on the first shot or go home...or at least back to the bar.  But I have that shot, especially as I've spent time with the aforementioned Tish working on knock-down shots, in the vain hope of avoiding the inevitable rout by the bride in Ireland.  So drill it I did, one and done as the kids say ( or "One-Shot Scott) as our general manager dubbed your humble blogger).

Given our club's Big Break history, there's little doubt of what would come next, the inevitable homage to Big Break Anthony.  That is, indeed, how one breaks glass.  But AC, I'm gonna need that Twitter handle.

T Minus Fifteen Minutes

It seems highly unlikely that this post will be published before that hard deadline, but Golf Channel is on in the background as I hunt and peck.

The most interesting golf of the weekend came on Sunday morning from Italy, as Stephen Gallacher made quite the charge towards a Ryder Cup berth.  Starting the day six off the lead and four out of second place, Gallacher threw up a tight little outgoing 30.  Here's how Ed Osmond of Reuters put it:

European Ryder Cup captain Paul McGinley faces a tricky wildcard selection dilemma following Stephen Gallacher's brilliant final round in the Italian Open on Sunday. 

Gallacher carded a sparkling 65 to finish third in Turin, one place short of securing the ninth and final automatic qualifying spot for this month's match against the United States.

True that, but it still buries the lede.  The reason Gallacher came up short is that David Howell, seen more recently on milk cartons, shot 63 to keep the Scot one shot shy.

My guess, and it's no more than that, is that the hometown fave gets himself picked.  With Poulter as the mortal lock of all time, that leaves McGinley to choose between grizzled veterans/underperforming Brits Lee Westwood and Luke Donald.  Me, I always take the putter in such circumstances, though that's less clarifying than I'd like it to be.  Donald is the better putter for 103 out of 104 weeks, but once every two years Lee Westwood morphs into Bobby Locke.

So Mr. McGinley, do you feel lucky?  Of course you do...you're Irish.