Life Is an Unplayable Lie
By Tom Callahan
In a space of four days last week, the country's best and worst golfers were positively identified, although for a time at the U.S. Open it appeared that the two might be the same person. To those who find the Open a shade too diabolical even for golf, the United States Golf Association's Sandy Tatum is fond of saying, "We're not trying to mortify the world's greatest golfer. We're trying to identify him." Twice now they have identified him as Andy North. At Oakland Hills outside Detroit, North won again this year, the same way he did seven fitful and winless summers ago at Cherry Hills near Denver, with a bogey on the last hole and an expression of chagrin.
North was terrible in the final round. But by and large the bunkers that he hit with astounding accuracy were the ones nearest the cups. In this way, he clearly outplayed the competition. Tze-Chung Chen, a gentle-spoken Taiwanese capable of shooting 2s on par fives and 8s on par fours, performed both of these wonders and lost the championship by a stroke. So did two others. Had Dave Barr, an ample Canadian, only believed he could have won the Open, he probably would have. South African Denis Watson's eternal miscalculation was % in loitering longer than the allotted ten seconds over a lip-hanging putt. The ball vindicated him by sinking out of sight within 35 seconds, though Watson was penalized the two-stroke margin of his despair.
Golf's unfairness, its primary feature, starts with the widely disparate knacks men have for the game. Not that it is a reasonable pursuit at any level. Only in Ben Hogan's sleep -- almost -- has golf ever been mastered: "The perfect score is 18, and I nearly dreamed it once. I had 17 holes in one and lipped out at the last. I was mad as hell." But the allure it holds for those who cannot play in the slightest is a secret as elusive as a dream. A few days after the Open, Golf Digest tried to get to the bottom of this and certainly got to the bottom of something. Its advertisements for awful golfers had fetched about 600 nominations, though requirements such as a relatively healthy body and a certified 36 handicap (the maximum) pared the field substantially. Candidates also had to be avid hackers, attempting a minimum 21 rounds a year.
After it was further stipulated that the bad golfers be good sports, the best or the worst of the few remaining prospects were deemed to be Illinois Restaurant Owner Jack Pulford, 48; Colorado Stockbroker Joel Mosser, 45; Texas Trial Lawyer Kelly Ireland, 42; and Pennsylvania Grocer Angelo Spagnolo, 31. "I took up golf because my bowling was so bad," Spagnolo explained, "though I didn't lose that many bowling balls." Given the blessing of PGA Commissioner Deane Beman, a man with an inclination to smile, the foursome was brought to the Tournament Players Club in Ponte Vedra, Fla., essentially an unplayable course. Observing rules that practically every amateur ignores, they played from championship distances that on many holes put the fairway beyond the reach of their best shot.
"Jack hasn't got what you would call a best shot," noted Karen Pulford, the restaurateur's ex-wife of five years, a congenial redhead who came all the way from Illinois "just to watch him suffer." It was a compelling sight. Only Pulford broke 10 on the first hole. By the time the front nine had been slogged, his 68-over-par 104 was leading or losing to Spagnolo's 99, Ireland's 89 and Mosser's 75. Each had brought an entourage from home, and the wagering in the gallery was ferocious. But on the more difficult back nine, the laughter of the morning gave way to a dreadful quiet. Slashing their way through the saw grass like delirious convicts, the golfers drooped with sweat and shame. None of them had ever walked a course like this, if any of these cart lubbers had ever walked a course at all. Formerly cheerful followers wearing I BEAT KELLY IRELAND T shirts began to shake their heads.
At 15, Mosser came back to the pack with a 25. "My mind was drifting," he admitted. But the most excruciating and telling hole was 17, a 132-yd. shot over water to an island green. "I thought I was fairly respectable until then," sighed Spagnolo, who put 27 balls in the lake. "There was a big hum in my head. I kept hearing my son (four-year-old David) saying, 'Please, Dad.' " Miserably, Spagnolo ended up putting his roundabout way to the green along a wretched cart path, taking a 66 on the par-three hole to equal Calvin Peete's full score on the last day of the Tourna ment Players Championship. Mystically, Spagnolo's 257 total (185 over par) exactly matched Mike Souchak's 30-year-old tour standard for a 72-hole event. So the best and the worst results in golf are now certifiably the same.
Pulford shot 208, Mosser 192, Ireland 179. Paying off on the high score would be a dangerous system at most clubs, but integrity on a golf course has always been strangely recognizable to everyone but the cheaters. Nobody had wanted to win, that is, lose. Spagnolo gave his best, but had been unable to overcome eight whiffs, 37 lost balls and 40 putts. "I am a serious golfer," he insisted. "I think I hit a couple of good shots today. I bogeyed 13." Cloaked in the checkered green jacket symbolic of the World's Worst Avid Golfer, he was trundled off to the Today show and a new life of celebrity. The others regarded him with pity. Mosser said, "Having a moment in the sun, getting all of this attention suddenly, I can see why celebrities duck it." Mosser looked more than ready to return to the stock market.
"But you know," he said dream ily, "I had only one three-putt all day long."