As she walked past, one patrician-looking woman said, loud enough for me to hear, "I would say so."
SATURDAY: Looks like I might not be the biggest dope in a marshal's uniform. During Friday's round, a player's wife says that she asked a marshal to let her into a roped-off area so she could have a better view of her husband's putting. She alleges that the marshal didn't think much of that idea, and responded with some choice threats and epithets.
I am unable to find the allegedly verbally abusive marshal, but I do find the hole captain in charge of that green, and he seems stunned by the allegations. (I later learn that the marshal denies being abusive.) "They throw you out of the club for something like that," he says. He lowers his voice. Payne Stewart is chipping onto the green. The ball he hits charges at the cup, way too fast it seems to me, then brakes and rolls to within four feet.
I had wondered on Monday if as the week went on I would grow accustomed to, would cease to be amazed by, the shots these guys make. The answer is no.
SUNDAY: Friday's Langer-related gaffe gives me pause. Rather than risk marshal burnout, I take Sunday off. On the seventh day, the ugly shirt rests. I wear short pants. I drink beer. I am courteous until I feel the slightest twinge.