Return Trip

My first memory of Winged Foot? Poison ivy, dense underbrush and, suddenly, sunlight and thousands of people. It was June 16, 1974, a week after my college graduation, and I was living on Long Island. A buddy and I wanted to attend the final round of the U.S. Open, but we didn't have tickets. Our solution? Sneak in.

Ignoring the NO PARKING signs, we left my 1971 Mustang by the side of Mamaroneck Road and ducked into the woods. We emerged on the left side of the 15th hole and blended in with the crowd. At first we jumped from hole to hole. Then we spent a long time perched behind the 6th green, rapt as the pros tried to negotiate the tricky pitch to that diabolical back-right pin position.

Like many in the crowd, we began to follow Hale Irwin on the back nine. And when he launched that picture-perfect two-iron onto the 18th green, we were standing as close to him as the marshals would allow. From the fairway, we watched Irwin two-putt to secure the first of his three U.S. Open titles.

It was a golden afternoon and a grand introduction to major championship golf. A bargain, too, or so we thought until we returned to Mamaroneck Road to discover that the Mustang was nowhere to be found. So we hoofed it to the impound yard and pooled our resources to get the car out of hock, the luster of the day dimmed only slightly.

My next exposure to Winged Foot came two or three years later. I had a friend who was an assistant pro on Long Island. In those days Winged Foot allowed assistant pros from neighboring courses to play on certain Mondays, when the club was closed. My pal asked if he could bring someone along. Sure, he was told, as long as he's a pro. If my modest bag and unpolished swing weren't proof enough that I was an impostor, my own personal Massacre at Winged Foot--a front-nine 50--made the truth abundantly clear. But our caddie never said a word, and I like to think that the 39 I shot on the back nine restored a small measure of credibility.

In June the U.S. Open will be back at Winged Foot, and so will I, but this time as a member, not as a kid hacking through the bushes or a 14-handicapper masquerading as a pro. (I didn't mention these visits when I was applying.) Armed with my $375 member's ticket package, I can roam the now familiar grounds for three practice rounds and all four rounds of the tournament. And I can repair to the member hospitality area in the clubhouse to enjoy a beverage with my fellow Winged Footers.

Yes, times have changed, although one thing has not. I plan to drive that very same '71 Mustang to Mamaroneck. This time, I'll park legally.