- TOP PLAYERSOffensePABLO S. TORRE | August 20, 2012
- TAMPA BAY buccaneersENEMY lines WHAT A RIVAL COACH SAYSJune 28, 2012
- Faces in the CrowdJune 11, 2001
He threw down another ball. "Don't open the blade. Just hit behind the ball." He chipped out another; it slid a foot past the pin. He threw down another ball, stepped on it, kicked some sand over it. "Fried egg lie. Gotta close the club face." He planted his feet, swung, and the ball stopped two feet from the pin. "That's all there is to it, boys. Go to work."
A minute later, sand was flying, grown men were grunting and Lyons's three shots sat in isolated splendor near the hole.
"No, no, no!" he roared. I looked up. He was staring at me with an anguished look, as if he had caught me spray-painting graffiti on his car. "Not like that. Like this!" He made an abbreviated flick with the club. I tried to imitate his swing and left the ball in the trap again.
"No, no, no," he said—softly this time. He grabbed the shaft of my sand wedge and yanked it back and through while I held the grip. "Do this." Instead, I did something else.
"No," he shouted. "Can't you do this?"
"Apparently not," I said.
"Your swing is too big," he muttered. He moved on.
A minute later, I heard him scalding Lyle the pilot, whose claim to self-esteem was that he had once been entrusted with 800 tons of Boeing 707 and the lives of the sad-eyed leader of the free world and his beagles. "You're doing this...I'm doing this!" Pause. Sound of sand splashing and ball landing softly on green. "Why can't you do what I do?"
That, of course, was the question we had paid $1,540 to have answered.
"Toby," Bob the professor asked on Day 3, "has any student ever killed one of the pros around here?"