Tales from Q School: Inside Golf's Fifth Major

by John Feinstein

  FORSMAN WAS RIGHT. Although every player in the field had some kind of support group—many of them walking the golf course to cheer the players on—the last day of Q School is very personal. Only the players know the hours and hours of work that have gone into getting to this moment—whether it is a twenty-two-year-old doing so for the first time or a forty-seven-year-old hoping to do it one last time.

  Golfers often talk about the hours they spent alone on the putting green as kids and the times they would say to themselves, “This putt is to win the U.S. Open” or “Make this, and we’ll have a new Masters champion.”

  That’s a fantasy lived by a tiny handful of players. For most who become very good players—and no one who reaches Q School finals does so without being a very good player—the real dream is to play on the PGA Tour. If stardom comes with that, it is a huge bonus. Although the image of the PGA Tour is defined by players like Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson, who can afford to fly from event to event on their private planes, the reality is Paul Goydos, screaming into an answering machine in the travel office because he wants to find a way to get home on a Sunday night.

  Goydos has been on tour for fourteen years. He has won twice, first in 1996 at Bay Hill; been back to Q School three times since first getting his card; and been forced to sit out a year after hip and sinus surgery. He has been through a divorce and, at forty-two, has made a good living but is hardly wealthy, even after his win in Hawaii early in 2007.

  His life is a lot closer to what life on the PGA Tour is like than that of Woods or Mickelson or Fred Couples or Davis Love III or Vijay Singh. It may not be exactly what the players going through Q School each year aspire to, but it isn’t that far off. Most would happily sign on the dotted line for fourteen years on tour, more than $5 million in earnings, and two tournament victories. Yet the word often used to describe players like Goydos is “journeyman.” It implies mediocrity, which is ludicrous. To play on the tour consistently for that long, one must be an extraordinary player.

  Casey Martin, who became famous because of his lawsuit against the PGA Tour and managed to make it to the tour as a full-fledged player for one year, has trouble understanding why people look at players on the Nationwide Tour as failures. “Worst case, if you’re on the Nationwide, you’re one of the best 500 golfers in the world,” he said. “If you’re on the PGA Tour with any status at all, you’re one of the top 200. That means you are well within the top 1 percent of people playing golf in the world. In almost any other business, that makes you a superstar—you’re a CEO or some kind of stud at what you do.

  “Not in golf. In golf, you’re a journeyman or a minor leaguer.”

  There were a few players at Orange County National on the first Monday in December who knew what stardom felt like: Larry Mize, certainly; Bob May, briefly; Jay Haas—who wasn’t playing—absolutely. A few others might someday know that feeling: Bill Haas, John Holmes, and Bubba Dickerson all had that kind of buzz. But most just wanted to make a living playing golf.

  They wanted to be Paul Goydos. This was their chance to do it for at least a year and perhaps beyond.

  18

  Hawaii, Here We Come

  IT WAS APPARENT EARLY IN THE DAY that Bob Heintz’s Sunday call—that the number wouldn’t go lower than 12 under, and might very well be 11 or even 10 under—had been a good one. The wind and last-day nerves would see to that. Pace of play had gone from slow to slower to slowest. Players were routinely marking one-foot putts and then looking at them from three sides. The rules officials weren’t even bothering to time them.

  “What’s the point?” Jon Brendle said. “Everyone’s keeping up because everyone’s slow. The last thing you want to do today is put a guy on the clock and have him tell you that’s the reason he missed his card. No one’s going to play in 4:30 today if I go out there with a whip. So unless someone tells me there’s a problem, I’m staying out of the way.”

  Because there were no computerized scoreboards around the golf course, players and spectators used different methods to keep track of what was going on. All discussion focused on two words: “the number.”

  Since no one was policing cell phone use, a lot of people were phoning home, where someone watching on the Golf Channel or sitting at a computer could tell them what the number was at that moment. Donna Caponi, the two-time U.S. Women’s Open champion who was a walking commentator for the Golf Channel, was constantly bombarded with questions as she followed the threesome of Brett Wetterich, Peter Tomasulo, and B. J. Staten around the back nine.

