The first sign of trouble for me came a couple years back at the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am. I went for Saturday and Sunday with a friend of mine who was a local club pro at the time. He had special super-secret double probation "pro" passes or something for the whole week so we had almost totally unfettered access to the sponsor tents and clubhouse.
We arrived on Saturday at a reasonably early time and it felt like we were hours late. The dirt lots were packed with cars and the grounds were a sea of people. I asked Ryan, the club pro, if this was normal for PGA events or if this was specific to the Pro-Am. He said, "dude, this is typical...maybe less since it isn't even a real Tour event. These guys are as bad as Raiders fans lining up to get in the lot for the tailgate."
I had no idea.
The worst of the worst, I have discovered, is the Tiger Group. I've come to call them the Swooshbags. These are the guys anywhere from their late 20s to their early 40s covered head-to-toe in Nike gear. They sport the black "TW" hats and wear the same color shirt Tiger wears each round. These are the guys who scream "GET IN THE HOLE!" on every one of Tiger's strokes whether it's a 2 foot par putt or a tee shot on a 600-yard par-5.
Walking through the auxiliary parking lot, Ryan and I saw two men in their early 40s rocking identical salt n' pepper goatees, black Nike hats, and wraparound Revo shades with what looked to be a dozen Nike polo shirts spread out on the hood of their SUV. There were two of each color and they looked brand new; folded like they just came off the shelf at the Pro Shop.
"How much for the light blue one? Do you have any XLs?" They turned and glared at me like I asked them if I could come in their butts. "Well, do you or don't you?" The shorter of the Swooshbags expelled one of those disdainful 'you just don't get it' chuckles and turned back to his friend.
Ryan stepped in front of me and laughed at my ignorance. "DrunkRex, they're not selling those shirts. They're trying to figure out which color Tiger is wearing today so they can match." I was unclear how he knew this just by looking at them, but then he nodded toward their matching Nike "TW" hats.
ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!?!
He was quite serious. I turned back to Tweedle-Douche and Tweedle-Swoosh. "Are you guys really trying to co-ordinate with Tiger Woods' wardrobe?" With darting eyes and deafening silence, Tweedle-Douche confirmed my worst fear. They were, in fact, trying to figure out which color shirt Tiger'd be wearing because they were going to follow his group from the range to the 18th green.
Not stalkers, my ass.
When asked why they didn't just go in and find out, the Swooshbags looked glumly at one another. Not only were there no ins-and-outs at Pebble, but they lacked "someone on the inside like at the other Tour events" they go to.
Before I could comment on the utter absurdity of the situation and the plainly obvious fact that they were born with the umbilical chord wrapped tightly around their necks, Tweedle-Swoosh spotted the badge hanging around Ryan's neck. To say the Swooshbags were excited would be to say Wilt Chamberlain banged lots of chicks.
Their tone went from snotty indignation to tempered reverence in an instant. They asked Ryan how he got our badges, who he knew on The Tour, what we had access to, who we were going to shadow (they said "shadow"), and finally, if we would go in, find Tiger, and then call one of them on their cell phone to report back (they said "report back"). Each produced a business card from a billfold before we had a chance to decline. The sobriety and seriousness with which they asked this last question would lead even the least stable of people to wonder what flavor the Kool-Aid was.
Ryan grabbed the cards and told them he'd give them a ring no later than 30 minutes before his group's start time. As we approached the entrance, Ryan muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "felching dildos," tore the business cards in half and threw them on the ground.
Once inside I saw the strangest thing around the range and the practice greens. There were these swarms of polo-shirted white people moving independently of each other like gnats around streetlamps during summer evenings. There were no words. Their movement was completely organic and absolutely dumbfounding. They stepped backward and forward in unison. They murmured to each other. They moved from station to station fluid like the tide.
So I asked Ryan what they were doing. "They're following golfers."
I didn't get it. You mean like stalking them? Like groupies? "No dude, more like NASCAR fans. You know how every Cup fan has a favorite driver? Those guys all have favorite golfers."
So all those guys over there behind Justin Leonard. They're all big Leonard fans? "Most of 'em, yeah, probably. They use the same clubs as Leonard too. Those guys leaning over the rope right there are probably trying to figure out exactly what type of shaft Leonard has on his driver--just like NASCAR fans. Rusty guys drink nothing but Miller Lite. Leonard fans use nothing but Nike balls and irons"
Are they trailer-dwelling sheepfuckers like NASCAR fans, too? "Nah, no way. Those guys are all pretty successful and there's no way they're not more educated. They're just huge, huge dorks. Dude, remember when I played in that qualifier tournament when the U.S. Open was at Olympic? When people at the club found out I was trying to qualify for the Open they started following me on the course. They started hanging around the range when I gave a lesson. It was cool at first, but after a week it was just creepy."
No shit. Anyone who thinks it's a good idea to follow you around needs to re-examine their priorities. "Fuck you, dude. Do you have any idea how much pussy I pulled from that club?"
Not enough to help you outdrive me. "Are you fucking kidding me?! Your driver has a right hand turn signal. You're a menace in the tee box."
Yeah, but I still outdrive you. "Sorry Pythagorus, but we don't count the hypotenuse on the big kids' golf course. 170 yards down the fairway and 100 yards out of bounds to the right does not equal a 270 yard drive. Take your shit to the par-3 course."
You're not very smart. "Fuck you."
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Jason Gore didn't become the darling of the U.S. Open this year because he came out of nowhere to play an amazing couple of rounds on Friday and Saturday on one of the most challenging courses in the world. He captured the imagination of male golf fans because he's short, fat, and balding. He snuck onto the biggest stage of them all not so much through hard work and determination as by swallowing his professional dignity and playing every single tournament on a minor league tour. Buddies hanging out that Saturday afternoon looked at each other and said "hey, we're from Dingleberry, U.S.A! We'll play any tournament that comps our drinks and we sweat profusely upon the slightest hint of humidity! Maybe we can eek out a tour card and make something of our pitiful, meaningless existences!" HIGH-FIVE!
Can it really get anymore depressing for the prospects of male identity and masculinity? Has it really gotten so bad in this country that we have masses of adult men sitting on the edges of their IKEA sofas on Saturday afternoons during the spring and summer pulling desperately for a short fat bald guy who is trying equally desperately not to fuck up? What a great message for American teenagers and adolescents.
Son, go grab your brother and come here for a second. Boys, I know it's tough for you guys right now--having below average intelligence and not a lick of athletic ability--but let me tell you something: I don't want you to worry. You can still be somebody some day. All you have to do is pick something you don't hate that much, do it for long enough without screwing the pooch, and hope that a major television network stumbles onto your story when the people they are really interested in aren't doing much. You can be the next Jason Gore!
Wonderful. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go down in the basement and grab the drainsnake. The American Dream is clogging the shitter again.
Posted by nils at 7:36 AM