The Pebble Beach experience

First it was Kyle MacLachlan, now it's an amateur from last year's AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am. This is a great gig, having other people write your column for you. Trust me, though, you can relate to Rich Cardillo of Evergreen, Colo. He's 38, owns an 18-handicap and a copier dealership in Denver, and when the CEO of a Xerox partner couldn't play in last year's event, Rich got a once-in-a-lifetime, believe-it-or-not call to fill in. He honed his game by hitting plastic golf balls in freezing temperatures for nine days in his yard last January, drawing stares from his neighbors. His week on the Monterey Peninsula was one to remember. With the 2002 tournament coming up this week, here, in his owns words (with only a little editing help from me), is Rich's excellent adventure:

An amateur's dream come true

By Rich Cardillo

MONDAY

Other than when I met my wife and when our son was born, today was the most exciting day of my life. I sort of think God is throwing me a bone this week to offset a lifetime of photocopier sales.

I awoke at 3:07 a.m. I stayed in bed until 4:45. The gym opened at 5, so I worked out until 5:45 and felt very Tiger -esque. I drove to the gate at Pebble Beach and had to show my badge to get in. The guy seemed to know I wasn't the real deal because he gave me sort of a sideways glance. I turned into the players' parking lot and took my first picture. At the registration tent, I received lots of gifts -- four Waterford crystal goblets, a jacket, a sweater, a shirt and even a 3-wood. Before handing me the club, a lady asked, "Stiff shaft or regular?" I said stiff and chuckled to myself. The next guy to sit in my chair to register was Glenn Frey of the Eagles. I told him the Eagles' greatest hits LP was the first album I'd ever bought, in seventh grade. He laughed.

I was the first one at the driving range. Then Justin Leonard wheeled up next to me. It was so cool watching him hit; I then realized I had gone 10 minutes without hitting a ball myself. Bob Tway pulled up on the other side of me five minutes later. Then Vijay Singh came out and set up at the end of the range. He sent this guy out about 100 yards and started hitting wedges at him. The guy had a radar gun and yelled the yardages back to Vijay: "102, 107, 106, 111. ..." Had he been my beacon boy, it would have gone: "110, 6, 47, 138 [skull], 90. ..." All the big boys started working their way onto the range and I panicked and went back to the tent. There, I got a handshake from Clint Eastwood and Steve Kroft of 60 Minutes.

A single joined me and my caddie, Rick, for a practice round. It was Peter Funt, whose father, Allen, started Candid Camera. The round will stay burned in our memories. I made a 6 on the first hole, an X on No. 2 and a par at the third. The fourth hole at Pebble is the first opportunity to hit a ball into the Pacific Ocean and I did. I reloaded and smoked one down the middle. I had about 90 yards left to the green and I rocketed a low-heat wedge that was going 140 mph toward the next tee. Rick yelled, "Fore!" My ball missed Vijay's head by about a foot. He walked toward us and laughingly said, "Why are you trying to kill me?" It took an hour for my heartbeat to return to normal. I played pretty well on the back, where two kids asked for my autograph. I told them I was nobody and one kid looked up and said, "But you might be someday." Trust me, kid.

On the 18th tee, I wanted to kill a drive so bad that I pig-hooked one into the sand about 180 yards out. Then I peeled a 4-iron into the Pacific and ended up with a 9.

I went to the welcome reception that night at the Mission Ranch (Clint's hotel) and shook hands with every celebrity I saw. Huey Lewis jammed with the local band. Tommy Smothers talked to me for 20 minutes. I met Glen Campbell, Roger Clemens, Joe Pesci, Reggie Jackson and Michael Bolton. Thank you, God.

TUESDAY

Guess what happens when you haven't played golf all winter and then hit 26 buckets of balls and play 18 all in one day? Big-old blisters. But that didn't deter me from heading to Poppy Hills at 9:45 a.m. for a 12:30 p.m. tee time. The only celeb I saw was Rush Limbaugh. The highlight of the day was that at one time the only three guys on the practice putting green were John Daly, Sergio García and Rich Cardillo. They announced the pairings at noon and my pro is a guy named Mark Johnson. Mark and I start at Poppy Thursday morning, play Spyglass Friday and then Pebble Beach Saturday. Luckily, we go off on the 10th tee at Pebble at 10:30 a.m., so when we wheel through 18 the grandstands shouldn't be too packed. I can't help but think the folks there should make like Mel Gibson in Braveheart and hold up shields when I come through. I am getting 18 strokes and I probably need them. Guess how many pars I made today? Moon Zappa. I three-putted six or seven times.