  “I swear, I’m more nervous now watching these guys than when I was playing,” Caponi said at one point. “This is agony.”

  Jay Haas kept calling Jan for updates. He was staying as far from Bill as he possibly could, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible—which was impossible, because every time Bill made or missed a putt, the Golf Channel would cut to a shot of Jay’s reaction. “This keeps up, they’re going to have a shot of me throwing up on camera,” he said, at least half-joking, as Bill struggled to get to the number.

  All day, the number floated. “It’s 10,” Caponi told spectators at one point as she walked past. “But it may go back to 11. Remember, all these guys finish on 18, and it’s playing straight downwind.”

  The 18th on Panther Lake is a par-five that is reachable on most days and was eminently reachable now with the wind blowing out of the west.

  The 10th hole, also a par-five, plays in exactly the opposite direction, meaning the players were dead into the wind and had little chance to reach the green in two. Since the top 42 players in the field had started their last round on the first tee at Panther Lake, they all arrived at the 10th tee, about three hours after they’d started, knowing they had just nine holes left to rise or fall.

  A few of the players, perhaps those in the last two groups, arrived at that tee—which was a long walk from the ninth green—knowing that if they remained standing for the last nine holes, they would have their cards comfortably. A couple, not-ably Johnson Wagner after a front-nine 40, arrived knowing that they had to find a way to go low on the last nine to be one of the anointed.

  Most walked onto the tee—after a quick break to go to the bathroom or grab a drink or a snack—took a deep breath, and realized that, after six days (not to mention the practice rounds), everything they had worked for came down to nine holes.

  Not surprisingly, the Golf Channel had picked the group of Wetterich, Staten, and Tomasulo for Caponi to follow. All three players had started the day right on the number, at 11 under. Each had a story to tell.

  Wetterich was thirty-two and had made it to the PGA Tour three times. The first time, in 2000, he had injured a wrist and had surgery. The second time, in 2002, he had finished 174th on the money list. The third time, in 2005, after making it back by finishing 10th on the Nationwide money list, he made more than $576,000 but had finished 132nd on the money list, thus bouncing him back to Q School. Tour players like to point out that playing on the PGA Tour is one of the few jobs on earth where someone can make more than $500,000 in a year and get fired.

  Staten was twenty-eight, still grateful that his late collapse in Kingwood had not cost him his first trip to the finals. Now he was on the verge of doing something far bigger than making it through second stage. He had played so well in the second, third, and fourth rounds (68–70–65) that not making the PGA Tour would be a huge disappointment. His fifth-round 74 had pushed him back to the cut line and ratcheted up the pressure again.

  “When I first got here, I was hoping to get to the PGA Tour,” Staten said late on Sunday afternoon. “But if you had said to me that I’d be fully exempt on the Nationwide, I’d probably have said, ‘Well, that wouldn’t be too bad.’ Now it would feel like a huge letdown.”

  Tomasulo, the youngest in the group at twenty-four, had never given any thought to anything but a PGA Tour card throughout the week. He had been as consistent as anyone in the field—no round higher than 72, none lower than 68—and
had started the final round brimming with confidence, even sitting squarely on the number.

  The front nine did nothing to change that feeling. Tomasulo turned at one under par, which put him at 12 under, at least one shot inside the number. Wetterich and Staten were both at even par and still 11 under for the week. All three players walked to the 10th tee knowing that if they maintained their current position, they would be members of the PGA Tour before sundown.

  Looking as if he was playing a buck nassau Sunday morning round at home, Tomasulo split the 10th fairway. Because of the wind, the ball landed well short of where most players had been driving the ball throughout the week. Neither Wetterich nor Staten looked nearly as calm, both sending their drives into the right rough—Wetterich with a push, the lefty Staten with a pull.

  Staten’s ball was found quickly, but it took a lengthy search, which included several dozen spectators, before Tom Reilly, Wetterich’s agent, found his ball. “Now that gives new definition to client services,” someone said.

  Wetterich slashed his ball out of the rough and up the fairway. Staten wasn’t nearly as lucky. Trying to play a punch shot from just in front of a small tree, he shanked the ball, sending it dead left—across the fairway, across the rough, and through a low fence running along the left side of the hole. He caught a huge break because there were no out-of-bounds markers.

