we are again. Every few years it seems some U.S. golfing
professional/personality blithely asserts that the U.S. PGA Tour is without
peer. Full stop. This invariably gets under the skin of Europeans who, to be
fair, have dominated for 25 years the event created specifically to settle this
argument: the Ryder Cup. They and their
tour have also claimed roughly half the major championships since the turn of the
spats go, it’s run of the mill. There are decidedly more important things to
ponder these days. But here’s the problem: The Euros have a point while Paul
Azinger, this year’s jingoist rock-thrower designate, doesn’t.
besides: With the Tour on hiatus and the Masters postponed, you’ve got
something better to ponder?
came to a head, again, late in final round of the Honda Classic, two Sundays
ago, March 1. Azinger, himself a major winner and former Ryder Cup captain, assessed
on NBC the mindset of Englishman Tommy Fleetwood, who had the chance to birdie
the 72nd hole and force a playoff.
guys know you can win all you like on that European Tour, the international
game and all that, but you have to win on the PGA Tour,” Zinger intoned from on
high, in his booth, adding that Lee Westwood was another Englishman on the
leaderboard with lots of worldwide wins (44 to be exact) but just two in the
U.S. “They know that and I think Tommy knows that. It puts a bit of
pressure on Tommy. But this is where they want to be. They want to come here,
they want to prove they can win at this level.”
Azinger’s job, or part of it, is to ratchet up the stakes on a Sunday
afternoon. It’s also his job to pimp the U.S. PGA Tour (more on that later).
But the Euro
response was swift, pointed and, it must be said, pretty spot on. Ian Poulter
tweeted: “Paul please do not condescend or disrespect the @EuropeanTour and our
players like that. We have slapped your arse in the Ryder Cup for so long.” Westwood
himself called the comments “disrespectful”. The winning Ryder Cup captain from
2018, Dane Thomas Bjorn, called them “at best ignorant; at worst, arrogant.”
Rory McIlroy, who, like Poulter, now makes his home in Florida, had this to
say: “His comments were a little nationalistic,” McIlroy said.
fellow Englishman, Tyrell Hatton, put a bow on all of them a week later by
winning the Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill.
like many members and backers of the PGA Tour through the years, continues to confuse
the wealth of a tour for the quality of a tour. Prize money is greater at U.S.
PGA Tour events — this is what lures players like McIlroy, Martin Kaymer,
Justin Rose, Poulter, Hatton and Fleetwood to play so many events here, to
maintain homes here, to even join the U.S. PGA Tour in order to compete for all
purses and better-heeled corporate sponsors do not make the preponderance of
U.S. pros any better than those competing for smaller purses on the European
Tour. That was mere theory in the 1990s, but it’s more or less an established
fact today — one American golfers and commentators more or less refuse to
acknowledge. For whatever reason, the European Union is turning out as many if
not more, better tournament golfers today than the United States. The Ryder Cup
proves it. The major championships prove it. For his part, young Tommy
Fleetwood — with his 5 European Tour wins, his breakout performance at the 2018
Ryder Cup, his top 10 world ranking — fairly well embodies it.
[Ed. This piece appeared in Golf Journal back in 2001. Published by the USGA (without advertisement), this was a fine magazine — one of many print outlets to fall by the wayside in the 21st Century but this one really stung, as I did a lot of work through the years for the editor there, Brett Avery, who shared a love of quirky, often historical pieces. For years I had kept my GJ story clips in hard copy form, but they all perished in my 2016 barn fire. Time to start archiving them here.]
One is taken aback by the photograph. It’s encased in glass and big as
life, the first thing one encounters upon entering the Visitor Centre at
Roosevelt Campobello International Park. There’s FDR, young and
turn-of-the-century attired, posing at the finish of what appears to have been
an elegant swing.
FDR played golf? I had seen that written somewhere, but this photo
speaks to a level of proficiency that surprised me. Fluid. Relaxed. Confident.
Beside the photograph, inside the exhibit case, is further testimony to his
skill: a medal, earned by winning the August 1899 members’ tournament at
Campobello Golf Club.
There’s a book in the case, too, detailing the results of these competitions staged between 1897 and 1920. But it’s the photograph that intrigues as it contrasts so markedly with those more familiar images of FDR: the new president, waving from his convertible Stutz; the four-time candidate addressing boisterous crowds from the stump; the solemn slayer of fascism, posing with Churchill and Stalin at Yalta — all of them burned into the public consciousness but all depicting a much older Roosevelt, aged beyond his years by lengthy struggles with polio, global economic depression and world war.
To see FDR so youthful and athletic, swinging a golf club no less, when
the mind’s eye is so accustomed to seeing him differently — invariably seated,
or perhaps standing stiffly while leaning hard on the arm of his young naval
officer son — is startling.
A visit to Campobello, this small Canadian island off the coast of Maine, is replete with enlightening discoveries. It was settled in 1770 by Welsh sea captain William Owen, who remained loyal to King George following the American Revolution. Indeed, island tax records show that Benedict Arnold maintained a residence here, at Snug Cove, in 1786.
