Late Monday afternoon, after Tiger’s amazing victory at Pebble Beach, the evil McCord and I set off for San Jose airport to catch the nonstop to San Diego. There was plenty of time for reflection and detailed analysis as we trundled up US 101, but after an hour or so, the best we had come up with was still our original reaction, which was, “#%$# me, did that actually just happen?”
Apparently so. I spoke to Tiger on Tuesday morning, and that’s the way he remembers it too. Jokingly, I offered him a dollar as he was having his car valet parked, and equally jokingly, he took it.
Well, you can wrap me up in Scotch tape and tear it off, but I love it. This guy is so much for real that it wouldn’t surprise me this week if some of the field doesn’t run over the edge of the cliff like lemmings, and on to Black’s Beach, purely from the intimidation factor.
Spare a thought for Matt Gogel, too. Here’s a guy who played incredibly well for 10 holes of the last round — he just about knocked the flag down — and then, after making bogeys on 11 and 12, his bowels were turned to jello by a blood curdling roar from up front. He did not have to pause, stroke his chin, look upwards and muse, “Hmmm…… I wonder who that was for?” I think not, for I was with his group at the time, and it was perfectly obvious from the explosive volume, who had done the dirty deed. Arnold and Jack had their own roar, and so does Tiger.
I have to admit, I have more in common with Matt than Tiger, for I too recall having a flock of seagulls following me all the way to the clubhouse gorging themselves on the entrails I left behind me, after I had been scared out of the lead. And I was never pursued by anything as scary as a Tiger.