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What a tangled Webb we weave
Posted: Friday March 17, 2000 03:12 PM
At the risk of boring you, the faithful reader, with war stories from the front lines of golf journalism, I'd like to tell the tale behind the Karrie Webb feature that appeared in the March 13 issue of SI. Putting this piece together was surely one of the most bizarre, vexing, and, in the end, satisfying experiences I've had. Our story begins nearly a year ago, at last season's Dinah Shore. My colleague John Garrity was on hand for the tournament, which was supposed to be Webb's coronation. She had already won three times to that point in '99, including a record performance at the Australian Masters, when she went 26 under par. In her ascent to the top of the women's game the only thing missing was a major championship. Webb didn't lay an egg at the Dinah, but she never threatened to win, either. She finished in third place, a whopping 11 strokes back of Dottie Pepper . What struck Garrity was how different Webb was than the women who finished in front of her -- the passionate, outspoken Pepper, and the runner-up, Meg Mallon , probably the sunniest, most likeable person in all of golf. In his story Garrity highlighted this dichotomy, and basically asked the question, Can the LPGA thrive if its dominant player is a complete sourpuss? (My word, not his). As most of you have probably ascertained from reading his playful prose in SI and on the website over the past two decades, Garrity is a very gentle soul. As such, his critique was not a rip job but rather a subtle chiding. Nevertheless, Webb was, by all accounts, torqued by the story. She called off a proposed feature that was to have taken Garrity to Australia, where he was supposed to go fishing with Webb and otherwise get to know the "well-guarded fortress" of "her inner self," to quote from his original Dinah Shore piece. As Webb continued to dominate throughout the year she became, unfortunately, too big a story to ignore. Garrity's sloppy seconds were passed on to me over the winter, and I was charged with the unenviable task of making a Webb feature happen.
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This mostly meant a lot of phone calls to the Death Star, a.k.a. IMG headquarters in Cleveland. The early word was not encouraging. Webb was still smarting, and now unwilling to even consider hanging out with any SI type in Australia. In all my pleading with Webb's flacks I kept coming back to one point: I had no interest in writing a negative story about her surliness and media-phobic ways, as was feared. That is all old, old news. I want every story I write to be original, or at the very least to give the readers something they haven't read before. To get to know Karrie a little bit, prod her into talking about the closeness of her family and her interests outside of golf and her hopes and desires within the game -- that's what I wanted. Eventually a compromise was struck with her agent: I would go to the season-opening tournament in West Palm Beach, where a dozen family members were on hand from Oz to celebrate a belated Christmas and root on Webb's parents, who were to be her partners in the pro-am format. This was doable. Karrie's family was crashing at her new house. If I could share in one measly family barbecue, I was pretty sure I could squeeze out a story. The house was declared off-limits to a photographer, but I was told Karrie would otherwise try to be accommodating.
This turned out not to be the case. While she was on the course Webb couldn't prevent me from talking with her assembled family members, and they provided some excellent background. But there would be no barbecue, and not even a one-on-one interview. The trip was a bust, but now I was truly caught in Karrie's web. I had burned a week of the mag's time, to say nothing of the expense of flying to Florida and staying in the Boca Ritz-Carlton. Producing an article was no longer an option; it was a mandate. Before I left Florida I came to the conclusion that only a trip to Webb's hometown of Ayr, in North Queensland, Australia, could salvage the story, even if she wasn't there. I spoke at some length with her mother, Evelyn, and the trip was agreed upon.
Three weeks later I touched down in Melbourne, to hang out with Aaron Baddeley and his family. They were lovely people, and couldn't have been more helpful. On my final morning in Melbourne, a Thursday, I called Evelyn to confirm my arrival in Ayr the next afternoon, two connections and four hours by air, plus an hour's drive. Evelyn said that would no longer work. She and her husband, Rob, were going away for the weekend, and would be unavailable. "Uh, you realize I came halfway around the world," I said. Yes she did. Feeling rather pushy, I asked when they were heading out of town. She said Friday evening. Fine, I said, I'll catch a 6:30 a.m. flight and be there by lunchtime. Ev didn't sound thrilled, but what she could she say now? I was told to call when I arrived in Ayr.
Which I did. Evelyn, for murky reasons, wouldn't allow me to come over to the family's house (a veritable warehouse of Karrie memorabilia, I'd been told) but she agreed to a half hour driving tour of the town later in the afternoon. Take it or leave it, her tone said. I was utterly mystified at the treatment. Until, that is, I logged onto my email, where there was an inflammatory missive from Karrie's agent, overly punctuated with nine question marks and four exclamation points (I know because I have preserved the contents on my hard drive, for morale reasons). The email solved the riddle -- unbeknownst to me, Karrie was, at that very moment, also in Ayr, relaxing in advance of the Australian Open with her friend Kelly Robbins . Hence the mysterious blowoff by her mother (who must've gotten the date mixed up when we spoke in Florida, hence all the confusion). When Evelyn picked me up at my hotel neither she nor I mentioned Karrie's presence a quarter of a mile away. Very weird. After the whirlwind drive-by she dumped me off back at my room. Shortly thereafter the family roared out of town, Karrie no doubt hiding in the backseat.
Being unchaperoned for the weekend had its advantages. I hung out at Ayr Golf Club, ate at the fast-food shop Evelyn used to run, bought souvenirs at the toy store founded by Karrie's grandparents, interviewed the mayor and other randoms, poked around her old high school and the house she grew up in, etc., etc. By the time I left town I had plenty of good material.
Upon my return to California I banged out the Baddeley feature. The Webb piece wasn't due for another week, but two days later Karrie beat her rival Annika Sorenstam in a taut playoff in Hawaii, making her four-for-four in 2000. Once again, the story was too big to ignore. My phone rang around 6 p.m. that Saturday. The Mrs. and I were slicked out and literally walking out the door for an evening of bar-hopping on the Sunset Strip. We were going to crash at my sister's in West Hollywood and then hear one of our favorite writers speak Sunday afternoon at UCLA. Goodbye weekend plans.
The grand pooh-bahs wanted the Webb feature Monday morning -- 36 hours away -- so they could slam it in the mag. Because my sis was only home for a short while from a lengthy work project in Zurich, we still blazed up to El Lay for dinner and a quick visit. I came home, went to sleep for a while, then got up early Sunday morning and started pounding, not finishing until the wee hours of Monday morning.
The story was greeted with a certain enthusiasm later that morning, and instead of running big in the Golf Plus section, as planned, it was dropped in the national book. This was both good and bad -- it meant a larger readership, but a smaller story. I spent most of Monday shortening the piece (akin to sawing off your own fingers with a dull butter knife). All the pictorial and graphic elements were pulled together in a mind-bending 12 hours, before the issue was beamed to the printers Monday evening.
The kicker? Upon returning from Australia I called Karrie's agents to try to mend fences, and to request a silly little phone interview with their Garbo-esque client. I'm still waiting to hear back.
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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