Why should today be any different? I’m just grateful there’s no water nearby. After replacing the divot, Williams leaves the bag in the fairway and stalks back toward me, and when he gets about halfway, I turn off my microphone so as to make my dressing-down a little less public. Williams doesn’t stop until he is a tap-in from my face.
“Who are you?” asks Williams.
“Travis McKinley, nice to meet you.”
“First day on the job?”
“Sixth, but let’s not split hairs.”
“If you ever screw up like that again or do anything to disturb Tiger, I will take that microphone and shove it up your ass.”
“Thanks, Steve, I appreciate the heads-up.”
As Williams stalks back to his bag, Nantz is in my right ear.
“What was that all about, Travis?”
“Steve was taking a moment to welcome me to the PGA Tour.”
“Really? And how about that finger in your chest?”
“He was just flicking off a crumb from lunch.”
28
I PEEL BACK THE aluminum wrapper and inhale the bracing bouquet. After a weekend of golf whispering, I need an antidote, a whiff of reality, a pungent reminder of who I am and where I come from, and what’s more real than a Pink’s Chicago Polish dog? Not much. At least not in West Hollywood.
I’m working my way through dog #1, savoring every molecule of sodium nitrate and phosphate, as well as my Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda, when an eruption of squeals compels me to glance up from my tray. Crowding my table are three women not much younger than me, which seems mature considering the girlish pitch.
“No way,” says their ringleader, “you’re Travis McKinley. I saw you this afternoon with Tiger’s caddy. That was hysterical. Do you mind if we take a picture of the four of us? We’re huge golf fans.”
“Okay,” I say, and stand awkwardly among them while they enlist a fifth to capture the moment on film.
“What he’s really like?” asks one of the others.
“Who?”
“Tiger, of course.”
“I have no idea. I’m not even sure he knows. Or cares.”
“Is he full of himself?”
“He kind of deserves to be, don’t you think? He’s twenty-five and the best golfer who ever lived.”
“I guess so,” she says.
Vaguely disappointed, the three wander out of the backyard. When they’re safely out of sight, I return to my food, but a little bit of the Pink’s magic is gone. In four years as a touring pro I was approached by strangers exactly three times, and in each case, I got an enormous kick out of it. Being recognized for something I was proud of made me feel great, but being cooed over for my work as a golf commentator is not nearly as gratifying. In fact, it feels like being busted. And no sooner do I return to my meal than I’m approached by another stranger, this time male. He wears a puzzled expression, and my first impression is that he’s lost and needs directions.
“Do I know you?” he asks.
“Have you spent time in Winnetka, Illinois?”
“No.”
“Probably not, then.”
“You look very familiar.”
“I’ve got a common face.”
“No. I’m sure I recognize you.”
“I used to be a professional golfer.”
“Did you play on the regular tour?”
“The Senior Tour.”
“I don’t follow the Seniors. Too much of a yawn. I only watch the regular tour.”
“Can’t blame you for that. They’re a lot better.”
“That’s where I saw you. You’re an announcer.”
“Sometimes.”
“One question.”
“Okay?”
“What’s Tiger really like?”
“He’s a complete and utter asshole.”
“I knew it! I just knew it! Thanks a lot. By the way, what’s your name?”
“David Feherty. That’s F-e-h-e-r-t-y.”
29
THE NEXT MORNING, I get up at 6 a.m. and drive thirty miles to a scruffy public course in Encino. When someone finally arrives to open the pro shop up, I pay for two large buckets and carry them out to the far end of the range, where a couple of tufts of grass still cling to the dusty dirt. For the first time in nearly two months I hit golf balls.
To my surprise and relief, my tryout has not been a disaster. I understand the game and am capable of the occasional insight and witty retort, but there’s a fundamental problem, which I have only become fully aware of in the last few days. I don’t really like to talk, certainly not as a vocation, and when I do, half the things that slip out of my mouth make me cringe. What scares me is that pretty soon, I’ll stop cringing, and without even noticing cross over from professional athlete to professional bullshitter. That’s why I’m so relieved to be hitting scuffed range rocks into the dusty featureless scrub, not thinking about anything except the sound of the ball hitting the club face.
