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Rocking in Cink at the Mercedes
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN MAUI AND OAHU -- In the last three months I have traveled to Scotland, Spain, Argentina and Australia to cover golf tournaments, but a couple of days ago, at the Mercedes Championships, I saw something so shocking, so unexpected, so indescribable, I am only now beginning to come to grips with it. Brace yourself. I saw, with own two eyes ... drum roll ... Stewart Cink moshing. Allow me to set the scene. Every year at Kapalua the tournament imports a big-name musical group and throws a private concert for the assembled guests. In 1996 Hootie and the Blowfish famously came to town, at the apex of their popularity, and a dozen sodden tour players joined them on stage to mangle a few hits. This year the band was alt-rock poseurs Sugar Ray. (Sadly, the tournament always picks a band that won't offend the country-club sensibilities of all the sponsor's guests, to say nothing of the assembled golfers. The Brian Setzer Orchestra in '99 was a notable exception; it rocked hard.) Though I despise its music, I decided to attend the SR gig, knowing it is always an interesting anthropological experience to see PGA Tour golfers at rock concerts. I would not be disappointed. Standing on the edge of a makeshift dance floor, maybe 20 feet from the stage, I noticed to my immediate right Brad Faxon and Dudley Hart hanging out, squeezes in tow. Faxon was standing behind his wife, doing an awkward white-boy shuffle, while his wife backed that thang up with teeth-rattling ferocity. Still reeling from the sight of that, I then spied the familiar silhouette of a tall, lanky fellow pressed against the stage, surrounded by an army of pretty young things in miniskirts who were all trying to catch the eye of Sugar Ray frontman Mark McGrath. I looked closer, and to my utter astonishment this tall goofball in a bad Hawaiian shirt (tucked in) and loafers was the great man himself, Cink. He had a Vardon grip on his wife, and together they were grooving to the beat with considerable spunk. When the light caught him just so I could make out beads of sweat glistening on Cink's expansive forehead. I was flabbergasted. Who knew that beneath Cink's milquetoast veneer beat the heart of a latter-day lizard king, born to rock 'n' roll? He lasted the entirety of the show, the next morning's looming tee time be damned. It was a heroic performance, and forevermore I shall gaze upon Stewey in a different light. The Mercedes Championships is great for these kinds of little encounters. The tournament takes over the Ritz-Carlton, and everyone, including media scum, is thrown together in the same remote locale. You can't avoid the players, even if you try. Step into an elevator and there's Billy Andrade in sagging shorts and flip flops. Cruise down to the pool and there is Phil Mickelson -- in, god help us all, leather sandals -- learning how to hula dance with his little cherub. The tournament goes out of its way to pamper its guests, leaving little gifts in our rooms every evening (as you'd expect, the players are reputed to get better stuff). One night last week, after catching the late show of Traffic, I returned to my room to find a beautifully wrapped box leaning against the door. I took it into my room, popped open the card, and was amused to find it addressed to Mr. Jesper Parnevik. Clearly, someone had gotten their wires crossed and left me the wrong package. I guess I probably could have returned the unopened box to the front desk, but I felt like you, the readers, had a right to know what was inside. I tore open the package with gusto, discovering a pound of the most delicious homemade, fudge-dipped, macadamia-nut cookies ever created. Sorry, Jesper. Mail CallAh, a new golf season: The smell of freshly cut grass is in the air, every day pulsates with the hopes and dreams of 100 brave men in Softspikes and, of course, bitter invective begins pouring in to the On Tour desk from a pent-up readership which has been forced to spend the winter reading about football and college hoops and other meaningless diversions. It's so good to be back. After reading your summary of the year 2000, I couldn't help but think that while you've written some clever things, you're the most annoying thing I've run into this year. Seriously, how can you call Arnold Palmer annoying? He has always stood up for what he believes in. He's not "cheating" or trying to change the rules with this new Callaway club, he's just trying to make the game a little easier for the common hacker. What's wrong with that? You should only hope to have 1/10th the class, integrity and dignity that he has shown throughout his life. All who make a living at golf in this day and age owe everything they have to Arnold Palmer, including you. Find something more worthwhile to write about. Sitting around criticizing the Arnold Palmers of the world must be a crummy way to make a living.
Yeah, but it sure beats sitting around criticizing sportswriters for a hobby. Anyway, I'm not going to deny that Palmer is the epitome of class, that he's done great things for golf, yadda, yadda. However, on this issue he couldn't be more off base. Bottom line, there's only one set of rules in golf, for pros and amateurs. That's a tradition that predates even fossils like Palmer and Ely Callaway, and here's hoping it never changes. The spin doctors at Callaway are saying there should be a separate standard for us hacks, that this issue is really about bending the rules to make the game easier for the common man. Yet since October I've traveled to four international tournaments -- all places that fall under the jurisdiction of the R&A -- and tons of pros are using, and shamelessly flogging, the illegal drivers. While they're at it, why don't they just order those non-conforming golf balls out of USA Today, the ones that go 30 yards farther? How about making it legal to add Vaseline to the clubface, to reduce sidespin? The USGA is not an infallible organization, but it does have the best interests of the game at heart. Callaway Golf is a business, trying to maximize its profits. Who do you want setting the rules? I'm not usually one to quibble, but since when does the author get to edit his own book reviews? I know journalistic standards are a little flimsy in sportswriting, but why don't you just tell us the book is great?
Good jab, pally, but let me put it to you like this: I read all this unedited mail so you don't have to. It's not exactly the King's English that is filling my mailbox every week. Anyway, I'm much too modest to brag on myself. You know that.
Sports Illustrated senior writer Alan Shipnuck periodically will wax about life On Tour for CNNSI.com. Click here to send him a question or a nice, friendly comment.
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