The Roosevelts, from the Hyde Park section of New York’s Hudson Valley region, summered here in the province of New Brunswick for nearly 50 years, beginning in 1883, when FDR was just a year old. He learned to sail here on the frigid waters of Passamaquoddy Bay. It was on what he called his “beloved island” that he secretly proposed to his future wife, Eleanor. While visiting Campobello during the summer of 1910, he resolved to run for the New York State Senate, thus launching one of America’s most remarkable political careers. Franklin Delano Roosevelt Jr. was born on Campobello in 1914, and it was here, in 1921, that his father and namesake contracted the disease that would cripple him.
The nine-hole layout at Campobello Golf Club is long gone. A thick forest now occupies the site and further envelops the 34-room Roosevelt “Cottage” and the Hubbard Cottage next door. At the turn of the century, when FDR and his fellow colonists whiled away their summers here, this portion of the island was treeless. In 1881, the Boston-based Campobello Land Co. had cleared these properties in hopes that wealthy families would be enticed by unimpeded ocean views. They were indeed, and many of the noblest clans in the U.S. soon built rambling estates on the land above Friar’s Bay.
The Campobello Land Co. also built a pair of summer hotels on this high ground, the Tyn-y-Coed (Welsh for “house in the woods”) in 1882, and the Tyn-y-Mays (“house in the fields”) a year later. Both were gone by 1910, but it was beside these grand, American shingle-style hostelries that Campobello Golf Club was laid out. No photographs of the course survive, though in the photo of FDR swinging his club, a corner of the Tyn-e-Coed is visible in the background.
“The course was there beside the hotels, opposite Hubbard Cottage,
across the road,” recalls Mrs. Howard Hodgson, 74, a resident of nearby
St. Andrew’s, N.B., and a Hubbard by birth. “I spent all my summers [on
Campobello] in the cottage, from 1925 to 1941. My grandfather was treasurer of
the golf club and James Roosevelt, the president’s father, was the one who
“Nobody played any golf on the island when I was growing up, so I
don’t remember the course, per se; it was just a cow pasture when I was there.
Once the [First World] war ended, the colony just sort of fizzled. But I
remember going blueberry picking with my father in that field. We used to find
these funny old golf balls there.”
The Visitor Centre at Roosevelt Park is modest in size but its displays
thoroughly recount the Roosevelt’s aristocratic-but-vigorous existence on
Campobello via museum-style text, complemented by oversized black-and-white
photography. There’s a tiny theater, wherein a short film, entitled
“Beloved Island,” further documents the picnics, hikes, sailing and
golf FDR enjoyed. About halfway through the film, the screen fills with the
photograph from the lobby: FDR, no more than 20 years of age, following-through
(“posing” if you will) with his driver.
“FDR,” the narrator explains, “served on the Governing
Committee at Campobello Golf Club and laid out the course …”
What? FDR laid out the course? This notion is perhaps more startling than the photograph. Could it be that FDR, Architect of the New Deal, was also an amateur golf course architect? For buffs of history and golf, this is an extraordinary prospect, one that warranted further investigation.
[Ed. I try to write
about my father each August, the month wherein he left this mortal coil, all
too soon, back in 2011. For additional essays in this memorial series, visit www.halphillips.net and search “dad” or “Harold
My father abided by few fashion trends and set even fewer, though here I’ll claim on his behalf one initiative to which he proved an early and canny adopter: He hated kilties. His aversion to those oddly fringed, seemingly vestigial, lace-obscuring flaps that for decades adorned all manner of golf shoes would prove well ahead of his time.
I was reminded of this rare fashion-forward response when my 20-something nephew visited at Christmas. Nathan graduated from college a few years back with a degree in fire-suppression engineering; the job he obtained in this field quickly bored him (what’s more, living in suburban D.C. was rapidly depleting his life force). So today he’s out West fighting forest fires with a crew of badass, axe-wielding Latinos. In any case, he arrived in Maine for the holidays wearing a pair of high-laced, black-leather firefighting boots that, to my surprise, featured small kilties down by their steel-tipped toes. If Dr. Martens made golf shoes, this is what they’d look like.
What’s with the kilties? I inquired.
what they’re called?” Nathan replied, before explaining that when one is
tramping about the forest floor, these fringed swatches of leather prevent
sticks, leaves, pine needles, mud and other bits of underbrush from lodging
between one’s tongue and bootlaces.
In the mid-1970s, when I was first introduced to kilties (and to golf, for that matter), this description of their historical utility was never advanced, not to me anyway. I knew my dad didn’t care for them. Beyond that, they were more or less understood to be yet another whimsical affectation specific to golfing attire, along with Sansabelt slacks (from the French apparently: sans belt, get it?), bucket hats and peds.
happened, my dad and his cohort of 40-somethings spent much of the ‘70s dispatching
with all manner of societal expectations. This helps explain why he looked so
dimly upon kilties — and why, from my earliest recollection, he would
immediately remove them from new golf shoes.
