xxvii

NOW THAT I’VE been there, I must say that I truly feel sorry for anyone who lives on the Monterey Peninsula. They have nothing to look forward to when they die, because heaven has got to be a letdown.

The list of what makes this area special is lengthy. First of all, the weather is crisp and cool year-round, with a near-constant ocean breeze that’s as invigorating as anything you can imagine. And the place has scenery to match, with a coastline that alternates between sandy dunes and rocky cliffs. And below these gifts of nature lie beaches frothing with cold surf thrown up by the Pacific Ocean. Then there are cypress trees in abundance everywhere, beautifully gnarled and twisted by the powerful trade winds that buffet the area. Occasionally, they announce their triumph in this remarkable battle against the elements by establishing themselves even among the otherwise barren rocks.

If you’re a golfer, it gets even better. The Monterey Peninsula features classic links land reminiscent of Scotland, which means that it’s a kind of transition zone between the ocean and the acreage farther inland. The sandy soil conditions there, together with the moisture provided by the ocean, are seemingly perfect for any number of fine-bladed grasses required for golf. Heck, one of the native grasses used on the putting greens at Pebble Beach, Poa annua, is actually classified as a weed in some (obviously nongolfing) quarters. But it can be mowed down to the height of peach fuzz, and a golf ball rolls across it as smoothly as anything I’ve ever seen.

As a result, the area in and around Monterey is blessed with a number of magnificent courses in addition to Pebble Beach. First, of course, is the Cypress Point Club, an exclusive private course barely more than a three-wood away that certainly rivals, if not exceeds, Pebble Beach. There’s also Pebble Beach’s sister resort course, Spanish Bay, as well as other great tracks at Spyglass Hill, Poppy Hills, Monterey Peninsula Country Club, and Pacific Grove. Except maybe for San Francisco (Olympic, Lake Merced, Harding Park, and San Francisco Golf Club) and Long Island (Shinnecock Hills, the National, Maidstone, Bethpage Black, and Garden City), it’s awfully hard to find another place on the planet where so many beautiful and challenging golf courses are in such close proximity.

That’s why there are plenty of smiles to go around whenever the USGA selects Pebble Beach to host the Open. The only downside, in fact, is that the place ain’t cheap, and hotel rooms can be hard to come by. Some of the players on Tour grumbled about having to stay as far away as Salinas. Because some of the classic courses selected by the USGA to host the Open are a little off the beaten path (Shinnecock Hills is a good example), we had all heard horror stories about guys who got caught in traffic and missed their starting times. Since the Rules of Golf don’t permit tardiness on the first tee for any reason, getting a place within walking distance of the course is a high priority.

Stewart somehow arranged for us to stay at a private home just off the second hole at Pebble Beach, which was ideal. I knew better than to ask how he pulled it off. All I know is that we flew into San Jose on a Sunday evening, which allowed us to get in three full days of practice rounds before they started counting strokes on Thursday.

We arrived at our temporary home fairly late, around ten o’clock that night. I should have been tired from a long day of travel (sitting on an airplane for any period of time usually wears me out), but I was much too jazzed up to think about sleeping. Besides, we weren’t scheduled to play our first practice round until midmorning, so I could afford to sleep late.

So instead of turning in, I decided to explore our surroundings. I quickly discovered that Stewart had done well; it was a sumptuous place by any standards. Whoever owned our “bungalow” (a term that really didn’t do the place justice) had an obvious affection for golf. There were photographs and other mementos in almost every room recalling the great moments of golf on the peninsula, including action shots of famous players, from Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen to Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson, each photo depicting action at the various courses in the area.

