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Breaking bread with Matt Kuchar

The A-B-C's of conducting a dinner interview

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So I took Matt Kuchar out to dinner in Waikiki a couple of weeks ago. Per the prevailing tradition I let him, as the Subject, pick the restaurant, and, acting on the advice of some locals, he chose a dark Italian joint atop one of the big hotels. I arrived two minutes early and was ushered to a prime booth with a sweeping view of the skyline. I laughed when the hostess showed me the spot, which I'm sure has been the site of countless marriage proposals. It was one of those cozy little tables where the diners sit side by side, the better to allow for romantic clinches between courses.

MAIL CALL Got a ton of mail on last week's piece on Brad Faxon. Even Wally Uihlein, chairman and CEO of Acushnet Company (parent company of Titleist, FootJoy, etc.), weighed in. As you all know, Mail Call is a meritocracy, so, despite the hefty title, Wally's musings don't rate a spot amongst all this memorable correspondence ... If you run out of story ideas, then you can apologize to everyone you have ever insulted. The list is endless. What a suck-up. When Davis Love III wins this year, you can kiss his butt, too. Good luck with the guilt. —Hank, Atlanta Believe me, there's no guilt, pal. If you've been keeping up with your reading, either in the pages of Sports Illustrated or here at the Web site, you know I have no qualms about getting in the kitchen of top golfers, or anybody else for that matter. Last week's On Tour was not the end of an epoch; don't worry, I'm not putting away the needle. Rather, it was the story-behind-the-story of the only article I've ever regretted writing. That '96 Hawaiian Open piece bugged me not because I slammed somebody -- heck, that never bothers me -- but because it was not my best work, and I took a lazy way out. Lemme put it another way -- if I was DL3, I'd still be worried. I always thought you were a cocky little writer who was quick with a creative little slur or criticism but who really lacked the substance that comes from making a mistake and then accepting responsibility for it in public. Great writers have something more than good form or witty phrases; they have a vulnerability that the common man can relate to. Your stock just went up. You might be a real person after all! —Joe Dunlop, Charlotte, N.C. Uh, thanks. I think. My dog ate my homework. I missed the bus. My flight was delayed. I was mugged by a homeless midget wearing pink tights and ski goggles. My editor wanted me to do it. Welcome to America, the land where others are always responsible. Brad Faxon led wire-to-wire two weeks ago and the best Sports Illustrated could do was print one picture and a one-line summary. Not only do you -- and by that I mean you personally as well as the stuffed-shirts at SI -- owe Faxon an apology, but you weasels were too "proud" to do so until after his convincing victory. Sorry if this e-mail is a bit harsh, but my girlfriend was cranky this morning and my boss is on my case. You understand. —David Weller, New York City Of course I do. I know how your girlfriend gets. I just read your apology to Brad Faxon. It was totally unnecessary. Instead of making excuses for an article from years gone by, you could have simply done either of the following: 1) Taken credit for Faxon's golfing rebirth. After all, it was you who singlehandedly forced Faxon to clear his oft-clogged throat and regain his championship form. Surely, your harsh words motivated him like no coach, father or the love of the game ever could. You may as well have stroked the eagle putt on 18 for him. Congrats! 2) Simply stated the obvious. You just write about the game and the people who play it for a living. So you said that Faxon often choked (though not using that exact word). Big deal. Based on your research, you were right. The truth is, nobody should care, especially Faxon. He should know his own abilities better than you -- end of story. —Don Balcombe, Terrace, British Columbia Wow, Don, have you ever thought about sportswriting for a career? With that arch tone you have a bright future.

I asked for another table. It wasn't just because I didn't want Kooch rubbing my thigh; the meal interview is one of the trickiest aspects of sports reporting, and the details of the setup go a long way toward determining the success of the interaction. You can't comfortably talk to a near-stranger while banging elbows and craning your neck in a strained attempt to make eye contact. I led the befuddled hostess on a journey around the restaurant until I found the perfect table -- a small square-top crammed into a distant corner. The smaller the table the better, in these situations, as it allows for casual, intimate conversation and, more important, ensures that you can hear OK above the din. You don't want to misquote someone because Bob the Insurance Salesman at the next table was going on and on about the 19-year-old gymnast he just spent the weekend with. That the table I selected was pushed up against a window was also key. I took the seat that positioned my left arm against the glass, allowing me to take notes without having to worry about being jostled by busboys and waiters and other diners. (I write lefty but swing as a righty. Don't ask.) The seat I chose also gave me a view of the room, so I could spot Kuchar when he arrived.

A few minutes after I got settled in, the man himself sauntered over, moving with a surprisingly feline grace. I had seen him play in person plenty of times, but never realized how tall he was -- 6-foot-4 -- until he glided through the restaurant. As we made small talk I occasionally sipped a virgin Coke; I don't like to imbibe when on official business. Soon enough our garçon came over to see what Kooch wanted to drink. He gave my glass a quick glance. Coke? Jack and Coke? I could see the doubt in his eyes, and I offered no information. After a moment of indecision Kuchar ordered a beer. Attaboy. These interviews are not unlike prom night -- you want your date to get a little buzzed, hopefully lowering his/her inhibitions.