The evolution of golf
shoe fashion is not a popular avenue of exploration, though it must said: Any research into the subject inevitably leads one down a rabbit hole of
pleasingly arcane information. For example, it’s possible (quite logical to assume even) that
kilties predate golf spikes in that evolution. Spikes emerged only in the
mid-19th century when Scots started hammering nails through their
boot soles in order to gain better purchase on dewy fescues.
century links were hardly the manicured landscapes we know today. At best they
were meadows, managed lightly (and largely) by herds of sheep. The centuries
prior featured even more rugged/primitive golfing environments. In short,
during these early, less formalized days, anything that kept the prominent
undergrowth from mucking up your shoes and bootlaces made a world of sense for
both golfers and their caddies. So kilties did in fact, at one time (for quite
a long time actually), serve a purpose.
[Ed. This story appeared in the January 2018 issue of Golf Course Management magazine. In April 2019 it won the Gardner Award from TOCA, the Turf & Ornamental Communicators Association. I’ve won a bunch of these over the years but the Gardners are new — a sort of Best in Show among all the annual winners apparently, so I figured it was worth sharing here. There’s a link herein to another profile I wrote about the same time for GCM, on Dr. Frank Rossi. That one came out pretty well, too, especially if a) you’re a fan of kunekune pigs; or b) you want to know why Bethpage Black has agronomic relevance outside this week’s PGA Championship.]
When Kevin Banks was a turfgrass management student at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, it wasn’t uncommon for decorated or otherwise experienced golf course superintendents to drop in for guest lectures. When Jeff Carlson, CGCS, came by in 2005, Banks says he remembers thinking, “Wow, this guy is crazy!”
Frankly, that’s how most students in the midst of a traditional turf management education might have appraised Carlson’s work at the Vineyard Golf Club. When permits were being sought for building this golf course on environmentally sensitive Martha’s Vineyard in Edgartown, Mass., in 1998, developers were obliged to promise the local conservation commission that the prospective golf course would be managed in an entirely organic manner.
The Vineyard Golf Club opened for play in 2002, and Banks graduated in 2008. He would then apprentice at several traditional clubs before this story came full circle — Banks took over for Carlson as head golf course superintendent at the Vineyard Golf Club on April 1, 2015.
“I guess I’m the crazy one now,” the nine-year GCSAA member says.
Two-plus years into his tenure, Banks has more than warmed to the nonconforming aspects of his job, one of the few in golf course management that takes the organic approach from mere trend or direction to guiding principle.
“It’s definitely been a challenge, but I’ve also definitely become addicted to it,” Banks admits.
Just 31, Banks today finds himself at the crux of another nascent industry trend, a phenomenon where head superintendents hire and groom their replacements, having accepted another position at the same club. Carlson stepped aside in the spring of 2015, but he remains at the Vineyard Golf Club as property manager, where he oversees capital projects — a just-concluded Gil Hanse redesign, for example.
The idea of having the previous superintendent at the club — perhaps hovering, perhaps exerting undue or unwanted influence — may strike some as awkward. Not Banks, and here, the organic dictates governing turf management at the club intertwine with these issues of succession.
“Before I took this job, I knew who Jeff Carlson was. Almost everybody in New England and New York did too, and I’m sure that reputation extends even farther than that,” Banks says. “He has been the organic ambassador for my entire turfgrass career. Having him help manage the golf course with me my first season here was a really sensible transition. I knew it would be very different for me, at first, but Jeff knew exactly where to expect an outbreak. He knew where we would first see weed pressure, and all this input came with his very relaxed and calm presence.
“I will always thank him for being patient and mentoring me into a truly organic manager — something I take great pride in today,” Banks adds.
Can Banks imagine having taken on the organic learning curve without Carlson there, on-site?
“Not really,” he answers. “Jeff was very patient. My first year, the disease we encountered in certain areas maybe should not have happened. I believed moisture levels were adequate and acceptable enough to fight disease pressure. They weren’t. But Jeff sat back and let me learn from my mistakes, and watched me grow.
“From the beginning, I was talking to anyone and everyone to get my head around the issues. And I still do that.”
Banks says he frequently talks with colleagues, companies and researchers about the specific issues he faces. Frank Rossi, Ph.D., of Cornell University and recipient of GCSAA’s 2018 President’s Award for Environmental Stewardship, is “a great resource,” he adds.
“But the way I look at it, Jeff is my best researcher. As often as I do interact with all these organic contacts and their ideas, I still take most of them with a grain of salt. They can recommend what they think is right, but you must compare that to what I’m finding here on the ground and what I think is right — and to what Jeff thinks, because he’s done it.”
[Ed. This story appeared in Golf Australia magazine in 2015, as a preview to October’s President’s Cup. I’m in the midst of a couple Korean projects right now; may be headed back there in September… Figured it was worth reprising here.]