On the coffee table in the main room was a large book tracing the history of the Monterey Peninsula. Looking through it, I learned that the area was first developed by Samuel Morse (the nephew of the telegraph inventor), who purchased 5,300 acres in 1915 that included Pebble Beach. Just two years earlier, in a defining moment for golf in this country, a young American named Francis Ouimet had won the U.S. Open, defeating heavily favored Englishmen Harry Vardon and Ted Ray. Morse believed that the increasingly popular game of golf would be a perfect way for people to derive the greatest pleasure from the weather and magnificent scenery his new property offered. So he envisioned a golf course there as the centerpiece for a resort and residential enclave for the rich and famous.

Morse commissioned two California State Amateur champions, Jack Neville and Douglas Grant, to design his course. As far as I know, the two men never designed another course together. If so, they can be credited with quitting while they were ahead, because it’s doubtful they ever could have matched what they did at Pebble Beach.

According to what I could tell, however, the golf course had an inauspicious beginning. When it first opened with an invitational tournament in 1918, the new layout proved so difficult (owing partly to primitive conditions) that the best score was 20 over par. Morse quickly closed the course and retained a local golf enthusiast named Francis McComas to improve its playability.

Morse must have been something of a tinkerer, because he hired a succession of professional and amateur architects over the next few years, in an effort to raise his course to the status he felt it deserved. As a result, the course was “tweaked” in succession by prominent English golfer Herbert Fowler, renowned architect Alistair Mackenzie (who designed nearby Cypress Point as well as Augusta National), and U.S. Amateur champion H. Chandler Egan. While too many cooks usually spoil the broth, Pebble Beach must have been improved quite a bit in the process, because it was selected to host the U.S. Amateur in 1929.

By any measure, it was a successful debut for national championships at Pebble Beach. The overwhelming favorite, of course, was Bobby Jones, who had a few weeks earlier won his third U.S. Open, beating Al Espinosa in a thirty-six–hole playoff at Winged Foot by an unbelievable twenty-three strokes. Having beaten the world’s greatest professionals in the Open for the third time in seven years (with three runner-up finishes in that span to boot), it was easy to see that the world’s greatest player was the man to beat. But, to everyone’s surprise, Jones lost in the very first round of match play to Johnny Goodman, who four years later would become the last amateur to win the U.S. Open. Left with time on his hands (and a paid-for hotel room), Jones arranged a game at the newly opened Cypress Point Club and was so impressed with the layout that he eventually retained its architect, Alistair Mackenzie, to design Augusta National.

At any rate, other championships soon followed. In all, the USGA brought three more Amateur Championships to Pebble Beach (in 1947, 1961, and 1999), as well as two Women’s Amateurs (in 1940 and 1948). But it didn’t award its most prestigious event, the U.S. Open, until 1972, when Jack Nicklaus won. Since then, Pebble Beach has hosted three more Opens (1982, 1992, and the 100th Open in 2000) as well as the 1977 PGA Championship.

This was good stuff, I thought. The book also had an account of how Nicklaus added the 1972 Open trophy to the one he won at Pebble Beach in the 1961 Amateur. I then read a story about Lanny Wadkins edging out Gene Littler to win the 1977 PGA and, of course, how Watson chipped in at the seventeenth hole to win the Open in 1982. The next story described how Tom Kite claimed his only major by matching par in the final round of the 1992 Open on a day when the wind was so severe that many players in the field were unable to break 80. And, of course, I already knew how Tiger Woods had lapped the field in the 2000 Open on his way to a fifteen-stroke victory. That margin of victory was second in U.S. Open history only to Jones’s twenty-three—stroke margin in the ’29 Open.

Instead of relaxing me, my late-night reading had the opposite effect. After learning about all the grand championships that had been staged just outside our door, I was more keyed up than ever. It was several hours before I was able to fall asleep, and I didn’t wake up until the smell of Stewart’s cooking overtook me around eight the next morning.

My friend barely looked up when I stumbled into the kitchen. As I flopped down on a stool at the breakfast counter, he poured me a cup of coffee. I mumbled my thanks and waited for the combination of heat and caffeine to take effect.

