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Weird vibes from Valderrama
Updated: Friday November 10, 2000 2:00 PM
SOTOGRANDE, Spain, 6:24 in the morning -- This world tour business takes its toll. After tossing and turning for the better part of the last hour, I decided to drag my sorry, jet-lagged bum out of bed, hoping to find comfort in a mini-bar Kit Kat and all my friends among the On Tour readership. I arrived here at Valderrama around lunchtime on Thursday, after a 24-hour travel odyssey that has definitely made me more sympathetic to all those whiny Yanks who cited the hardships of traveling as the reason for not playing here. (Although, I must say, it's worth traveling all the way to Spain just for the stewardesses of Iberian Airlines). Anyway, following a four-hour nap yesterday afternoon and a five-course supper, I finally moseyed over to the course. By now it was eerily dark and deserted. I hadn't been back to Valderrama since the '97 Ryder Cup, and I felt like I was trespassing on a Civil War battleground, with all of its ghosts and age-old grievances. Strolling the grounds brought back so many memories from that epic Ryder Cup -- saucy señoritas chanting Olé every time an American missed a putt, the clubhouse paella, even Tom Lehman threatening to knock my block off (I had written a snarky column calling the U.S. team over-hyped and overrated, and predicting it would choke yet again; apparently the players passed it around the Concorde in some kind of misguided motivational attempt).
After looting the press room, I decided to stroll around the darkened course, just for kicks. I was about three steps down the 18th fairway when an armed cop halted my progress, barking at me in Spanish. Clearly this was not a time to test global recognition of a PGA Tour press pass. I meekly headed back to my hotel, to catch up on my reading. Since I still have to write a game story about the AmEx Championship, I'm not at liberty to reveal too many of my deep thoughts on the comings and goings here, but I will say this -- it's a pretty weird vibe. Take away Tiger and it's basically a Euro tour event with an inflated purse. And yet the PGA Tour is doing its damnedest to try to add gravitas to the proceedings, including an appearance by Tim Finchem on Friday afternoon, when he is sure to dodge questions about Tiger's recent sabre-rattling. There is a sense of desperation from the Tour, as if it feels the World Golf Championships are rapidly losing their credibility. More on that later. I'm also pretty jazzed about the tight race for the Euro tour's Order of Merit. Clark, Westwood, Bjorn and Monty all have a shot this week ( Ernie Els did, too, until he blew out his back and had to WD in the middle of the first round), and all are good for hot copy. It's fun to feel a sense of drama and uncertainty at a golf tournament again. Tiger has pretty much leached that out of the U.S. tour. As for the tournament at hand, when Nick Price putts like this, look out. I could see him running away with it. However, as I look out my hotel window it's blowing a gale, and if the wind holds up, expect the scores to soar. Apropos of nothing, I thought I'd share the little adventure that preceded my trip over here, the annual golf "editorial meeting," where we get together and kick around ideas on how we can better service the readers (uh, perhaps I should rephrase that). This time we assembled at Cherokee Plantation, outside Atlanta. I had to blow out of there early, and thus only got to play one round of golf with the boys -- a fivesome that included Jaime Diaz<, John Garrity, Gary Van Sickle, and SI's golf editor, Jim Herre . Frickin' Van Sickle made four bogeys and still dropped a 69 on us, though Long John stole some of his thunder by holing out a 125-yard pitching wedge from the deep rough on the 18th hole for a rousing eagle that saved he and Jaime and I a small fortune. All in all, it was a productive get-together, though I failed in my lobbying efforts to get a regular feature Tour Wife of the Month pictorial. From Cherokee, I made the long drive to Atlanta, then flew to New York, then on to Madrid, then to Malaga, which left me a long drive along the coast to Sotogrande. I must say, recounting this exhausting journey has made me rather sleepy (no doubt it's having the same effect on all of you out there as well). I think it's time to lie down and play Pebble in my head. I'll let you know what I shoot next week.
Sports Illustrated golf writer Alan Shipnuck will take you On Tour each week at golfplus.cnnsi.com. Click here to send Alan a question or a nice, friendly comment.
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