  “I’m just trying to make it interesting,” Staten said as he marched across the fairway and through the rough to where his ball had finally stopped. He managed to get his third shot onto the fairway.

  Tomasulo had been waiting through all of this. When it was finally his turn, he decided not to go for the green, with bunkers in front and the wind in his face. He hit a routine layup to about 80 yards short of the hole. After Wetterich hit his third shot to about 25 feet and Staten had pitched his fourth to about 15 feet, Tomasulo marched up the fairway to his ball, figuring he was in good position to get up and down for a birdie and put himself at least a couple of shots inside the number.

  As he approached the ball, he saw something he had never seen before in all his years of playing golf: his ball was lying squarely on a loose piece of sod that someone had not replaced after taking a divot.

  “I had no idea how to play a shot like that,” he said later. “Not only had I never hit a shot like it, I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone hit a shot like it. I had no idea what to do.”

  He ended up chunking the ball, leaving it well short of the hole in the high grass in front of the green. All of a sudden, what had appeared to be a fairly easy birdie had become a tough par. His chip from the gunk squirted 12 feet past the hole.

  Wetterich was able to two-putt for par. Both Staten and Tomasulo missed their par putts and walked off the green looking a little bit stunned. Par-fives are supposed to be birdie holes for pros, even when playing into the wind. At worst, if a player hits a poor drive the way Wetterich did, he makes par. A six is unpardonable.

  Tomasulo was shaken, doubt creeping into his mind for the first time all week. Staten was resolute. During the lengthy walk to the 11th tee, he glanced at his longtime teacher, Randy Smith, who simply nodded his head and said, “You’re fine. Keep playing.”

  Smith knew a little bit about pressure. For many years, he had taught Justin Leonard, the 1997 British Open champion. He had walked with Leonard many times during major championships. Now he said softly, “Never felt anything like this. Not during Troon [Leonard’s British Open victory had been at Royal Troon in Scotland], not at any other major. Remember, Justin didn’t have to go to Q School. This is tougher to watch than a major. At least there are four of them every year, not just one.”

  By now, the pace of play had slowed from a crawl to something approaching going backwards. As the three players approached the 11th tee, Fran Quinn, Jeff Overton, and Kevin Johnson were just getting ready to hit their tee shots to the par-three. As a courtesy, they hung back and waited until the players in front of them had hit their shots. Then they sat and waited almost fifteen minutes for the threesome in front to play the hole.

  “The only thing that keeps you sane at that point is that you’ve been playing slow for six days anyway,” Tomasulo said. “But right then and there, I didn’t need to wait. It gave me time to think— which was the last thing I needed at that moment. I needed to just play.”

  By the time it was his turn to hit, Tomasulo had all sorts of dark thoughts racing through his mind: Was the bad break at 10 a harbinger, a sign? He was now at 11 under. Was that the number? Was it 10? Was it 12?

  “All week I’d been in this really good zone, where all I thought about was the next hole, the next shot,” he said. “I lost that for a while after the 10th.”

  The result was an awful tee shot, a three-iron that flew way left of the green. He was fortunate to be able to get his wedge shot over a bunker and onto the green. But his 15-foot par putt slid low for another bogey. Twelve was no better for either Staten or Tomasulo. Staten missed the green, and his chip rolled 10 feet past the hole. From there, he missed. Tomasulo found the green but three-putted from 45 feet. Both men were two over par for the day. More important, they were now at nine under for the tournament, and everyone knew that wasn’t going to be good enough. Wetterich was playing the steadiest golf in the group, making one par after another at a time when par was clearly a very good score.

  As they made the walk to the 13th tee, Donna Caponi walked over to Randy Smith and whispered, “The number’s just gone to 10,” meaning that at that moment, there were fewer than thirty players at 11 under or better. Smith nodded but decided to say nothing to Staten. “No sense putting numbers in his head right now,” he said. “He just needs to play.”