We quickly settled into an easy repartée. Kuchar is good company -- a sharp guy, dry sense of humor, good storyteller. There is an enormous advantage to conducting a dinner interview, as opposed to speaking at the driving range or in the clubhouse or anywhere else, for that matter. Dinner creates a level of intimacy that is simply unattainable in the clubhouse, where Hal Sutton might stroll by in nothing but a frayed terrycloth towel. Just as important as the distraction-free environment, from the reporter's standpoint, is that you've got a captive audience. Your subject simply can't get away. As such, the slower the service, the better. Appetizers? Dessert? Coffee? Hell, yes! Anything to maximize the interview time.

Forgive the digression, but I was once doing a Sports Illustrated Top 25 scouting report on the Colorado State football team. I flew out to Fort Collins, where the sports information director set me up at a large table in the local burger joint. The plan was to shuttle over two or three players at a time, on a 45-minute, rotating schedule. No sooner had the first batch of behemoths polished off their triple burgers, basket of fries, extra-large milkshakes and small busboys, when the next group of players showed up. The first bunch of guys refused to budge, and this set the tone for the afternoon. By the end of the interview I had at least a dozen dudes hanging out at the table. I recall a small food fight broke out, and there was much jocularity all around. Great stuff for my piece.

Anyway, back in Waikiki, I ordered penne pasta, the ol' standby. It's absolutely crucial for a reporter to pick a dish that can be eaten without fuss, and with only one hand, freeing you up to take notes. (Early in my career I learned this lesson the hard way: Dining with Loy Vaught, then of the Los Angeles Clippers, I ordered a slab of baby back ribs; that notebook still reeks like the BBQ sauce of Aunt Kizzy's Backporch.) Sadly, Kuchar barely ordered enough to maintain, let alone compromise, his boyish figure: a little sorority-girl salad and a small plate of noodles. I was so disappointed. I always make a point of emphasizing that Sports Illustrated is picking up the tab, so go for the gold. Sadly, very few athletes really rise to the occasion. The runaway champion of free dining is, and always will be, Jamie Storr, the Los Angeles Kings goaltender.

I hooked up with him for a story back when he was an 18-year-old rookie enduring his first training camp. Fresh from the Canadian Outback, Storr was living in a cheap hotel near the Kings practice facility, in a scruffy part of Van Nuys, and basically subsisting on fast food. When I told him I was treating for lunch, and that he could pick the restaurant, he pulled a cagey veteran move. "Lemme go talk to Wayne, " Storr said. The Great One sent us to one of his haunts, Morton's, a swanky joint in West Hollywood. When the menus arrived Storr asked, for probably the 10th time, "You sure this isn't coming out of your pocket?" Reassured that it wasn't, he ordered, or so I recall, three appetizers, a massive salad, two entrées and two desserts. As we were finishing up he asked, sheepishly, "Do you mind if I get something to go?" Three steak sandwiches later, we were out the door, to the tune of three bills. That's lunch for two, no alcohol. It was an epic performance. (Not all dining experiences are so plush: Last year I woke at the crack of dawn and flew to Blue Ash, Ohio, to meet Larry Nelson for dinner at Applebee's. His choice. I flew back after the meal, surely the only man in history to travel 4,000 miles for a bad Chinese chicken salad. But I digress.)

Matt Kuchar is no Jamie Storr, but he was, at least, down for dessert, and as we were digging in to some obscenely rich concoctions a busboy wandered by and said with a fright, "You're Matt Kuchar!" They talked a little golf, and then moments later said busboy reappeared, trailed by the house photographer. Kooch politely stood for a photo. A few moments later the owner of the restaurant came by, to introduce two dozen of his buddies (or so it seemed) and take even more photos. Kuchar was a good sport -- although, in all this fuss, I observed that his hot fudge had congealed.

In my experience it's rare for athletes to be noticed while dining, especially golfers. Without their logoed headgear and pressed khakis it's hard to place these average-looking white guys. A funny thing happened last fall when I journeyed to Vegas to do a story on Bob May, who was still basking in the afterglow of his heroic performance at the PGA Championship. The theme of the piece was going to be how an unknown journeyman handles overnight fame and fortune. So Bob and his super-cool wife, Brenda, and I went to their favorite local Chinese joint. Over dinner I couldn't help but notice our waitress kept hanging around the table, eavesdropping on the conversation. I was sure she was waiting for the right time to ask May for an autograph, when she suddenly blurted out, "Are ... are ... you ... Alan Shipnuck ?" It turns out I had gone to high school with her older sister. Poor Bob May. Sure, he got a free meal, but it was the reporter who got recognized. Can you imagine the horror?

Sports Illustrated senior writer Alan Shipnuck periodically waxes about life On Tour for CNNSI.com. Click here to send him a question or a nice, friendly comment.

 

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