Monday at the US Open -- part II

It's taken a few days to write part II of my trip journal. Even though I had Jen DVR the final round (yes I was there, and know how it ended, but in part it's the gratuitous "can I see myself on TV" viewing), I still haven't gotten around to watching it.

In part it's because I don't want to relive my man Phil missing a chance at his first US Open and partly because I didn't want to dilute my own memories with what I see on TV. In other words, I want to give everyone the benefit of my untainted recollection of the day, even if half of it is made up.

So I'll try to be accurate in recalling the eventful few hours I spent at 17 watching the US Open unfold. Before I vacated the large grandstand left of 17, JB Holmes and Henrik Stenson hammed it up on their way to the green, Holmes flinging his ball into the stands behind the green, and Stenson pretending his putter was a machine gun, and playfully gunning down the fans in the left side grandstand.

There was a much talked about New York Times article earlier in the week (which I never read) about how the New York crowds love Phil because he "gives back" to them, as in making eye contact, signing autographs, etc.

I hate to endorse such an oversimplification, but I think it's right. One tiny example came when one of the Europeans made hit one to kick in range from the back bunker on 17. He started to get a nice reaction for his skillful shot, but the applause got amped up when he turned to the grandstand and gave the thank you wave. Many players who were goaded into chucking their balls into the crowd, including Stenson, and those who interacted with the crowd in any way, were always rewarded with the loudest cheers.

As I switched places to my spot behind 17, I saw a man holding hands with a young girl of about 4, the same age as my son Will. For a moment, I thought how great it would be if he were here with me. With all my trapsing around, and the distinct lack of ice cream, I also thought about how glad he would be that he wasn't here. But I hope some day he'll be my wingman at the US Open.

It was amazing how quickly the tournament had proceeded. Maybe it was that there wasn't that sense of waiting for the leaders, because I'd been following the audio of their progress all along on my headset.

[I should note that Jim Furyk gave the pre-recorded hole by hole descriptions on the Sirius coverage, and he provided some excellent, and frank insights on each hole. His descriptions were understated and just a bit, well . . .creepy, a feeling enhanced by the sense he was standing behind me whispering in my ear. The other funny aspect of the Sirius coverage were the commercials, which had a distinctly late night feel. The two most prevalent were soliciations to buy gold (never loses value!) or helping inventors get their ideas stolen, I mean patented. ]

A couple of the Sirius announcers commented on the effect of so many fans having audio coverage, and reacting to something happening in another group. When something good happened on another hole, you didn't need the Sirius announcers to tell you something happened (the notable exception being the Barnes-Glover group that wasn't making many birdies, and didn't have many people following or rooting for them). When one of the leaders in another group made bogey, however, the hushed reaction on the hole where it happened spread across the crowd as the headset wearers nodded knowingly to one another and whispered their intellingence to those nearby. In my spot near the top of the 17th grandstand, I had a guy about 20 feet away who I traded glances with each time a nugget of news came across our earpieces, usually while he transmitted to the guys standing behind him.

So it snuck up on me when there was a big ruckus on the roadway indicating Tiger had crossed the road to the 15th tee after making his second straight birdie at 14. Granted, he was in the tenth to last group, but he was only a few shots out of the lead, and I couldn't help but feel the morning had gone quickly. And though the steel gray clouds held their rain, the wind started to stiffen, making it downright chilly.

Assuming most people saw the coverage, or at least know how it turned out, I won't go through hole by hole who was up and who was down when. When Tiger finished putting out on 16, just to my left, it was like the running of the bulls. People peeled away from the five deep crowd and flung themselves toward the 17th for some kind of view, without waiting for the might-as-well have-been-invisible Michael Sim (Tiger's playing partner) to putt out.

At a normal tournament, when Tiger, or a well known player hits, the random "You the man" or "In the hole" shouter often stands out. At the near-New York US Open, there were about five guys on every shot who all seemed to drown each other out.

The pin on 17 was a tough one. Though right in the middle of the green, it was just on the upper ledge that separated the two halves. Miss just a little bit (player's) right, and it would funnel down to the lower right half, for a very difficult two-putt. Miss left and you had a chance. Tiger hit a dart to about 12 feet in front of the hole, and just barely missed the putt, which seemed to be the story of his day. Even par going to the 18th, it was hard to imagine a scenario (leaders at -4) where he could win.

Around this time, the cheers from across the road were apparent -- Phil was making a charge. The birdie at 12 caused a nice stir, but the shot to five feet and subsequent eagle at 13 were unmistakable as I heard them in stereo, on my headset in one ear and live roars blasting across the road in the other. Maybe I should have stayed at 13 -- that would have been nice to see.