Pessimistically, I have a flight home booked for 6:20 Sunday morning. Vijay was at Poppy Hills today and I apologized again for yesterday's harrowing experience. He asked me, "Did you fix that hook?" My retort: "Can you split an atom?"

WEDNESDAY

I arrived at Spyglass for the last day of practice and had a mild anxiety attack. I ran into Jerry Rice, so I had Rick the Caddie burn a picture of us. I got to the range and snuggled in between Corey Pavin and Maury Povich. The first hole is a 600-yard par-5. I crushed a good drive into a bunker but one-putted for a par. It was downhill from there.

In the evening, there was a variety show for the players and volunteers. After a nice dinner, Frey and Bolton opened up with some songs and Campbell sang Rhinestone Cowboy for the 7,650th time of his career (but it still sounded pretty good). Then Kenny G came out with his saxophone. One song was nice, two was too many. He looked like a squash player, but I heard he plays to a 6. Ray Romano did some standup comedy, and then Daly strolled out with a guitar and sang Knocking on Heaven's Door. I was dying to jump on stage and do my rendition: "Knock, knock, knocking down Vijay Singh."

Speaking of which ... my friend Tom got in around midnight and offered these encouraging thoughts: "Richie, 18 inches was all that separated you from immortality. If your ball was 18 inches lower, you would have killed Vijay Singh. Debate would have began immediately over whether amateurs belong on the course with professionals. You could have been the reason they abolished the Pebble Beach Pro-Am. Fiji would have gone into mourning as he is their Michael Jordan. In April at Augusta National, CBS would have done a gutwrenching tribute to the 2000 Masters champion who couldn't defend his title because he had died." Tom added that my picture would have flashed on the TV screen the entire time with captions like, "Amateur Cardillo, who delivered the death blow."

By the way, Rick the Caddie and I made some critical decisions today. For fan safety and improved scoring, the driver will stay in my bag. And since it's all about making the cut, there will be no beer drinking on the course (which is a tougher pill to swallow than the no-driver decision).

THURSDAY

Sorry, I've rearranged my big-day rankings. No. 1 is still the birth of my son. Today moves up to No. 2. The day I married my wife is third (it snowed on our wedding day ... in May). Monday drops to fourth.

After three practice rounds and schmoozing with pros and celebs, it was a new atmosphere today when I arrived at the course at 7:30. People were everywhere. This was serious. I eased onto the driving range between Gary Nicklaus and Donald Trump. I putted next to Trump a few minutes later but missed a chance to tell him that I just moved $2,300 into my 401(k). I knew he'd be impressed. I stopped to watch Alice Cooper hit a few shots and wondered what we'd talk about if we had been paired. Alice, did you know Xerox is preparing to announce a multi-function print engine that actually has a IP Web address and can print true Adobe postscript? Maybe not. Twenty minutes later, Casey Martin set up camp next to me. He hit the flag 100 yards out with two of his first five wedges. I wanted to tell him that I hope the dopes who don't want to let him ride a cart shoot 100, lose their cards and end up refilling the breakfast bar at Denny's.

I found my pro, Mark Johnson, and introduced myself. I asked if he wanted me to talk during the round or just stay quiet. He threw his arm around me and said, "No way, man, it's just golf. Let's have some fun." I almost sobbed with joy. We got to the first tee and 150 people were there. I'm shook. I've had a lot of odd swing thoughts through the years, but this one was a beaut: Mother of God, let me make contact with this ball and advance it in any direction at least 175 yards. I hit it 230 or so down the middle. It didn't matter that I peeled my next 6-iron into the woods; there was no one there to see that. Mark birdied two of the first five holes. I parred two of the next four holes for net birds, but Mark birdied them both. Mark shot the round of his life, 65, and is in second place. I contributed a dirty-little par on 18 for a net bird and we were 8 under as a team. I was delirious.