  Almost as if reading Smith’s mind, Staten blasted a perfect drive, hit his second shot to about 18 feet, and drained the putt. “Yes!” he said, pleased to jump off the bogey train with a birdie. Tomasulo had a similar chance to birdie, but his putt did a 360 around the cup and spun out.

  The 14th was another par-five, normally a very good birdie chance. But the hole was 622 yards dead into the wind. Tomasulo almost hit his drive out-of-bounds and had to punch his second shot back to the fairway. He still had more than 200 yards to the green and found the front left bunker. From there he hit a gorgeous shot to four feet and saved par. Staten played the hole straight from the textbook: perfect drive, layup, wedge to eight feet, and a putt that was dead center. He was back at 11 under. Wetterich also made birdie to get to 12 under. Tomasulo looked pale.

  Smith wandered off with his cell phone and called his wife at home for an update. “Exactly thirty guys at 10 as of this moment,” he reported back. “Right now, these guys need to keep the fairway under their feet the rest of the way. In this wind, you miss a fairway, you’re going to be lucky to make par. Look at Peter on that last hole.”

  The players were now smack in the middle of the back nine and could hear occasional cheers from those following the groups ahead and behind them. Smith said that his wife had told him the roar they had just heard behind them probably had come from Bill Haas’s group, which was two holes behind.

  Nerves were clearly frayed as the players waited on the 15th tee, a par-three with water on the left and in front. The last thing anyone wanted to do here was make a fatal mistake—and any mistake would be fatal this late in the day—by going left. Staten, trying to bury any thoughts about the 17th hole in Kingwood, kept his ball safely to the right, just missing the green. He chipped close and made the putt, a three-footer that on most days would be routine. Not on this day. He heaved a big sigh when the ball went in.

  Tomasulo’s tee shot was right at the flag, but it carried 40 feet past the stick. He carefully cozied his putt to 18 inches and happily took par, as did Wetterich.

  Tomasulo was now running out of holes. Wetterich and Staten were relatively comfortable at 12 and 11 under, respectively. Staten was convinced that with the wind up, there was no way 11 wouldn’t make it. “I thought 10 might make it, too,” he
said. “But I didn’t want to take that chance. If I could get to 12, great, but I wasn’t going to do anything crazy to get there.”

  Tomasulo was also thinking that 10 under might be good enough, but if he wanted to be certain, he had to get to 11. As the players made yet another long walk from a green to a tee, they crossed the group of Alex Aragon, Tommy Tolles, and Brett Bingham heading to the seventh tee (having teed off at number 10 to start the day). Aragon’s body language made it clear that he was having a great round. He was walking five steps ahead of everyone and had a big smile on his face.

  “He’s six under for today,” one of the caddies said. “He’s got it to 11.”

  At that moment, Tolles was also making his move, having made four front-nine birdies to get to nine under. As the players and caddies crossed, Aragon’s caddy pumped a fist at Tomasulo. “Come on P.T.,” he said. “You go get ’em.”

  He put out a hand to offer encouragement. Tomasulo never saw him. “If a bomb had gone off at my feet at that moment, I probably wouldn’t have noticed,” Tomasulo said.

  They were now waiting on every tee. Tomasulo knew it was now or never. Both 16 and 18 were downwind. If he could birdie both, he would go to the PGA Tour. His drive found the fairway at 16, and he had only a wedge left to the green. He flipped it to within 10 feet and finally made a putt, earning himself a high-five from Staten, who had safely made par. Wetterich missed the green and bogeyed, so he was now at 11 under, too. Tomasulo was at 10.

  One group was walking off 17 as they approached; another one was waiting. Tomasulo decided to go to the bathroom, if only to kill a little time. Caponi, standing a few yards from the tee watching the players wait, shook her head. “I feel like I’m going to be sick,” she said. “I can’t imagine how they must feel right now.”

  It was a solid twenty minutes before they could take aim at the pin Jon Brendle had predicted would bring someone grief several hours earlier. Tomasulo, with the honor, took a long time deciding between an eight and a nine-iron. He finally decided on the eight to make certain he could get the ball onto the upper plateau of the green. His hope was to start the ball safely to the right of the flag and let the wind move it toward the stick.