By Hal Phillips SEOUL, South Korea — Let’s get straight to the irony: Koreans are hands-down the most ardent and prolific golf travelers in the world. For a variety of reasons, however, their collective reputation in these golf destinations, particularly those in Asia (their most frequent ports of call), is less than sterling. For the first time, this October — on the occasion of the 11th Presidents Cup Matches — the golf world returns the favor, en masse, as thousands of internationals will descend on the Peninsula to observe four days of competition and make their own golf holidays.
they find? One of the game’s singular golf cultures, highly stylized (sometimes
to the point of curation) and complemented by a collection of first-rate parkland
courses, immaculately kept. The Presidents Cup is a showcase event for the Korean
golf community, the biggest international golf event ever staged here, and
while public courses remain somewhat rare (and definitely dear), many private
clubs are throwing open their doors to welcome the international golfing public
— and make a few won (855 to the Australian dollar) in the bargain.
Aussies who do venture north this spring — especially those who may have cooled
their heels behind a glacial Korean foursome in Pattaya, or perhaps witnessed a
Gold Coast waitress endure another East Asian browbeating — will be pleased to
find a kinder, gentler, quicker brand of Korean golfer on home soil. One might well
ask about the phones, to which Korea golfers seem permanently affixed. Well,
don’t expect miracles. This remains the most wired, technologically obsessed population
on earth, and that extends to their golfing habits, home and away, for better
fair, there are sanguine byproducts of this high-tech mentality. In June, while
striding down the 2nd fairway at Whistling Rock Country Club — a
private club northeast of the capital and home to one of the nation’s top 5
tracks — the visiting golfer is immediately struck by two things: First, my playing
partners and everyone else on the course that day are dressed to the absolute
nines. Second, as my caddie walks beside me, our golf cart drives itself down
the path — thanks to an electric-eye mechanism embedded in the concrete and caddie-operated
by remote control. It goes without saying these drone carts also come complete
with sockets, for phone charging.
Korea, totally wired and everyone looks sharp, man or woman, 25 or 65,” says
David Dale, a partner with California-based course architects at Golfplan, who
have designed 22 courses in Korea. “Golfers arrive at the course in sport coats
and slacks, carrying small grooming bags with golf shoes and change of clothes.
They go to their lockers with their 4-digit security codes and change into
these highly fashionable pants, shirts and caps (with ball markers on the brims).
Most of the time, they’re putting on sleeves to keep the sun off them, even the
Golfplan have designed courses in 75 different countries, “But I’ve never been
to any other country that had a stronger sense of fashion,” he says. “They have
these awesome golf slacks that are fleece-lined with waterproofing and pin
stripes. I’ve got a pair. They’re thermal. I use them for construction visits
in cold climates — but they’re stylish enough to wear with a sport coat!”
clubhouse at Whistling Rock is typical of the genre here: palatial, modernist
and staffed to the gills. Upstairs, a long, narrow Zen garden splits the
hallway leading to a massive but still-elegant dining space, where picture
windows look out onto the golf course. Downstairs, some 40 members of a
course-rating panel (representing GOLF Magazine Korea) populate a sumptuous meeting
space of burled wood and overstuffed chairs. Back upstairs, I pass a golf shop
that is, well… remarkably modest: mostly golf balls and a few shirts.
to Whistling Rock Vice President David Fisher, this is typical of Korean clubs,
which stock very little logoed merchandise because the lion’s share of golf
apparel is purchased not from clubs but direct from top designers. The golf
apparel industry in Korea has been estimated at USD$3.5 billion — this for a
country of just 1.5 million golfing souls.
“In Korea, the fashion changes. We have four distinct seasons and the manufacturers come up with new designs for each season,” explained Michael, a Korean-American living in Korea and working for a golf industry company (he asked that his real name not be used). “People tend to keep up with the season and they don’t have loyalties to the club they belong to. Elsewhere it’s common that members will wear shirts with the club logo, but in Korea that’s not the case. People tend to lean toward designers shirts, which can be very expensive, 200-300 dollars. Even if they don’t have a good game in terms of golf skill, they try to look good. In Korea, if you don’t dress up, you’re pretty much looked down upon.”
For men, shorts on the golf course are considered
particularly frumpy. “Most of the membership golf courses,” Michael says, “do
not permit shorts — and golfers must wear hats outside the clubhouse. Without
hats, you cannot go out on the course.”
Um, why is that?
“I don’t know.”
The shorts thing is good to know, though daytime temperatures for October typically range from 7-18 degrees (and these days hats make good skin-care sense most anywhere, anytime). Still, Dale suggests that exacting standards and high fashion are just what we should expect from a population with “the highest level of elective cosmetic surgery in the world and the no. 1 destination for these procedures in Asia. I’m even thinking about getting something done, around my eyes… I’m serious.”
Golf course closures are typically met with howls of indignation and despair, as locals countenance their stark, new, diminished reality. But it’s fair to wonder exactly how the public golfing population here in Southern Maine processed the news, received in late January, that Sable Oaks Golf Club would not reopen this spring (the land will instead be marketed to housing developers).
while I loved Sable Oaks, mine has always been the minority view.
Most of the Maine golfers I know never cared much for Sable Oaks. Too penal, they said. Driver was too often taken out of their hands (on account of wetlands too often cutting across fairways in constricting fashion). For walkers, hilly Sable Oaks was a death march.
sentiments, accompanied by knowing nods and perhaps champagne toasts, are
surely being bandied about even now. But I must protest. It’s bad manners to
speak ill of the dead, after all. And so I’m here today not merely to praise
Sable Oaks but to defend her — for perhaps the last time.
