us open 2019 | gd 89breeze stirred, blowing in of
the bay as they reached the
ocean, but both men took driver
at the par-4 fourth, cleared
the fairway cross bunker and
pitched close for easy birdies.
After pars at the fifth, both
men pounded driver to the
edge of the sea clif on the
par-5 sixth, but Tiger’s ball ran
into heavy rough. Jack lofted a
brawny 5-iron to the front of the
green. Tiger took a monstrous
hack with a 7, airmailing it over
the cove to the elevated pla-
teau, where it scampered to the
middle of the green.
“Jim,” said David Feherty,
“I’m calling my optometrist
’cause I can’t believe my eyes.
I’m fairly certain I couldn’t have
made that shot with a weed
wacker, a jai-alai cesta and a
papal dispensation.”
“Set the mood for us as
they’re walking to the green.”
“It’s getting testy out here;
Jack just said ‘Nice shot.’ ”
Both men got down in two
for easy birdies, still all square,
as they moved to the short par-3
seventh. Jack and Tiger hit
wedges inside 15 feet. Jack ran
it straight in for a 2, and Tiger
dropped a matching birdie on
top of it.A SHARK IN THE AIR
“S
till all square
as they move to the
eighth,” said Nantz,
“where we pick up the action
with our friend Greg Norman.”
“Still can’t believe he beat
me in the first round,” said
Faldo.
“I heard that, Nick,” said
Norman, shouting over engine
noise. “Jim, I’m high above
the eighth fairway, piloting
my chopper, and Jack and
Tiger have hit terrific tee shots,
flirting with that clif on the
right. I’m taking ’er down for
a closer look as they hit their
approaches.”
“Be careful, Greg.” ▶there,” said Lee. “Fifty says he
makes 6.”
“Done. Good gravy, what the
hell is Stevie doing now?”
Trailing the golfers, Stevie
Williams had just ripped a
camera out of the hands of a
spectator and was pulverizing
it with a tree limb. Six heavily
armed men had formed a circle
around him.
“And don’t let it happen
again, Mr. President,” said
Stevie.
“Sincerest apologies, Stevie,”
said Bill Clinton, waving of his
bodyguards. “My fault entirely.”
“Sorry, Stevie,” said George
W. Bush, Clinton’s companion,
with a crooked grin. “Take ’er
e a s y.”
“Man, even the Secret
Service is scared of that guy,”
said Lee.
“He used to work for me,”
said Ray. “How do you think
I felt?”
Jack pitched to six feet.
Tiger needed two hacks to
gouge his ball out, skulling it
of the back of the green. Tiger
hurled a string of curses toward
the bay and then chipped to
five feet. Jack smoothed in his
birdie. Lying 4, Tiger scooped
up his ball with his wedge,
bounced it twice of the face,
once between his legs, and
batted it into the bay.
Nike’s Phil Knight turned
to his creative director and said,
“I’ve got a great idea... ”
As Lee handed Ray a fifty—
“That helps make up for El
Paso,” said Ray—Sam Snead
and Tommy Bolt strolled by.
“Can you believe that Tiger?”
said the Slammer. “Don’t know
when I’ve ever been so im-
pressed. Only 24, and this kid’s
got it all: range, imagination,
the ability to visualize... ”
“He made 5 with a gimme,”
said Ray.
“Not that,” said Tommy.
“You shoulda heard him cuss.”
All square after three. Theing telecast, except for closed
circuit to the Tap Room—and
a pirated feed at Bing Crosby’s
house of the 13th fairway—but
every big name in broadcasting
showed.
Both players hit darts to the
green, six feet from the flag. Nei-
ther caddie said a word. Angelo
Argea, Jack’s longtime looper,
never read putts, and Stevie Wil-
liams, back on Tiger’s bag, took
a moment to threaten the life of
a passing squirrel as both men
drained their birdies. “All square
after one,” said Nantz. “Let’s
send it out to our old friend Jim
McKay on the course.”
“Jim, conditions are ideal,”
said McKay, walking with the
group. “A slight chill in the air,
not a breath of wind—and look
at that: Tiger’s caddie just treed
a squirrel.”
At the second, a converted
par 5 playing as a long par 4,
both men split the fairway. Jack
carved his approach to 20 feet,
and Tiger dropped a towering
5-iron just inside him.
Manning the broadcast
tower near the third tee, Henry
Longhurst, the venerable dean
of English golf broadcasters,
remarked: “Just extraordinary.
That majestic shot drifted in as
gently as a 101st Airborne para-
trooper descending silently
behind enemy lines.”
“Positively lethal,” said
his partner, Peter Alliss, Long-
hurst’s successor as dean of
English broadcasters. “But
I’d have to say it put me more
in mind of the British 1st Air-
borne landing at Arnhem,
resplendent in their distinctive
maroon berets, and of course
the familiar shoulder patch of
Bellerophon astride his winged
steed Pegasus.”
“Sir Nick,” said Jim, turn-
ing to his booth partner. “What
would you say to that?”
“Do I sound like I went to
Oxford, mate?” asked a chuck-
ling Nick Faldo. “Tiger’s got the
easier putt.”
Jack’s birdie try hung on the
high side. Tiger ran his in for a- Tiger, 1 up.
At the par-4 third, both
men cut the dogleg with soar-
ing drives over the tree-lined
ravine. Jack’s ball settled
50 yards short of the green,
but Tiger’s took an awkward
bounce. Lee Trevino and Ray
Floyd, walking the fairway,
watched Tiger’s ball disappear
into the gunch near the left
greenside bunker.
“Man, you could lose a ball
in that mess,” said Ray.
“You could lose a bag in