FRIDAY

I got up at 6 and read the Monterey newspaper, full of stories about Mark. He drives a truck and delivers beer. A copier salesman and a beer guy? Why the hell would anyone watch Sergio García and his sister this week when they could watch us? Mark, the 1996 California Amateur champion, won a tournament berth in Monday qualifying. When I arrived at the practice tee, Mark was already hitting balls and all the other spots had been taken. He said, "Let's switch off." After he hit eight or 10, I rotated in and peeled a few off. Imagine Andre Agassi practicing a few first serves before the Wimbledon final and then rotating in John Goodman.

We teed off on the 10th at Spyglass. My wheels were off. I had a nice up-and-down on 18 for par, which drew some cheers. I craved a beer but passed. On the first hole, I topped a drive about 30 yards, and Mark had to be wondering if 18 is my handicap or the number of days I have been golfing. My only highlight was getting out of a greenside bunker to 15 feet on the last hole and making par. It was a bad day for Mark and the team. Mark shot 2 over and the team picked up only two shots to move to 10 under. Great weather now had everyone believing the cut will be 20. We were a longshot, but still I felt like I was going to play well tomorrow.

SATURDAY

The forecast at Pebble Beach is sunny, 75 degrees and a huge crowd as Tiger and the boys play here today. At dinner the night before, one of my friends said a warning should be issued to all seals and sea lions to get the hell out of Stillwater Cove. I numbed myself with the very logical combination of red wine, beer and gin.

My tee time was 10:20 on the 10th. When I arrived at the course, Bill Murray was in the sand trap practicing in black shorts, a black shirt and green socks. Somehow, the ensemble looked good on him. As we walked to the first tee, a marshal stopped about 100 fans crossing the road and said, "Let the player through." He meant me. I wanted to scream, "I'm a damn copier salesman!" but I strolled across the road while these folks futilely scanned their programs. The practice green is right in front of the Lodge and people were stacked three-deep to watch Tiger putt. I muscled my way onto the green, but nobody noticed when I drained four straight 2-footers.

I got past the pressure-packed first tee shot with a high 3-wood out 220 and in the fairway. Life was good ... for a few moments. I promptly peeled my 4-iron into the Pacific. Mark made a solid 4. Mark birdied 11 and 12 to get to 7 under and the team to -12. Things were getting exciting.

At the par-5 14th, I hit a big drive and a good 3-iron to get to 160 yards, then stabbed a 7-iron that headed right at the flag. It was uphill so I couldn't see it land, but the crowd at the green cheered wildly. Mark then hit a beautiful wedge that landed five feet from the pin but spun off the green and 40 feet down a hill. Everyone groaned. I marked my 15-footer and figured this would be my big contribution to the team. Mark's pitch back up the hill hit on the fringe and rolled 40 feet into the center of the cup. The place went bananas. Mark rushed up the hill pumping his fist, and my heart pounded. The nicest man in America now had three straight birdies and still found time to help me line up my putt for net eagle, which I missed badly. I would now pass on a three-day, fishnet-only vacation with Heather Locklear and Angie Harmon.

We parred through 17, and Mark was back on the leaderboard. At the 18 tee box I wandered to the back fence railing and leaned back. I saw Jack Nicklaus do it last year and couldn't resist. I made myself pause and enjoy the moment. This tournament has a rule that the amateur picks up if he is out of the hole, and I didn't want to walk onto the 18th green in front of a packed grandstand without a club. I pounded a 3-wood 230 to the big tree. Ecstasy gave way to horror when when Rick the Caddie handed me a 3-wood for the next shot. "Why can't I hit an iron?" I pleaded. "Because we're still 275 out into the breeze and you don't want more than wedge into this green. Play it out right and draw it back in, smooth." Play it out right meant play it over the fans. Put your helmets on, kids. I made the best swing of the day -- 210 yards, slight draw back into the fairway. From 90 yards out, I took my gap wedge, apologized for past misdeeds and swung. The ball landed 20 feet from the pin and the crowd applauded. This was it. There could be nothing better. No, I don't want a gold card to the Playboy Mansion. I left the first putt a foot short and made a net birdie.