All the things people hated most about Sable Oaks recommended the course, to me, when I moved to Portland in 1992. I was 28 years old and a pretty good player back then — breaking 80 at Sable (something I managed only three times in 30 years) really meant something. I didn’t even carry a driver for much of the ‘90s, relying instead on a 1-iron (and a weirdly shaped, seldom deployed, persimmon Ping 2-wood). Walking 18 holes at Sable with a bag on my back was certainly a workout and a half; the hike from 17 green to 18 tee in particular was a heart-stopper — but I was young! A round there meant I didn’t need to go to the gym.
And what a taxing-but-comely
walk it was. Designed by architect Brian Silva (who laid out the once-private,
now semi-private Falmouth Country Club at exactly the same time), Sable Oaks made
for golf in an undeniably gorgeous, secluded setting across lush, dramatic
terrain, with gargantuan specimen trees framing the greens and colorful
wetlands everywhere one turned.
wetlands required forced carries on four of the first five holes — but they
were even more colorful in the fall!
Oaks was located directly in the Portland Jetport flight path — but you never
heard the highway (!).
in Portland that March of 1992 to take a new job: editor-in-chief at Golf Course News, a national business
journal published by Yarmouth-based United Publications. When I stumbled upon
Sable Oaks that spring, I was honestly blown away. The greens were inventive
and fun — always in superb shape, too (something Sable could boast to its dying
day). Indeed, the place seemed pretty brand new. The overall conditioning, the contour/detail
around those greens, the bunkering throughout seemed way too nice for a public
course — especially one that charged just $20.
Sable seemed fancy and new because it had been conceived and built as a private golf/residential community just a few years before I showed up in Portland. A late-80s recession obliged it to open and operate as a public course. Ownership would change several times through the years. Housing and other commercial elements never got built. An oversupply of competing courses meant Sable would never do more than survive. National trends didn’t help matters: The U.S. course stock has suffered an annual net loss of some 150 properties each year since 2008. Ironically, Greater Portland’s red-hot housing market today — and Sable’s prime location on a wooded hillock right across I-95 from the Maine Mall — made the closure decision (from current owners, Delray, Fla.-based Ocean Properties Hotels Resorts & Affiliates) something of a no-brainer.
But none of this accounts for Sable Oaks’ poor reputation among Greater Portland golfers. Did it get a bad rap? Or was it simply too hard to enjoy? Are Southern Maine golfers a bunch of pussies? Is course difficulty something they want to observe on television but avoid for ourselves?
The answers here are complicated. I can tell you this much, having spent 30 years in the golf business (rating courses and writing about course-design issues): Difficult tracks are, more often than not, successfully marketed on account of their resistance to scoring, not in spite of it. Portland-area golfers were eager throughout the 1990s, for example, to drive two-plus hours for the pleasure of losing 10 golf balls and shooting 117 at Sugarloaf (where river crossings were celebrated). The Woodlands in Falmouth (another track that debuted about the same time as Sable and Falmouth CC) is a much harder golf course than Sable Oaks, in my view, and yet it has succeeded in attracting private club members in this market.
more, Sable Oaks was not a long course; it played only 6,300 yards from the tips.
Indeed, the choosing of one’s tees at Sable was key to maximizing the fun and
strategy Silva created there. Too often, in my view, Sable-haters didn’t manage
this aspect particularly well for themselves.
So my wife and I have a 12-year-old girl staying with us for a while and last Thursday evening she settled down beside me (armed with a big bag of magic markers and a sketch pad) as I watched a recording of The Masters first round. She wasn’t paying much attention. In that way she was a credible stand-in for the broader American public, which, let’s face it, doesn’t pay much attention to golf, even its majors. Indeed, when she did take notice, she playfully mocked the idea of watching golf altogether — that is, until she noticed Tiger Woods walking off a tee.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Tiger Woods, I told her. I swear to god, I did not prep
her in any way; she picked him out of the crowd of players all on her own. The
next afternoon, during the live broadcast of Round 2, she wandered back into
the living room. Unbidden she asked, “How’s Tiger doing?”
doing quite well, actually. You like him?
else do you like about him?
“He’s cool. Look at the way he’s walking around. He’s very confident.”
about that mock turtleneck? Is that cool?
“Oh yeah. Those are in.”
Watching golf with a 12-year-old, distaff, golfing neophyte is a fascinating exercise in its own right. This one in particular had strong opinions: She thought Jon Rahm looked like a fat punk; she didn’t like him at all and rode him without mercy throughout (“He should just go home”). She quickly remarked on the unusually lanky stature of both Tony Finau and Matt Kucher. Brooks Koepka was notably swaggy — but nothing like Tiger, in her opinion. Surprisingly, Ricky Fowler’s youthful mien did nothing for her — something about his eyebrows being too dark (“And I don’t like his shirt”). Norwegian amateur Victor Hovland was pilloried for his prominent schnozz, which, in fairness, was fair comment.
