Considering a Day Trip(s) to the U.S. Open

Ah, Pebble Beach…the greatest meeting of land, water, and unadulterated greed. As we prepare for this week’s United States Open, to be held at the venerable Pebble Beach Golf Links, imagine the following exchange taking place in a bedroom near a master bath....
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“Hi honey, I’m home!” says husband to wife.

“You’re late dear!” says wife to husband. “I tried to call you but your phone just went to voicemail. I was worried sick! Did you have to work late again?”

“No dear,” says husband, “remember, I went to the U.S. Open today. We discussed that this morning at 3:57 a.m. while I was leaving for the airport.”

“Oh that’s right sweetie,” says wife, “You’ll have to forgive me, my Advil P.M. was still hard at work keeping me comatose when you kissed me goodbye. That seems like yesterday!”

“Well, sweet cakes, that’s because it was yesterday,” says husband. “It’s now 1:45 a.m. on Friday. Yesterday was mostly Thursday!

“Why, I declare,” says wife to husband, “I guess it is Friday. At least you can sleep-in tomorrow and go to work late.” (The wife’s voice fades as the husband steps in the shower near the master bath)

The husband eventually emerges from the shower, shaves, and puts on new golf attire. “Honey, I’m off again to the Open. I’ll be home again in about 22.5 hours. Would you mind washing this plaid Izod outfit you bought me at the thrift store? I want to wear it again Saturday.”

“Saturday?!” The wife sits bolt upright in bed. “What do you mean Saturday?” Her slumber is now supplanted by slow burning but accelerating wrath.

“Would you rather I wore it Sunday? I can wear the argyle Satur-“

“Sunday?!?” The wife gasps. “But that’s Father’s Day! You were supposed to assemble the grill we bought you then cook for the neighborhood!”

“Darling, we’ve been over this a thousand times. I’m commuting this year to the United States Open. I went to great lengths to explain this to you while you were alphabetizing the spices a few weeks ago.” The husband reaches into his briefcase to reveal a camouflage dossier and travel itinerary. “Once again, our recreation budget would not allow me to book an affordable hotel room within 100 miles of the Monterrey Peninsula. I had two free flights on Southwest and found deals on two other airlines for $300 each—round trip. One night at the Monterey Marriott is $757.78. I sleep about as well on the plane as I would at the Marriott. So…I’m commuting. Now give me a big smooch and fry a couple of eggs over easy…please honey lover?!”

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If the above scenario seems far-fetched, think again. If this story’s dialogue seems slightly over-the-top, you’re right. But only the wife’s anger at her husband has been embellished under the umbrella of “literary license.”

You see, golf fans everywhere who would like to attend this great golf tournament are being forced to reconsider because of the outlandish and opportunistic price gouging perpetrated by the hospitality industry in and around Pebble Beach and the larger Monterey/Carmel/Pacific Grove area of California. Even thought tickets to the event are reasonable and at least three airports—San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose—offer travelers reasonable airfares, the tournament attendee is slapped in the face when attempting to find a room—any room— in an inn.

Even rooms at Motel 6, the brand whose spokesman Tom Bodett promises to “leave the light on” for you, have been going for rates exceeding $300 per night. So much for “economy lodging.”

So why wouldn’t an astute golf fan consider community to the Open to avoid paying these outrageous room charges and their accompanying “hospitality taxes?” I believe the idea has merit.

Originally at this point in this “essay” we had planned to demonstrate the infinite wisdom demonstrated by commuting to Pebble Beach this year. However, in the interest of sound journalism we must confess that the idea has a few holes. Not the least of which we’ve discovered is traffic, drive time, traffic, unprecedented inconvenience, and the lack of a direct flight from Kansas City International to Pebble Beach’s number 1 Fairway.

So I’ll leave it to Michael Lewis (The Blindside, Moneyball) to research the market inefficiencies of commuting to Pebble Beach from Garden City, Missouri. For now, we’ve done our job. We’ve floated the idea out there for the general public and academia to digest.

Thus, instead of flying home tomorrow night after Day 1's competition, we'll just sing to our GPS System: Do you know the way to San Jose?

Tom Watson: Some Final Thoughts

I exchanged emails Monday with my friend Allen Reed from Lawrence, Kansas. The topic was of course Tom Watson and the beauty of what he had accomplished over the weekend in Scotland. It seemed like for both Allen and me, Tom Watson's effort had rekindled passions and emotions for sports which had at some level subsided as we've gotten older.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about Watson's run at the Open Championship was the way it bridged generations. When we talk to our sons and daughters about great athletes of our youth, we typically have to compare them with a modern-day athlete for a frame of reference. We may tell our children about Bret Saberhagen or Steve Busby and make comparisons with say, Zack Greinke . They may ask us if Len Dawson was better than Trent Green and we try to frame the greatness we witnessed in our youth against something they can grasp today.