For an hour, I have the entire crappy range to myself and couldn’t be happier. Then a second pilgrim emerges from the pro shop. Along with his bucket, he carries a beat-up Sunday bag containing half a dozen mismatched forged irons and an even more obsolete Ben Hogan persimmon driver. Strapped to his bag with a pair of bungee cords is an ancient boom box, and Sinatra’s “Nice ’n’ Easy” is pouring out of it.
Although the entire space between me and the pro shop is empty, he walks all the way to my end of the range and sets up camp just past me on the last little piece of dirt to my left. He drops his bag, does a handful of yoga-looking stretches, then removes his clothes piece by piece until all he is wearing are golf shoes, socks, and a green Speedo. “I hate golfer’s tan,” he says, as if that’s the only explanation required.
I handle his arrival in the same way I would if trapped beside a psychiatric outpatient on a bus or elevator. I avoid eye contact and pretend he isn’t there, but the sound of his ball striking is too pure to resist a glance. His mind may not be sound, but his swing is perfect. I’ve spent the last six weeks observing up close the best golfers on the planet, and his swing is as good as any of them. Maybe better. At every point in the arc, his club is exactly where it should be, and unlike with many golfers, even top pros, it arrives there naturally without last-second compensations or adjustments. And for someone in his late fifties, he hits it a ton.
I return my attention to my own swing, which feels flimsy and threadbare by comparison. After about ten minutes, I notice that my neighbor has taken a break. “I see you’re having a little problem with your tempo,” he says. “Frank isn’t for everyone.” He ejects the Sinatra cassette and pops in Bob Marley, and soon “No Woman No Cry” blasts out of the plastic speaker. “Try that.”
I do. And he’s right…on both counts. I am struggling with my tempo and the Wailers help. You may not be able to dance to reggae, but you can hit golf balls to it. The prominent bass lubricates your turn and makes it easier to sync the lower body and the arms. As we say on air, it’s something you amateurs might want to try at home.
Twenty minutes later, he stops again. “Do you mind if I watch you hit a few?” Nearly half a century of experience and instinct suggests I should resist random input from a stranger, particularly one rocking a green Speedo, but he was right about the tempo and he was right about the reggae and I can see all too well that he doesn’t have golfer’s tan. “You got a nice little move,” he says finally.
“You mean tight? Constricted? Constrained?”
“What the hell is wrong with you? I mean simple, efficient, repeatable. Don’t ever change it. Have some faith in it. Invest in it. And FYI, you shouldn’t be out here at the end of a range in Encino with a lunatic like me. You should be playing pro golf.”
“So should you.”
“Well, we’re not talking about me now, are we?”
“I did…on the Senior Tour,” I say. “I just lost my card.”
“I’m talking about the real tour. Why s
pend your precious time playing with a bunch of old men? All that proves is who has happened to age a little better or who responds better to Advil.”
“I had enough trouble with my contemporaries.”
“Well, perhaps you need to raise your standards. In the meantime, word to Mother: go back to the beginning.” And before I can ask him what he means and how I should get there, he starts to pack up.
“Travis McKinley,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”
“Seamus O’Casey. My pleasure. Keep it real.”
Seamus’s endorsement bolsters my confidence, and working on my game makes me feel like I haven’t given up the ghost quite yet, that at least in some small way, I’m still a golfer and not just a golf whisperer. The next morning, I postpone my flight so I can work on it some more before returning to the arctic Midwest. Like yesterday, I arrive before the range opens and once again have it to myself until the familiar figure of O’Casey emerges from the clubhouse. Today, however, he carries himself differently, more formally, and it’s reflected in his attire. He wears khaki trousers and a white polo shirt with a pink sweater draped over his shoulders, an ensemble that would pass muster at the snootiest country club, and there’s no sight or sound of the boom box. Perhaps he’s had a difficult evening, because he barely acknowledges me and when I say good morning, doesn’t respond.
