And speaking of tees, they had a whole batch of them right there, free. Oakmont must have had me feeling self-conscious-not a good attitude when you approach the No. (Surely my boss wouldn’t want me representing The Times with old, beat-up golf balls). All sorts of thoughts were racing as I bought two sleeves of Titleists, saving the receipts for expenses. I wondered whether, if I had the scratch, the Oakmont crowd would have me as a member and that therefore I wouldn’t join.Ĭertainly it would seem like a betrayal of the public links. The conditions of men’s rooms on public links explains why many of us prefer nature when nature calls.īack outside I surveyed the lovely, well-manicured course and remembered the old Groucho Marx line. Oakmont was built in 1924 and the Gentleman’s Locker Room was gentlemanly indeed, handsome and tasteful and clean. After asking directions to the men’s room, I found myself facing doors adorned with a sign that said “Gentleman’s Locker Room” and “Gentleman Only.” I entered just the same. So I came as a guest to this members-only club with a bit of an attitude. As a proud carrier of a City of Los Angeles Golf Registration Card, I’m a believer in golf for the masses. Speaking of public, I was curious about Oakmont, a private club established in 1922. The things we do to protect the public’s right to know. Any comparison, of course, would be comical. I would later learn that Terry-Jo Myers shot a 66 to come from five strokes back to defeat Annika Sorenstam. The boss, you see, had this idea: Why don’t you play a round and compare your scores, hole by hole, to the final round shot by last year’s champion? But I’d never seen a more beautiful golf ball, resting a mere two inches from the cup.īut mostly I share this memory because it makes me feel so much better than the round I played the other day at Oakmont Country Club in Glendale, host for the second year in a row of the Los Angeles Women’s Championship. No, the best shot of my life didn’t go into the hole. The contact was pure and the ball soared in a transcendent arc straight at the pin, disappearing from view beyond the raised lip of a bunker protecting the green. Sometimes the term “sweet spot” is inadequate. So I gripped my four iron, dug my spikes in, steadied myself, took dead aim on the flag, visualized the shot, concentrated-and let ‘er rip.Īsk anybody who plays golf and they know the feeling. My lie was surprisingly good and this was the 18th hole and my last chance for a miracle. The smart play was to just get out of the trap, set up the next shot and play for bogey.īut we duffers don’t play golf to play smart. Looked like trouble, caught in sand 170 yards from the flag, with a big bunker protecting the front of the green. until a limb reached out and swatted it into a bunker. My tee shot rifled down the left side, flirting with the trees but bending back toward the fairway. The contact was hard but a bit off the sweet spot.
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