Stewart knew that I was not a morning person, and so he made no attempt at conversation. Instead, he pushed a copy of the morning’s Monterey County Herald across the table at me. It had a special section on the Open, including an article about which players would be favored.

It was no surprise, of course, that Tiger Woods was the odds-on pick to win another Open. He had already won the AT&T Pebble Beach Invitational as well as the last Open at Pebble Beach. Picking Tiger to win again in his home state was something of a no-brainer. Behind him, the paper listed a second tier of players that included Davis Love III, Phil Mickelson, Vijay Singh, and Ernie Els. Next to each player’s name was a short comment describing his potential for success. I scanned across a few more names, including Sergio Garcia, Kenny Perry, Hal Sutton, David Toms, and Lee Janzen.

As I neared the bottom of the list, a name caught my eye. It was mine. Next to it was the cryptic comment: “Early season success brought high hopes but may have been a fluke.”

Looking up, I saw Stewart watching me intently. I then realized that he had put the paper in front of me because he wanted me to read that very word. And now he was waiting to measure my reaction.

I took a sip of coffee, if only to give me another few seconds to collect my thoughts. Pointing to the column, I pretended nonchalance and said, “They say I’m a fluke. Doesn’t show much confidence in me, does it?”

Stewart arched his left eyebrow. “I would think that’s irrelevant.”

I was quick to rise to the bait. “What do you mean?”

He turned over the bacon he was cooking before answering. “Can a sportswriter’s opinion make any difference in how you play?”

“You know the answer to that,” I said sarcastically.

“Yeah, I do. The question is whether you do.”

I tossed the paper aside. “You know I don’t take these people seriously. According to them, missing the cut on our Tour is a terrific achievement if you’re a woman but makes you a ‘fluke’ if you’re a man. What’s up with that? A 75 is a 75, no matter who shot it.” I shook my head. “Maybe I should wear a dress next time I play.”

I noticed that he was now giving me a hard look. Political jokes aside, this was more than idle breakfast conversation. Stewart apparently had something on his mind.

He laid the now-cooked bacon on a paper towel to dry. “Bobby, it’s time you showed some faith in yourself. That’s the whole point in what we’ve been doing for—what’s it been?—the better part of a year now.”

He cracked a couple of eggs and dropped them into the pan. “Still like ’em over easy?” After I nodded, he continued. “Letting go means believing that you’ll get it done when the time comes. It means letting your game take over.”

His voice was rising, and he began sounding uncharacteristically agitated. “Dammit, you’ve stopped trusting me. More important, you’ve stopped trusting yourself. Don’t you understand? You’re here because you belong here. You earned your way at Scioto.”

He stared at me, as if he were searching for some reassurance that I understood what he was saying.

I didn’t say anything for a long time. After filling my cup again, I spoke as softly as I could, hoping to remain unemotional. “Stewart, this isn’t easy, you know. I can’t change a lifetime of bad habits overnight.” Try as I might, I couldn’t contain the surge of emotions rising inside of me. “You have been the best friend I’ve ever had. How can you say that I don’t believe in you? I have taken everything you’ve said to heart. For God’s sake, you saved my life.”

I stopped and bit my lip. I usually swept aside my emotions with sarcastic humor. I was pleased, but embarrassed, that for once I was honestly sharing what I really felt with Stewart.

He walked over and put an arm around me. I started to apologize for losing it, but he said, “That’s the first real emotion you’ve shown in a long time. You’ve got to stay in touch with your feelings, Bobby. It’s what makes you what you are.” He paused before adding, “It’s part of trusting yourself. Or have you forgotten?” He then winked at me. “The last time you allowed yourself to have feelings was before we took our break. For whatever reason, I think going home set you back a bit.”

At that point, Stewart apparently sensed that I was too drained to talk any more. Besides, he had made his point. Putting a plate in front of me, he said cheerfully, “Eat your breakfast. We’ve got to get going.”

It was an emotional start to my first Open week.