But these were all bit players in the drama so far as she was
concerned. Tiger was the anointed one.
A lot has already been written about how Tiger’s victory on Sunday
has introduced his phenomenon to an entirely new generation of golfers. I don’t
anticipate this girl will suddenly want to play the game, or start wearing mock
T’s. But it has been 11 years since Tiger won a major. This weekend’s
performance reminded us all of what we’ve been missing.
Forget the 15 majors, the renewed Nicklaus chase. We’ve missed this
man’s naked charisma most of all. No golfer in history has half the presence
Tiger exhibits just walking down a fairway. Charisma is a hard thing to
quantify, but it’s also one of the few things that readily spills over from a niche
sport like golf into the larger culture. And that’s another thing golf has been
missing these past 11 years.
I watched Sunday morning’s finale at Tomaso’s, a fashionably down-market, diner-sized canteen in Portland, Maine. At 10:30 a.m., when I showed up, there weren’t but 3 or 4 us there. An hour later, the brunch crowd had attracted a full house of young, bearded, IPA-swilling hipsters This was no sports bar, much less a golf bar (does such a thing even exist north of Pinehurst?). Even so, when Tiger birdied 15, the place went crazy. The barman quickly turned off the music (a pleasant alt-country playlist featuring the likes of Ryan Adams, Old Crow Medicine Show and Jason Isbell) and turned up the CBS television feed. Tiger had this place in the palm of his hand. When his tee shot on 16 came to rest 2 feet from the hole, the patrons inside Tomaso’s erupted.
About this time, I noticed a text had arrived. A friend of mine was
down in Boston at the TD Garden watching the Celtics-Pacers playoff game, an
inelegant affair he referred to as a “game/rock fight.” He reported there were
“tons of people clustering around TVs on the concourse watching golf. It’s
amazing how much love there is for Tiger.”
There’s really is something about this guy — something non-golfers
can appreciate. Yes, he has battled back from considerable personal/physical adversity,
but this obscures the larger point: He was stupidly charismatic when he
appeared on the Mike Douglas Show at the age of 2, when he won three straight
U.S. Amateurs, when he debuted as Nike’s cross-over pitch man, when he claimed
those 14 majors… Apparently, after a decade away, he remains stupidly
charismatic, not just to core golfers but to casual fans and mere onlookers
around the world.
Sunday night, my daughter
sent me a text: “Is Tiger Woods good again?”
She’s 20 years old, a junior
in college, and couldn’t care less about golf. But somehow the news had reached
her via the broader cultural news drip. I asked exactly how she learned of his
“I saw him on the TV at this
bar! Some people were watching.”
Do you find him charismatic?
“Not really. He’s cheated on a
lot of women.”
My daughter is clearly not so forgiving of Tiger, in part because
she’s a woke young woman, but also because she’s yet to make the mistakes that
Tiger and the rest of us 40, 50 and 60somethings have made. But her admonition
is well taken: Recognizing and appreciating anew Tiger’s ungodly magnetism doesn’t
mean we should get all crazy (again) about what his charisma really means.
It doesn’t mean, for example, that we should start believing Tiger’s
mere presence will bring millions of kids (or Millennials, or Baby Boomers)
into the game. That never held in 2003; it doesn’t hold now. Nor does it mean
we should start building new golf courses willy nilly to accommodate this chimerical
wave of converts. It doesn’t mean Tiger has, on account of his victory,
instantly become a particularly good man or father. It made no sense to ascribe
him these qualities in 2007 frankly; knowing what we know, it makes even less
sense now. Why we blithely attach these sterling personal traits to men (or
women) who exhibit extraordinary sporting skill is beyond me. One hopes we’ve
learned our lesson here.
But it does seem clear that Tiger and the professional game in which he competes have changed more than a little in the 11 years since he limped to his last major win. Today’s Tiger is 43 years old, his hairline in full retreat. He’s been through a world of shit, both physical and personal. The process of dealing and coming back from all that would change anyone. His swing and his outlook on life are forever altered.
And here we confront what might be the most interesting
manifestation of all this change: Sunday’s victory was the first time Tiger has
ever come from behind in the final
round to win a major tournament. The greatest front-runner in history has
learned how to come back.
Tiger won from the front so frequently because, from 1997 through 2008, his outsized aura truly cowed most all of his would-be competitors. Remember how they’d wilt when paired with him? Francesco Molinari and Tony Finau did not play well beside Tiger on Sunday but here, too, the game has changed a great deal in 11 years. Today’s PGA Tour is stocked to the gills with young, dynamic, swaggering talent. It will be fascinating to watch this generation of professionals compete with the man many of them grew up idolizing.
Because one thing has not changed: You can’t take your eyes off this Tiger Woods fellow. This was true over the weekend; it was true through 2008. If we’re honest with ourselves, it was true afterward, through his many struggles. We rather shamelessly rubbernecked the wounded, struggling Tiger like we ogle an accident on the side of the road. More than a decade has passed and we still can’t take our eyes off him. Why? Because he still has more charisma than anyone who has ever played this game, more perhaps than all the major winners in history, combined. Even a 12-year-old, non-golfing girl can see that.
