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Fond memories of the Beach
Posted: Wednesday June 14, 2000 05:01 PM
PEBBLE BEACH -- I rolled into town a bit too late Monday night to make my way over to Pebble Beach Golf Links, but no big deal. I already know the course well enough, having strolled it a couple of times a week for the past 10 years. You see, when I have trouble falling asleep I simply close my eyes and play Pebble Beach in my mind. I find this is so relaxing that I rarely make it to the back nine. As some of you may already know, I have a long history with Pebble. For three summers while I was in college I worked at the storied links as a customer service representative (those less delicate with the language might refer to my former position as a "cart boy"). This was, quite simply, the coolest job in the world. I had a backstage pass to all the comings and goings at the world's most famous golf course. In some small way, I was part of the scene, too. Famous names with forgettable games, inspired dreamers, well-heeled locals -- they all made the pilgrimage to Pebble, and I was there to greet them, wet rag in hand. Two times a week I had an opening shift, which meant arriving at the course half an hour before sunrise. I would scream down 17-Mile Drive in my trusty Jetta, tires squealing all the way, drinking hot chocolate, stuffing my face with English muffins and trying to dodge the occasional deer. The scary thing is that I was never the first person at the course. There were always a handful of hopefuls already queued for the waiting list, breathing great billows of steam into the frigid air. To these people I represented salvation, which always made for some very warm hellos. When I had a closing shift I would be at the course until well after dark. I
almost always made a point of heading down to Stillwater Cove to watch the
sunset (not to mention spur on the last stragglers taking pictures on the 18th
green). In the slow moments of the early evening my colleagues and I would step
behind the cart barn, adjacent to the ladies' tee and have long-drive contests
down the first fairway. Either that or spill Armor All on the barn floor and
spin donuts in our E-Z-Gos.
On some afternoons I was given the coveted duty of Box Jockey, a.k.a. the starter. By that point in the afternoon there would be a waiting list as long as my, uh, arm, and I was in the God-like position of determining who would get to play, and who would spend the rest of their lives bitter and alone. It was a high-wire act, which crackled with the possibilities of an IPO and the dangers of air-traffic control. The power trip was insane. Here I was, a punk 19-year-old kid, being propositioned by CEOs bearing handfuls of Cecils (cart boy-speak for $100 bills). Every time I sneaked a foursome on the course I pretty much paid for a quarter's worth of textbooks. Of course there were always stars of varying magnitudes on the grounds. One morning I happened to be dropping off some guys at the driving range when a helicopter touched down on the adjacent polo grounds. I gunned my van over just in time to pick up four-fifths of the Atlanta Braves pitching staff, playing hooky from a night game against the Giants. Actors, rock stars, All-Stars -- the parade of fabulousness never ceased. On another memorable occasion Nike was having a retreat in Carmel Valley for its big endorsers, and three of the boys came over to the Beach to tee it up -- Michael Jordan, Charles Barkley and David Robinson. They picked up a stray as a fourth -- Reggie Jackson, who lives locally. Barkley was the first to arrive and, having been tipped off by the head pro about the impending arrival of this famous foursome, I was there to greet him. Spying a horde of camera-toting Japanese tourists, he asked me if there was a private spot where he could hang out. I took him through the back door of the pro shop, strutting like Vince Vaughn as he made his way through the kitchen of the Derby in Swingers. Chuck and I hung out in the bowels of the pro shop for about 15 minutes, and I'll never forget his pained expression when I expressed by desire to become a sportswriter. At some point Barkley mentioned that he could use a couple of Diet Cokes. I told him that across the street, at the Chevron, there was a vending machine. From his pocket he produced a brick of Cecils and shot me an apologetic look. No problemo, I said, and hustled across the street, purchasing two cans with my own cantaloupe-sized wad of soiled tip money. Barkley chugged the sodas with gusto, but moments later MJ arrived and all hell broke loose. Next thing I knew Barkley was strolling down the first fairway, without affording me so much as a goodbye wave. Sir Freakin' Charles still owes me a buck fifty. For all the hijinks and jock-sniffing, the best part of my job was getting to play Pebble pretty much whenever I pleased. Me and the boys from the shop would tee it up after the opening shifts, and we roamed around the course like we owned the place, skipping holes, playing some twice, or even birthing our own holes, like playing from two tee to three green, a sharply doglegged par-5. On occasion we would be granted the divine privilege of the day's first tee time, when putts would cut a swath through the morning dew on the greens. I often hit balls or engaged in high-stakes putting contests on my lunch break. In short, I pretty much learned to play golf at Pebble Beach. I feel more comfortable playing golf there than anywhere else, so I tend to play better. It has been seven years since I last donned my logoed khaki pants-white-shirt-blue-sweater uniform, but I still consider Pebble to be my home course. Coming back to the Beach is always a little nostalgic for me. I remember Tom Kite, after he won the '92 Open, said something to the effect that from that moment on, everywhere he went he would be carrying a little piece of Pebble Beach with him. I know exactly how he feels. Of course, I've also got a logoed key chain, just to be safe.
Sports Illustrated golf writer Alan Shipnuck will take you On Tour each Wednesday at golfplus.cnnsi.com. Click here to send Alan a question or a nice, friendly comment.
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