A few minutes later, when I brace myself and glance over my shoulder, I see that his stretching routine is new and apparently he is no longer hung up on golfer’s tan because he hasn’t removed a stitch. The swing, however, is just as pure and silky, although something is different and it’s so fundamental it takes some time to realize what it is. He’s hitting left-handed. Apparently, he doesn’t just have one of the best swings in the world. He has two and they’re mirror opposites. I stop hitting balls and gawk in amazement.
“Hey, pal, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Seamus, I can’t believe how well you hit it left-handed.”
“Do I know you?”
“Seamus, it’s Travis. We met yesterday.”
“My name isn’t Seamus. It’s Sean. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
30
IN EARLY MARCH, THE PGA caravan rolls into Coral Springs for the start of the Florida swing. It’s my first event without Tiger in the field, and the buzz of anticipation that filled the air in La Jolla and Los Angeles is gone. The same tractor-trailers, production trucks, and high-tech vans fill the parking lot, but the gaffers, electricians, and production assistants coming in and out of them move with less urgency, and at our pre-pro meeting, the torpor recalls a midafternoon high school study hall. I half expect Nantz and Venturi to start firing spitballs at each other.
“If a tree falls on a golf course, and Tiger isn’t there to hear it, did it happen?” asks Feherty, staring soulfully into the distance, and McCord jerks his chin off his chest like a man startled awake by his own snoring. “Did David just say something profound? Or was I dreaming?”
“It’s not funny,” says Kearns, “and unless we can drum up some interest, the only noise we’ll hear is the sound of people reaching for their remotes and turning the channel. If anyone has any ideas—any serious ideas—about how we can hang on to our viewers, please share them.”
Kearns’s call for seriousness makes the atmosphere around the table seem even more like high school, and for the next couple of minutes the most famous announcers and commentators in golf stare sheepishly at their hands. Everyone except me, because unlike my neighbors, I’m sitting on an idea. I just don’t want to voice it. In fact, I have resisted disclosing it for several days.
“Hugo Caldecker,” I say. As soon as the name is out of my mouth, I regret it, but when neither Kearns nor anyone else at the table responds, I keep right on talking. “Caldecker,” I explain, “is a thirty-two-year-old former All-American playing this week on a sponsor’s exemption. What makes his story unusual is that four years ago, his right leg was amputated from the knee down, and very few people are aware of it.”
The only reason I happen to know is that Caldecker and I both played our college golf for Northwestern and I heard about the accident from my former college coach, Ted Winsky. Winsky told me that Caldecker is determined not to publicize his handicap, so I know he is the last person who would want his courage and determination lauded on network TV. He has declined interviews even from his small-town local weekly.
Unfortunately, Caldecker is the only ammunition I’ve got, and as someone two-thirds of the way through a six-week tryout whose outcome is far from certain, I don’t have the character not to use it. If this tryout doesn’t pan out, what are my options? Become a teaching pro at a country club? Not with my social skills. Open my own driving range and go into competition with Big Oaks? I don’t even know how to balance a checkbook. Partner up with Louie and start Louie and Travis Dog Walkers? Of the three ideas, that may be the least farfetched, no pun intended, and anything is preferable to going back to The Journey of a Journeyman.
Upon hearing the first details of Caldecker’s story, Kearns snaps to attention. His eyes, which are always held wide open, widen further and his cheeks redden, and watching Kearns become a fuller, more vivid version of himself confirms my misgivings.
“This is wonderful,” says Kearns so softly he seems to be talking to himself. “A gift from the universe. McKinley, you’re going to cover every swing and step Caldecker takes, and we’re going to milk this story for every last drop of emotion and pathos.” To underline his point, he holds his small fists together and twists them in opposite directions, as if wringing the water from a sopping towel. “Let’s just hope to Christ he makes the cut.”