[Ed. I once learned at an AP seminar that anyone, in the right hands, could be the subject of a prize-winning profile. This one may or may not qualify, but it’s pretty darned good and has been widely shared in golf circles these past few months. A published version appeared in a 2019 issue of Golf Course Management magazine. See the slightly longer and more casually profane original draft below.]
By HAL PHILLIPS I received the following email from Roger Goettsch, CGCS, in the spring of 2018: I recently designed and built two different wetting forks for applying wetting agents to the soil in our LDS (localized dry-spot areas). We have had issues getting wetting agents into the soil due to the thatch layer and this seems to have helped… He attached pictures of the wetting forks in action, along with shots of the “Plug Pushers” he also designed and built, to remove cores following aeration.
is the head superintendent at Shanqin Bay Golf Club in the small town of
Longgun, on the island of Hainan, in the People’s Republic of China. Like many
American-trained supers working overseas, Goettsch can’t get his hands on every
last piece of equipment his little heart desires. So he just builds what he can,
himself, putting to work his AutoCAD skills, his welding and fabrication
expertise, and a mechanical imagination born deep in the American heartland.
Goettsch has worked all over North America, and now Asia, leaving behind him a
trail of custom-designed and custom-built equipment — like breadcrumbs in the
“You have no idea all the shit that I’ve built,” he says, upon compiling for GCM a list of Top 10 Greatest Hits. “Literally, what you’re seeing there are just the big items from the last decade or so. There’s at least another 20 big-ticket items I’ve leaving out and several hundred more I’ve just sort of forgotten.”
those sprig planters you built for all those contractors? Or the fairway
aerifier you whipped up that one night?
one night. We were growing in a Palmer course in Ft. Worth, Texas, working with
Arnold’s project architect, Bob Walker. He’ll confirm this story. The soil was
horrible there, dark heavy clay. We just had
to aerify it. So I decided to build an aerifying machine with my head mechanic,
Bill Hess. We had to get this done because I promised Bob Walker I’d have it
ready for his next site visit. So me and Bill had been working on it several
days, but we worked till 4 a.m. that last night and Bill — I had trained him
how to weld — all of a sudden hollers over at me: Roger we gotta quit… I fell asleep welding.”
pressed for why exactly he’s compelled to build so many things — while
simultaneously working full time, taking care of first-class courses from the
Gulf to the South China Sea — Goettsch chalks it up to self-reliance, a quality
his dad embodied and passed along to young Roger in the farmlands of western
through line for all this stuff, based on my upbringing — being
self-sufficient. You know what they say: The DNA precedes you.”
The history of media seeking to leverage their publishing capabilities to secure various fringe benefits is long indeed. Traditionally, as befits transactions undertaken by relative paupers, these perks rarely rise above the level of heavy hors d’oeuvres. I worked at a daily newspaper back in the early ‘90s where the nightly assignment schedule invariably included this reception or that event — places often devoid of news value but where free food could be had. Open bar? Well, the entire editorial staff might show up for something like that.
Lookit, reporters and editors don’t traditionally make a lot of money; they’re frequently quite young. This is to say, freeloading of this kind shouldn’t be viewed as particularly untoward or shameful. It’s something of a necessity frankly. One of our many mascots in that newsroom was a giant cartoon headshot of a Dick Tracy-like character, complete with ‘40s era fedora. Tucked in his hatband was an index card that might simply have read “PRESS”; instead it read, “I’m with the PRESS. Where’s the FOOD?”
Several links up the food chain in this realm is the media FAM trip — FAM being short for “familiarization”. There’s no way to spin such an event in light of journalistic standards and ethics: These are flat-out junkets whereby some publicity-seeking entity lures reporters and freelancer types on some trip with the understanding that, once they’ve been wined/dined and return home, media will write nice stories about the resort property, the golf course or cuisine to be had there, or maybe the broader “destination” itself. In the golf and travel realm, where I’ve toiled for more than two decades now, FAM trips are the ultimate perk because, well, let’s not be coy: In addition to all sorts of free food & drink, participating media also get complementary air fare, lodging and assorted swag.
The quid pro quo nature of the FAM exercise is little discussed but well understood. One doesn’t visit a golf course or hotel, on a FAM, only to savage the place in print. That would be untoward. As our moms all told us, if you don’t have anything nice to say, say nothing at all (or concentrate on something else that doesn’t suck).
Here’s another FAM trip bylaw: Answer the bell. No matter how much free boozing and carousing was had the night before, media guests have an obligation to show up, on time, first thing the next morning (according to the itinerary) without fail.
There’s one more, less formal understanding re. media FAMs to establish: Something is sure to go wrong. I’ve been on dozens of these junkets as a working journalist. I’ve organized dozens more on behalf of various clients. When one is devising a week-long itinerary in a foreign country — for one’s self — something is sure to be overlooked. When organizing for a dozen people, most of whom will be drunk 35 percent of the week? The odds only increase. The mere presence of a dozen journalistic chancers eating, drinking and indulging on someone else’s dime makes the possibility of mishap a mortal lock.
