Firstly, let me say this. . . . I am not whining about my job. However, occasionally even I, despite having the easiest job in the universe, can have a rough week. The Buick Classic was a tough task for player and broadcaster alike due to several frog-strangling downpours, a sky that spent most of the week hovering six inches off the ground, and the occasional cosmic crackle, which always makes yours truly decidedly skittish. But hey, even that was OK. The week before was really hard work. Here's my diary.
SUNDAY NIGHT: Fly to Seattle for CBS media day at Sahalee, site of the 1998 PGA Championship.
MONDAY: Played 18 holes, felt like I was in an episode of "Land of the Giants." Never seen bigger trees so close together. The snakes slither in single file here. Suffered through a press conference, did six stand-ups with local TV stations. Took a ferry to some island and stayed overnight with idiot friend. Drank too much.
TUESDAY: Got up this morning at sparrow's fart for ridiculously early flight to Toronto. Hung over, flight bumpy. A bad combo. Man sitting next to me asks if I have a weak stomach. I show him I can throw it farther than most. Canadian immigration official decides to interrogate me as to why I am staying only one day. I offer to stay longer if she will only let me go. In the background, I hear the snap of a latex glove.
WEDNESDAY: Wake up feeling much better. Ready for all-day affair with Andersen Consulting. Clinic in the morning goes swimmingly, then they all play golf and I hit one shot with each group. Have cocktails, dinner, etc., and then I speak for about 30 minutes. Everybody laughs at me. I think this is a good thing. Limo takes me back to airport hotel, where I set alarm for 4:45 a.m. and head downstairs for bar and hockey game.
THURSDAY: Alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m. This doesn't seem fair. I don't feel very well. Think I got a bad slice of lemon last night. Anyway, get packed and check ticket. Notice that flight to New York doesn't leave until 8:30. Why the hell am I up so early? Lie down again for a wee doze. Wake up three hours later, make panic-stricken dash for next available flight and arrive at Mt. Kisco, N.Y., just in time for charity day. Do clinic in hungover stupor. Everybody laughs at me. Not sure if this is a good thing. Sleep three hours in the afternoon, come back to speak at dinner. Everybody laughs at me and this time I don't care. Feeling better, so I have a couple of adult beverages. Order cab for 5:00 to La Guardia. Doesn't seem fair again.
FRIDAY: Shuttle to Washington Dulles, get to TPC at Avenel in time for Kemper Open rehearsal. Back on CBS schedule now. Breathe large sigh as I see that we don't go on the air until 4 p.m. tomorrow. Set alarm for 12 noon. That seems fair.