My name is not
important," said the Oakmont member. "You can call me Deep Rough."
He was standing in a dark corner of the maintenance shed, his face deliberately
concealed in shadow. � "How do I know you're a member?" I asked.
"Anybody can buy a shirt with the squirrel logo on it." � "Here's
how," he said, delivering a swift kick to my right shin. � I clutched my
leg and swore through clenched teeth. I hopped around and crashed into a rough
mower, whose shiny blades looked clean enough for the showroom floor. "All
right," I gasped, "I believe you." Deep Rough chuckled. � This, I
should explain, happened late last Friday night, after the second round of the
I had gotten a
lunchtime call from a stranger, who told me the Oakmont members were angry
because their course was playing too easy. "Two guys broke par
yesterday," he said. His voice cracked on the word broke. " Paul Casey
just shot a 66. A 66!" This last lament was pitched so high that I pictured
the Hindenburg going down in flames.
I can't say I was
surprised. Look up sadomasochism in the Physician's Desk Reference, and you'll
find a thumbnail photo of the Oakmont clubhouse along with footnotes on Church
Pew bunkers, overgrown ditches and H.C. Fownes, the Pittsburgh businessman who
designed the course more than a century ago. Fownes loved his golf course the
way Torquemada loved the rack, and he passed his cruel streak on to his son
Bill. "The virility and charm of the game lies in its difficulties,"
wrote Bill Fownes. "Keep it rugged, baffling, hard to conquer. . . . Let
the clumsy, the spineless and the alibi artist stand aside!"
generations of Oakmont members have ignored the warning to stand aside. They
hoot when Tiger Woods takes a massive swipe from ankle-deep rough, as he did on
the 2nd hole on Friday afternoon, and his ball flutters into a drainage ditch.
They chortle when Phil Mickelson makes a two-putt bogey on the 9th, as he did
in the second round, and has to ask Bones for a wedge between the putts. They
read themselves to sleep with old stat sheets, like those from two days of
stroke-play qualifying at the 2003 U.S. Amateur, which produced an average
score of nine-over-par 79 and a 37-hole match-play final with only three
I can't talk,"
the voice on the phone had said, "but I know somebody who will." And
that's how I came to be in the maintenance compound after midnight, nursing a
barked shin and wondering if I shouldn't have brought a pal to watch my
Deep Rough got
right to the point. "We're sick about what's happening," he said,
disguising his voice to make it sound like Hal Holbrook's in Designing Women.
"This course was ready to kick ass. Two weeks ago you couldn't get a ball
out of the rough with a backhoe. The greens were 15 on the stimpmeter. If you
dropped your cellphone on the fairway, it shattered."
plenty hard," I said. " Adam Scott and Colin Montgomerie shot 82 today.
. . ."
perfect," he said, cutting me off. " Geoff Ogilvy came by for some
practice rounds and couldn't break 80. Phil Mickelson hurt his wrist so bad he
couldn't play for two weeks. Tiger Woods sat down and cried."
I was pretty sure
that Tiger hadn't cried, but I didn't want Deep Rough to kick me again. I said,
"Nobody's under par after 36 holes. The average score is over 76. The field
is more than a half stroke over par on four holes."
Oakmont tough!" he barked. "Who do you think we are? Winged Foot?
Bethpage Black?" He fumed silently for a moment. "You heard what the
kid said yesterday? That the course was easy?"