31
ON THURSDAY MORNING, CALDECKER, Ted Tryba, and Tommy Tolles have a 7:18 tee time. Other than Caldecker’s wife and young son, the only people waiting to see them off are me and my cameraman Mike Blundell. Although TV coverage won’t start until Saturday, we will be following him for thirty-six holes, gathering material that could be useful for the weekend. Tryba and Tolles react to our presence with mild curiosity and surprise, Caldecker with a wry smile.
Caldecker has retaught himself to walk so well that the difference in his gait is barely perceptible. As he steps to the blue markers and plants his tee in the manicured turf, his strides are brisk and fluid and so are his practice swings. What distinguishes him is his face, a creased map of all he’s been through, the strength he has derived from it as well as the cost. It’s the kind of face you rarely come across on the PGA tour, and although all three players are about the same age, Tryba and Tolles seem childlike by comparison.
Caldecker is also the most nervous of the three because he has the most at stake this morning. As someone with no status on tour who got into the field on a sponsor’s exemption, the pressure to take advantage of his rare opportunity is enormous. Under the circumstances, Caldecker and his game hold up well.
Determined to avoid the big number, he plays more conservatively than his playing partners and churns out one carefully plotted par after another, and his one-under-par 71 puts him smack in the middle of the field. So far at least, his leg does not appear to be a factor.
Friday brings more of the same. Caldecker continues to play within himself, finding the fairways off the tee and the center of the greens on his approaches. Fortunately, he makes a couple more putts, and after 14, he is three under for the day, four under for the tournament. For the second day in a row, the leg appears to be less of an issue than the usual rookie tensions, but as they leave 15, his caddy has to wait for him to catch up and both Blundell and I can see the strain in his eyes. Over the next three holes, Caldecker and his caddy walk slower and slower, and on 18, with the clubhouse in sight, Caldecker limps noticeably for the first time in the tournament. Nevertheless, his 68, and two-day today total of 139, put him comfortably inside the cutline and ensure he will be around for the weekend, and the only one as relieved as Caldecker is Kearns.
When he walks
off 18, Blundell and I intercept him for a brief interview to be aired the next day. “Congratulations, Hugo, on two solid rounds of golf. How does it feel,” I ask, “after all you’ve been through, to finally make your first PGA cut?”
The phrase “all you’ve been through” elicits the same wry smile I saw on the first tee. If he had any doubts as to why CBS would assign a crew to cover the first thirty-six holes of an unknown rookie playing on a sponsor’s exemption, they have just been erased.
“Relieved,” he says. “I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to do this again.”
“Until the last couple of holes, you were moving well, but you seemed in some discomfort on the last few holes. How much was the leg bothering you today?”
“I’m not going to talk about the leg,” says Caldecker, and brings the interview to an abrupt close. He pivots and limps off, but before he steps into the scorers’ tent, he turns back and offers one last withering glance.
32
WHEN CBS GOES ON air at 3 p.m. on Saturday, Caldecker’s group has reached the 7th tee. Making the cut has freed him up to finally fire at some pins, and three quick birdies have vaulted him from thirty-second place, where he began his day, to fifteenth. After Caldecker hits a solid drive, I introduce him to viewers.
“Since Thursday morning, I’ve been following a special young golfer named Hugo Caldecker. Caldecker played his college golf at Northwestern, where he was a two-time All-American. After graduation, he turned pro and spent the next three years playing the mini-tours in Asia, Australia, and South America. On a rainy night outside Bogotá, Colombia, in February 1995, the car in which he was a passenger slid off the road into a tree. In the next few days, the cut on Caldecker’s right calf became so badly infected, Colombian doctors had to amputate from the knee down. Over the next two years there would be more surgeries and months and months of rehab. He had to learn to walk on his prosthesis and then learn a whole new swing. On Thursday, his leg held up well, but by the end of yesterday’s round he was limping noticeably, and we’ll be looking closely to see how much his leg is bothering him today.”
Miracle at St. Andrews Page 7