As I struggle mightily to find even a whisper of a golf game, I was buoyed slightly by yesterday's events. If the saying is true that misery loves company, then I was able to find plenty of that merely by turning on my television set and watching the implosions at Pebble Beach.
Who were those guys masquerading as the best golfers in the world? Whatever happened to all those 63's and 64's? How did a hole less than a 100 yards long become a challenge? And what in the world was a table top doing where the green should have been on the 14th hole?
There were more grimaces, head shakes and question marks then I had ever seen from the cream of the crop. Dustin Johnson went from the leader of the entire world to a guy who you felt sorry for, in about as long as it took you to read this sentence.
As those who we have long seen with the widest of smiles and trophies held aloft slinked and sulked, the last man standing wobbled home. We watched as he fell from 4 under to 3, then 2, next 1, and finally to even par. Even that descent did not seriously impact his lead. 3 foot putts were no longer 'gimmes' for anyone, short shots sailed into the rough and the sand traps, and longer strokes headed to parts unknown.
For those of us who live in a golf world filled with disappointment, in which greatness never appears, and good rarely does, this was like watching my Saturday morning foursome on the screen. Here was a course that brought even the strongest to their knees. This was a technical knockout, as we watched the victim struck over and over, meandering aimlessly without a clue of where he was or how to defend himself.
So, as I get set to play my next round, I thank Pebble Beach for making Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson and Ernie Els look nothing if not mortal. Hey guys, I have time at Centennial this weekend. If you 3 are not doing anything else, why don't you join me? We can play even-up, with 2 off the first tee and a floating mulligan. It's Pebble or me. See you at 9:32.
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