HOW TO FULLY CONVEY the four-day freak-out that is Senior Q-School? To give you an idea, Earl Fielder, my best friend out here, survived four tours in Vietnam and said the tournament half reminded him of those bad old days. It had the same sunlit spooky vibe and eerie silence, he said, along with the feeling that something bad was always just about to happen, if not to you then to the guy next to you. And the golfers’ superstitions and nervous tics, which got more pronounced as the rounds progressed, reminded him of the way the grunts in his platoon clutched their good-luck charms and tucked pictures of loved ones inside their helmets and prayed to somehow make it home.
Tucson National is a gorgeous track with sparkling green fairways set off by classic TV Western terrain. Tourists from all over the country happily drop $180 to play a round, but for the 144 golfers fighting for those last eight spots, there’s nothing lovely about it. All we see are the perils lurking on every hole and the bogeys and doubles lying in ambush, and as hard as it is to stay clear of the bunkers and cacti and man-made ponds, it’s harder to avoid the hazards in our heads.
There are no stars teeing it up at Senior Q-School. Legends like Tom Watson, Lanny Wadkins, and Tom Kite are automatically exempt, and except for a sprinkling of journeymen who didn’t do enough on the regular tour to rate a free pass, the field is made up mostly of assistant pros and teachers and mini-tour players who for three decades scraped a living at the margins of the game. Despite scant reward, they have ignored wives and reality and hung on to their dreams, even if by any objective measure they ought to have abandoned them twenty years ago. The lack of stars is one reason there are virtually no galleries, little applause, and few witnesses. The other is that the stakes are so high and the odds so long, it makes people uncomfortable to watch.
Which makes me all the more grateful to have Simon on the bag and hear my clubs rattling on his broad back. Despite his comforting presence, I’m tight as a drum, much more than on my maiden voyage to Q-School, because this time around, I know better. My pals weren’t blowing smoke. I am a much better golfer than four years ago. I’m also not the same naïve whippersnapper I was at fifty, and from the first tee, I’m fighting myself on every swing and am lucky to get through the front nine two over par.
Because the consequences of a miscue can be career-ending, the pace of play is slower than the lines at the DMV. Every putt is read and reread, every club choice agonized over. When we reach the par 3 tenth and find two groups waiting on the tee, Simon pulls me off to the side and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Dad, you’ve got to lighten up. Four years ago, after twenty-five years in an office, you came out here, got your card, and won two tournaments, including the biggest one of them all, the U.S. Senior Open. Your name is on the same trophy as some of the greatest golfers who’ve ever played. No matter what happens this weekend, you’ve got nothing left to prove to me or Sarah or Elizabeth or Noah or anyone else.”
I disagree with that last part. Until they sit you down and take away your credit cards and car keys, you’ve always got plenty to prove to yourself and everyone else. But he’s got a point and the perspective helps. Thanks to Simon’s timely interjection, I go 4 under on the back nine and shoot a 70, good enough to put me inside the magic circle in sixth place. Time will tell if I can keep it up, but it’s a start.