On the walk to the first tee, a kid handed me a hat and a marker. I told him I was an amateur and he took his hat and marker back. Mark and I both bogeyed the first hole; I hit my second shot out of bounds at the second; and on the ninth, our last hole, I hit my iron approach down onto the beach. We finished at 15 under and missed the cut by six. Mark made the cut at 3 under and had a chance for a decent paycheck. I would have liked to have stayed to watch him Sunday, but I had to get home.

As we left the course, I remembered what one of my friends had said at dinner the night before. "Richie, you know what you get as your prize from the weekend?" he asked. "The opportunity to return to Denver and sell more photocopiers."

Yes, after the best week of my life, it was back to being a common man. At least until my photos came back from the drugstore.

Mailbag

Are u calling AJ a b-list celebrity. Im confused. The backstreet boys have sold 70 million records and are the biggest pop group in the world you consider them b list, please. Oh and there was only one backstreet boy there, not two.
—Tania, Quebec

I guess punctuation, spelling and grammar aren't big among Backstreet Boys, Tania. I'm not cleaning it up for you. The question-mark key is on the lower-right portion of your keyboard, right below the apostrophe key, another with which you're clearly unfamiliar. Sorry, but A.J. is indeed a B-list celebrity in the adult world. He and the Boys are simply the latest teen idols, whose music, like that of New Kids on the Block and Menudo, will never be heard again shortly after their demise, which should be soon.

FOR THE READER who asked whether he should take his golf vacation in San Diego or Biloxi, Miss., there were a smorgasbord of responses:

In San Diego, play Madeiras and Meadows Del Mar. Madeiras is a new Johnny Miller course and it is a true test of skill and mind.
—Mark Dunn, Kings Park, N.Y.

The Biloxi area has great weather, especially in the springtime, great nightlife with all the casinos and great food. Be sure to try Mary Mahoney's, a five-star restaurant right across the street from the Gulf.
—Terry Miller, Monmouth, Ill.

For purely a good time with the guys, Biloxi is your place. The casinos are right there, along with a variety of courses and conditions. You've got everything from high-end Jack Nicklaus tracks to low-end goat ranches, which can be fun and challenging on their own. Also, stay somewhere nice and the concierge can get you a tee time anywhere. San Diego is crowded and overly expensive. It's beautiful, don't get me wrong, but your round will take six hours almost everywhere and there's no blackjack table to belly up to.
—Jeff Bosh, Houston

Check out Singing Hills in El Cajon, just outside San Diego. The group I play with went there the last two years and had a great time. Two 18-hole courses, an 18-hole par-3 course, driving range, two pools, two restaurants and a well-stocked pro shop.
—Mark Hartman, Seattle

Start with Bajamar, 60 minutes south of San Diego in Mexico, right on the ocean. Spectacular. Great links course, similar to Pebble. The highway has the best views in the world. Then play Tijuana Country Club. Alistair MacKenzie designed one of the nines and it is a joy. Next, Barona Creek. A new links-style course with great greens and a casino. Play Carlton Oaks, a Pete Dye course that hosted the NCAA championship a few years back. Finally, play Torrey Pines South; it's just been redone. If the weather is nice, be sure to walk down the cliff from Torrey South No. 12 to Blacks Beach, the largest nude beach in the world with world-class waves and surfing. After this, don't be surprised if you put your house up for sale and move here!
—Steve Roberts, San Diego

I'd avoid both, if you hate humidity (Biloxi) and high prices (San Diego). You will find neither here in Northwest Montana. Spectacular scenery as well.
—Rich, Missoula, Mont.

The courses in Biloxi were plentiful, but we had to drive about an hour to most of the nicer courses. If you like casino gambling and golf, I would suggest Philadelphia, Miss., which has two championship Pete Dye courses with a casino only 500 yards away. Fly into Meridian and the casino will pick you up, no rental car needed.
—Dennis Shields, Northville, Mich.

Sports Illustrated senior writer Gary Van Sickle writes for the magazine's Golf Plus section and is a regular contributor to CNNSI.com. Click here to send him a question or comment.

 

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