Someone, someday, will write a comprehensive book about all the great FAM trips gone awry: who got thrown in jail, what foreign dignitary got naked, and why shellfish is always a risky choice. In the meantime, writers will merely trade these yarns back and forth like war stories. In that tradition I offer up the itinerary from a single morning gone wrong, in Jakarta, during Ramadan, back in 2012. This was a trip I helped to organize and host. I promised the client I wouldn’t breathe a word until a reasonable period of discretion had passed. Still, I have changed the names to protect, not the innocent necessarily, but rather those professional reputations still in play.
In most respects, this particular FAM was a roaring success. It produced dozens of glowing, published pieces re. the awesome golf product on offer in and around Indonesia’s sprawling capital. To produce this content I had wrangled a genial and cosmopolitan group of 12 media and tour operators hailing from the UK, China, South Korea, Japan, Hong Kong, Australia and the U.S. From the Fond Memory Dept., I could just as easily cite the epic karaoke session, the compelling version of “Take It To The Limit” I performed with the band at our closing soiree, the five superb rounds of golf we played, or the incredible dinner we organized for 20 at the Four Seasons. But none of those vignettes would include the burning of tires or police in combat gear.
See below a timeline of events, the morning after said banquet. I can vouch for its accuracy because, like James Comey, I was moved to take contemporaneous notes, on my phone — such was the utterly random nature of the proceedings.
The late-2017 sale of Sports Illustrated, TIME Magazine and other titles to Meredith Publishing, a deal made possible by an infusion of $650 million from Koch Industries’ private-equity arm, has elicited both howls of indignation (from those who fear the further right-wing weaponization of information) and an ongoing hail of gauzy nostalgia — from those who grew up loving SI and fear the sale will only further its fall from a decades-long perch atop the sports media food chain.
Here I will indulge in the latter, because I’d been meaning to post the above story in some way, shape or form ever since my friend Jammin’ ran across it last September. SI was not merely a staple of my young reading life (along with The Boston Globe’s superb sports section) — it was where I started my freelance-writing career. Indeed, this was my very first freelance piece, full stop. It warms the cockles of my heart to see it lovingly preserved online in flipbook fashion deep in something called the SI Vault.
By 1997, when this piece was published (Oct. 27 issue), I had spent some 10 years as a working journalist, first for a collection of weekly and daily newspapers in Massachusetts, then as editor of Golf Course News, a national business journal published here in Maine (indeed, taking that job brought me to Maine). Nineteen ninety-seven was also year I left GCN to start Mandarin Media, Inc., with the secondary intention freelancing more in earnest. The ensuing years would see my work appear in pretty much every major North American golf and travel magazine (several of which still exist!). That effort started here, with this Sports Illustrated feature.
I had pitched the magazine a piece ranking the best 9-hole golf courses in America, but, as often happens in the freelance milieu, the story ended up being something quite different: a feature on Mike Keiser and his 9-hole masterpiece, The Dunes Club, with a sidebar detailing the country’s other top 9s. The story itself frankly could have been better. I ended up submitting a finished draft, only to have the editor suggest a major rewrite. This I did, and then the bastard ended up running something that quite closely resembled the original version. Some old stories you read with great pride — this, alas, is not one of those. It feels cautious and dry.
[The sidebar produced a funny moment: When we agreed on this feature and brief ranking alongside, I launched into some lengthy disquisition on how we’d research and tabulate a proper Top 9 Nines list. The editor interrupted me at some point and simply said, “This is SI. We’ll just tell people what we think the Top 9 is.” Such was the power (some would say hubris) of the magazine in those days.]
Despite my failure to reprint this on the 20th anniversary of its publication, the experience was not without its serendipities. For a Boston-bred lad, it was fabulous to be included in any issue with Larry Bird on the cover. What’s more, while I wouldn’t say I discovered Mike Keiser, one would be hard pressed to find earlier coverage of the man, who eventually revolutionized the golf resort business. When I first met him in the spring of 1997, the private, 9-hole Dunes Club was Keiser’s only connection to golf development. Today, having created five award-winning, top-ranked courses in Oregon at Bandon Dunes, he’s had a major hand in developing additional, no-less-heralded, multi-course projects in Nova Scotia (Cabot Links, Cabot Cliffs) and Wisconsin (the new Sand Valley), with another now planned for Scotland. All are links courses fashioned from sandy sites hundreds of miles from the beaten path. Keiser didn’t just build awesome tracks; he proved that American golfers would pay top dollar — and travel to the middle of freakin’ nowhere — to play this type of golf.
I remember sitting in the modest clubhouse at The Dunes Club with Keiser in the summer of 1997, eating hot dogs and conducting our interview when, at some point, he mentioned that he’d just purchased 2,000 acres of coastal property in Oregon, 2 hours west of Eugene and 4-5 south of Portland, where he planned to develop not just one course but a whole complex of them. I thought to myself at the time, “I like this guy but he’s clearly delusional.”
It would not be the last time I mistook vision for delusion.