But last weekend, watching the events at Turnberry, it was different. Father and son could both marvel at Watson in real time. It was like I was watching Watson with my 14-year-old as a 14-year-old myself. It was as if my 17-year-old and I were high school golfing buddies both watching our idol at the same time. Imagine watching with your son this coming October as George Brett suits up to go 4 for 4 with a walk-off home run in game 7 of the World Series. Imagine traveling to Arrowhead with your son in January to watch Len Dawson conduct a game-winning drive to beat the Raiders in the AFC championship game. That's what it was like last weekend. We didn't have to tell them how good Watson was. Watson showed them. And he showed them better than our words and stories could have ever done justice.

I think the beauty of what Watson did over the weekend is that he brought each of us back to a time when things were just a little bit simpler. He brought us back to a time that contained the priceless expectations of youth—a time where our tomorrows far outnumbered our yesterdays. And while going there, Watson let me bring my sons along with me.

The Lesson That is Tom Watson

The numbing sadness of Tom Watson's playoff loss to Stewart Cink in the Open Championship has not yet begun to subside. For a little over three days we dared to dream what was not just improbable, but by all accounts impossible. The Kansas Citian's bid to become the oldest major champion in golf, at just shy of 60 years of age, would not have been considered a plausible plot for even a Disney fairy tale. At age 59 (and 300+ days) you're just supposed to show up and give the fans a bit of nostalgia. You're supposed to just show your face so that fathers and grandfathers can point you out and tell their children and grandchildren that you are a living legend standing before them. Then, on Saturday after you've missed the cut, you're supposed to take your place in the broadcast booth and commentate and critique and reminisce.

But Tom Watson was not content to play the role of elder statesman or broadcaster this past weekend at Turnberry Golf Club on the western coast of Scotland. He showed up to compete, and on Thursday he said he felt like he was playing well enough to win. Then, he looked like he could make the cut. Then, he looked like he actually could win. Then, we believed he must win. We dreamed the impossible dream right along with him. And we were swept away by something of which our minds could have never conceived. We were swept away by what seemed like certain destiny, something that we were sure we wouldn't witness again in our lifetimes. As one national writer said yesterday….Watson was on the "precipice of the greatest accomplishment in the history of golf."

But we fell from the precipice into the chasm below as a missed par putt on 18 and four abysmal playoff holes unfolded before us. And our dreams were dashed. And now the pain of what might have been cuts deeper because we dared to dream it. We lament that it would have been better for Watson to have not made the cut. We cry foul. And if we had believed in something that many call the "golf gods," we'd shake our fist at them in anger. We wonder if it would have been better to not have been swept away by the dream in the first place than to awake to its gut-wrenching conclusion.

I must confess that I don't believe in the golf gods. I believe in the one true God that gives and takes away for His good pleasure, and I'm not going to speculate on how much (or if) He cares about golf's major championships. But one thing is certain, on a human level Tom Watson taught us many things over these last few days.

Tom Watson taught us the value of never giving up and of never letting anyone tell you you're too old to play competitively. He taught us the value of staying in good physical condition and of staying sharp mentally. He reminded us that golf is a "gentleman's game" and that one can be the fiercest of competitors while still being an exemplary sportsman. He showed us that golf truly is a "lifetime sport" and can be enjoyed in a multi-generational fashion.

But the lesson that is Tom Watson transcends the golf course. It transcends sports. Watson taught us this week that life is to be lived from the cradle to the grave. He taught us that we should dream big dreams. He taught us to live for as long as we have breath to breathe. Maybe after watching Tom Watson this weekend it will be a little easier to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Maybe we can push through the arthritis or the pulled muscle or other little ailments that have held us back. Maybe someone will start writing that book they've always wanted to write. Maybe someone will take up a new hobby they thought they had been too old to begin. Maybe someone will go back to school to pursue and education they had to put on hold for some reason. Maybe someone with cancer will be inspired the way Watson inspired Seve Ballesteros, who after suffering through four surgeries for a malignant brain tumor, says Watson has caused him to dream of coming back to St. Andrews in 2010 to compete in the Open to thank the fans who've supported him over the years.

There was a little piece of all of us that trod Turnberry's fairways this weekend with Tom Watson. And because of Tom Watson, we can wake up tomorrow morning and dare to dream a little bigger.