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 Late-night fun at the Open
Posted: Thursday June 17, 1999 06:26 PM By Alan Shipnuck PINEHURST, N.C. -- Owing to undisclosed domestic issues and a hellish day of flying, I didn't arrive at the Raleigh-Durham airport until after 11 p.m. Wednesday, and then came the 60-mile drive to Pinehurst. Even for a U.S. Open site, this place is remote. The drive, however, was a pleasure. I found a college rock station on the radio that was spinning propulsive old-school industrial music (think Kraftwerk) and the sky that I was driving into was a crazy kaleidoscope of colors, thanks to the lightning storms and monsoons that have doused the area over the last couple of days. For much of the drive the clouds were the color of orange Gatorade -- it was a transporting experience, reminiscent of my undergraduate days. Now, rolling into a tournament site 'round about midnight would ordinarily put a crimp on one's reporting, but not during the week of the Open, when everyone is wired. I was at the check-in counter of my Cubicle by Marriott when one of my favorite colleagues, Yi-Wyn Yen , stormed out of the bar and gave me a running hug. Yi-Wyn ("EE-win"), of The ( Newark) Star-Ledger , is one of my few fellow writers under the age of 30, and she has that saucy Chinese chick thing going that you may recall from that old Seinfeld episode. Anyway, after a couple of phone calls, we hooked up with a pair of Sports Illustrated photo cronies and rolled towards town. Our destination was the Pine Crest Inn, ground zero for the week's proclivities. At this point we must pause for a few tips from the yardage guide. You need to know that there are two Pinehursts -- the stately Pinehurst Resort and Country Club, and the Village of Pinehurst, a charming little town of about 8,000. The village and the resort have a complicated, symbiotic relationship that is best described as love-hate. This week only the tourists and the uptight USGA types will hang out around the resort. The cool people, which is to say, the golf writers, much prefer the scruffier, more mellow vibe of the village, especially the Pine Crest, which was built and operated by no less a personage than Dr. Donald Ross back in the 1920s. His spirit still looms over the place, thanks to the large portrait of Ross over the fireplace and a chipping course set up in the lobby. On a normal evening crossing the lobby entails dodging the shanked 7-irons and salty oaths of the inevitable gathering of sunburned drunks who make the place so much fun. Tonight the scene reminded me of Sunset Strip, where I did a bar crawl last Saturday night. The music was blaring, and the crush of well-coiffed people had spilled across the large porch, into the street, and onto the upstairs balconies. Escorting my corporate Amex to the bar I bumped into half the membership of the Golf Writers Association of America. They got me caught up. Some of the boys had walked with Ernie Els during Wednesday's practice round, and he was by all accounts crushing the ball and displaying an unusually determined game face. Tiger Woods was also said to be looking locked and loaded, though he was having less success solving the riddle of how to negotiate the greens. David Duval was acting churlish and irritable about all the questions regarding his teapot injury, and claiming it will have no effect on how he plays. Then why did he have a bunch of right-hand gloves shipped in? The rain has softened the course and taken much of its teeth, but after some Thursday showers the weather is supposed to be sunny and hot again. Hopefully, by Saturday No. 2 will be playing as hard and as fast as everybody wants it to (except the players). In the meantime, expect some surprisingly low scores. So, having drank in all this information, among other things, we stumbled out of the Pine Crest around 1:30 and headed to nearby Southern Pines in search of what must be the only 24-hour grub spot in all of North Carolina. This place put the grease in greasy spoon, but at least the waitresses upheld the post-midnight tradition and were shamelessly flirty. At least, I thought they were. Maybe that Belgian waffle with strawberries, banana and extra whipped cream went to my head. As I write these words the clock in my room reads 2:53. The first round starts in four hours, and I'll be there when the gun goes off. Sometimes you gotta play hurt. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer. Alan Shipnuck is a Sports Illustrated staff writer.
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