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Martin deserves chance to play
Casey Martin is praying. Hands clasped and head bowed, his lips move but he says nothing. Finally, Martin looks up at me and puts his thoughts into words. "I'm obviously very concerned about my health," he says. It is the fall of 1999, and Martin and I are sharing lunch at the Nike Boise Open. He is coming off a summer during which he flew to Chicago three times for experimental treatment on his famously withered right leg. In total, Martin squirmed through 75 excruciating needle injections, each delivering a chemical cocktail designed to shut down certain malfunctioning veins and stem the damaging tide of blood that floods his leg, the result of Klippel-Trenauney-Weber syndrome, his congenital circulatory disorder. The therapy didn't take, and so Martin was left with little more than his prayers. But sitting in the lunch room of Hillcrest Country Club, site of the NBO, Martin's fretting about his health is delivered with a wink and a smile. That's because moments after saying grace he begins stuffing his face with a sloppy BBQ beef sandwich, an oversized bag of potato chips, and two tall glasses of soda. Martin's leg may be the source of unending pain, but clearly it is his diet that is going to kill him.
That's the tough thing about Martin's condition. All he ever has wanted is an ordinary life, and yet he has led an extraordinary one. Regardless of where you stand on the lawsuits and issues surrounding them, it is impossible not to like Casey Martin -- he's the clean-cut, courteous, articulate, God-fearing young man we all want our daughters to marry. Though he had been in the news for a while, I had never seen him play in person until that week in Boise. With a month left on the Nike tour schedule Martin was clawing to remain in the top 15 on the money list, and he had a wild tournament. During the second round he was suffering through a near-terminal case of the slices, but he played his heart out, chipping in twice and executing a series of imaginative recoveries from previously unexplored parts of Hillcrest. Fighting to make the cut, Casey drove the sharply doglegged, 293-yard, par-4 15th hole, which led to a crucial two-putt birdie from 30 feet. He followed with a clutch up-and-down for bird at 16. After obsessively monitoring the scoreboards on the way in, Martin knew exactly what he needed to shoot as he stood over a knee-knocking, 10-foot par putt at the last. He drilled it for a 69 to make the cut on the button. During Saturday's round, also a 69, he drove to the collar of the sharply downhill, 359-yard 10th hole (his eagle chip stopped two inches short), and on the par-3 17th his tee ball actually dented the cup before bouncing out of the hole to three feet. He produced a solid finish to help safeguard his spot on the money list, but it wasn't his gutsy play that made such an impression. It was his hobble. You have to see Martin limp up close to believe it. When he got up at lunch to refill his Coke, it looked as if he were going to crash into one of the other tables. The exertion necessary to navigate the course under the strain of competition was wearying to watch. I had always had a traditionalist's attitude toward walking and how intrinsic it is to the competition, but during that week in Boise I became convinced that Martin had no competitive advantage. Give a healthy guy a cart and make the rest of the field walk, maybe. But not so with Martin. Anyway, the next time I saw him play was at the 2000 Bob Hope, where he was making his debut as a PGA Tour rookie. There was a nauseating amount of media coverage, and Martin fully understood the absurdity of the situation. "There are only a handful of players in the world who get this kind of attention," he said. "Hopefully someday I'll do something to deserve it." Under such intense scrutiny he seemed to lose the freewheeling aggressiveness that had made his play so electric up in Boise. He played tight and made a series of costly mistakes. Tied for 92nd place after three rounds, with only the low 70 players making the cut, Martin knew he had to go low on Saturday to have a chance to earn a Sunday tee time. Though he had drawn La Quinta Country Club for the fourth round -- by far the most difficult course of the four used at the Hope -- Martin played for the first time all week as if he had nothing to lose. He tore off four birdies in a row to begin the round, and on the par-5 sixth hole he nearly jarred a long pitch-and-run for eagle. When Martin reached 18 at 10-under par he was on the verge of making the cut. The final hole at La Quinta is a 412-yard par-4 which doglegs slightly to the right. There is a lake running the length of the left side. Martin chose an aggressive play, pulling his 3-wood from his bag (most players were laying up with an iron). He hooked it slightly, and his ball came to rest on the steep bank of the hazard just above the water's edge. Martin's only chance to hit his ball was to stand in the water, and he wasted no time in stripping off his shoes and socks and the protective brace he wears on his right leg. This brought an audible gasp from the smattering of friends and family in the gallery. Martin's tibia has deteriorated to the point that it could snap with the slightest misstep, a tragedy that probably would necessitate amputation. As Martin waded into the murky water, that fear was palpable. "I honestly can't believe what I'm seeing," his agent, Chris Murray said, to no one in particular. Martin's mother, Melinda, covered her face with her hands. I was standing right next to her and could barely hear her when she said softly, "I could cry. I could. This is too much." After a couple of minutes and a series of waggles and ginger practice swings, Martin decided the shot at hand was too risky, especially given the slippery footing. He scrambled back to the fairway, dried off and laced up, and then took a penalty drop. He followed with a poor approach into the back bunker, an indifferent explosion, and a blown six-footer for an ignominious double bogey. He had shot a 30-39, finishing at -8 for the tournament. (The cut wound up being a record -11, which meant he would have needed a birdie at the last to have made it.) These two very different experiences -- the quiet interlude in Boise, the frenzy of the Hope -- both made strong impressions on me. I'll always remember the sight of Martin wading into the water at La Quinta, consequences be damned. The guy's a competitor. All he wants is a chance to play, and now he has it. Golf is better for that, no matter what Tim Finchem says. 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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