No offense to Oliver Wilson and Soren Hanson, but I needed to hit the restroom and I saw a guy carrying beers, and it seemed like a good time for both. I was pretty confident leaving my spot as it was somewhat camoflauged. The guys behind me were standing on their seats in the top row of the grandstand and I sat in the second to last row with almost noone else. The truth was that people who wanted to be at 17, were already at 17, and those who were following the groups weren't going to make their way to the top of the grandstand to find a seat. In fact, those who'd been following groups and tried to find a seat, were usually booed by the docile (not) New York crowds while they scanned the stands for a place to sit.

The beer line was about 30 deep, so I passed on refreshment and when I got back to my seat, I decided I wasn't leaving until the leaders had gone through. After Tiger, there was a little lull with groups like Peter Hanson and Stephen Ames, Graeme McDowell and Sean O'Hair, Todd Hamilton and Bubba Watson and Mike Weir came through. Though all playing well, none were in serious contention though Mike Weir had been until a double at 16. Even still, Weir made a great par save at 17, as his tee shot landed on the lip of the deep front bunker and the ball was at the level of his neck when he choked up on a wedge and chipped it to tap in range.

Once Mickelson and Mahan in the third to last group crossed the road (bringing a surge of fans surpassing the crowd following Tiger -- some may have doubled back) I was craning my neck and paying more attention to what was going on at 15 and 16 and the coverage in my earpiece than the play right in front of me.

What happened next is hard to describe or remember in terms of how it exactly unfolded. It was more of feeling than a distinct memory -- that exhilarating, yet almost overwhelming feeling of a lot of things happening at once and happening quickly. It's one reason I want see the TV coverage to remind myself how it went down. For now, here's the made up version (which I know I said I wouldn't go through):

Though Phil had bogeyed 15, Glover was doing the same about the same time that Phil made a clutch 9-footer for par at 16 after ramming his birdie bid by the hole. That was fun to watch and had everyone buzzing.

Tied with Glover at 3-under now, I recall Phil hitting his chip on 17 from not too far from where Weir was, about the same time Duval made his birdie putt on 16. I could see both with only a slight shift of my head.

Then after Phil's bogey (maybe I should have stayed at 13), I could see Glover stuff it and make birdie at 16 as Duval got ready for his birdie putt at 17. The near birdie miss and horseshoe lipout for Duval were cruel, and hopefully softened by the ovation he got, rivaled only by the one received by Phil, which was punctuated by the chants of "Let's Go Phil."

Not that the final two holes were anticlimatic, but with a lead of two, Glover showed he deserved the US Open title on those last two holes making two routine pars. And props for Ricky Barnes too. After having the wheels come off (including making bogey on 6 of 8 holes in the middle of his round) he birdied 13 and parred his way in, and still had an outside shot going up 18.

After the final group had come through, I filed out of the stands and joined a large group on the 18th tee and watched the final twosome play the 18th from a distance. Though I couldn't see a darn thing, it was still a great view.

I weaved my way through the crowd to the 18th green and stood below and right of the green while the tiny Bob Costas awarded the trophy to Lucas Glover. Though Glover wasn't my choice, I applauded as loudly as I could for such a gutsy win and becoming our national champion.

A couple of postscripts: 1) The muck smelled like a barnyard. They'd put hay down and along with the grass must have started to decompose. I grew up on a farm, so it was a not so subtle reminder of cleaning out the heifer barn growing up. 2) I don't know how many people were trying to leave Bethpage, but it felt like a million as the line for the buses to the train station seemed endless.

I decided to avoid the masses and waited while enjoying a beer and a hotdog. As I sat on a low wall near a putting green, a woman excitedly described how she'd gotten Phil's autograph by scrambling through a hedge. I asked her where he was and she pointed me back toward the clubhouse.

Around the putting green in front of the clubhouse, I witnessed some makeshift press conferences being held. There were barricades and entry points all around, but with the breakdown in law and order it wasn't clear who was supposed to be on which side of them. Many were being breached.

I did get a glimpse of Phil's mini scrum as autograph seekers mauled him while he made his way to a car or a doorway (I wasn't sure which). He wasn't striding through the crowd signing a few hats and flinging them behind him, he was more like a fullback picking up a half yard at a time.

I give him credit, after just finishing second (for the 5th time) and wanting to go see his ailing wife, I can't imagine having the patience for that.

Speaking of patience, I was ready to get home myself. I arrived at the Farmingdale station the same time as an Eastbound train. I had to make a quick decision to retrieve the backpack from the "disallowed items" area, or jump on the train. The call of home won out and while I hated to leave behind the backpack I bought when I went to business school 13 years ago, it had a balky zipper and it was time to get home.

I'm glad I went. It's taken me all week to catch up on my sleep, (and staying up late writing this journal hasn't helped), but I think tomorrow, I'll be ready to watch some of the TV coverage, to see if it happened like I remember it.