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THE BATTLE OF PUMPKIN RIDGE:
A Stolen Day at the US Women's Open
Pt. 1
Posted - 7/17/03 9:24 PM PST
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We've all received someone else's mail. It usually belongs to the people next door and it's never anything interesting, always a water bill or a Blockbuster collections notice. A quick trip to a neighbor's mail box and it's erased from memory. A few weeks ago, I opened mine and found a mysterious package inside. Above my address was the name Skip DeWhitt juxtaposed between a flag and a golf ball. I didn't know a Skip and he wasn't listed in the phone book.
I examined the package. It felt like a t-shirt and I probably needed it more than Skip. He probably had a million t-shirts, an entire basement full of them. Given the opportunity, Skip would toss this one in a drawer or use it to dry his fleet of Lexus SUVs. I tore open the package and a dozen laminated passes fell out, each with the words "2003 US Women's Open" and "Champion's Club" printed on the front.
I scratched my head and stared at them dumfounded. The situation presented me with two options:
1. I could wrap the package in duct tape and leave it outside the post office. The tournament was going to begin in 36 hours. Friday was Independence Day. It would arrive at the course sometime Monday, well after the nation's best female golfers had left the state. Skip (might) receive the now worthless passes around Arbor Day.
2. Use them.
I consult a contact via IM. He tells me that I Must Go. Still trying to silence my nagging conscious, I visit the tournament's official website. Each of the eight daily passes was worth $150 and would allow me "exclusive access to a climate controlled tent offering free food, a full service bar and..."
I didn't need to read any further.
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On the morning of July 3rd, I woke up bright and early at 11 AM. I would have to dress appropriately. My Che Guevera Mouseketeer shirt wouldn't get me past the front gates, pass or no pass. If Caddyshack has taught me anything, it's that "golf people" don't like interlopers. I've always suspected that they screech and point menacingly whenever they discover an outsider in their midst. Fortunately, I already owned a pair of cargo shorts and a polo shirt, the official golfer's uniform. I would be able to comfortably slip in among them, study their habits and maybe even escape with my soul.
Uh-oh.
Besides hearing about a 13-year old Asian prodigy on the local news, I had no idea who was competing. My knowledge of professional golf begins and ends with Tiger Woods (he plays golf, right? Or is he a quarterback for the Detroit Lions?). Apparently, the US Women's Open is A Big Deal. The four day tournament is broadcasted, live, on both ESPN and NBC. An average year draws 100,000 spectators. This was going to be the biggest sporting event to hit Oregon since, well, the last time the Women's Open rolled through the state. If Christ had materialized in Pioneer Square during the first week of July, the Oregonian would have run the story on page 15.
This wasn't going to be like theater hoping. I mentally prepared a back-story in case I was stopped by security. "No, sir, I am not Skip DeWhitt. Skip is my grandfather. He loves women's golf. It's his whole life. His home is littered with posters of large women carrying iron clubs. Where is Skip? He was called to a wake and gave me this very expensive pass because he will not be attending the first day of the tournament. Yes, very sad. Who died? Oh, some old person. My grandmother, I think."
This was going to work. I couldn't fail. I grabbed the shorts and headed west.
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An hour later, I was rolling through a wheat field somewhere outside of Banks, Oregon. Gawky teenagers in orange vests had led me here. A huge dust cloud pounced from underneath a Volvo leading a pack of cars, invading every nook and cranny of my vehicle. I couldn't see more than ten feet from the windshield. Was there a golf course somewhere in all this dust and wheat? At any moment, we would roll into a clearing and find ourselves next to a cross surrounded by deranged pre-adolescents.
Eventually, the trail wove its way through the crops and towards a field. Hundreds of European imports glistened in the July sun atop thousands of crushed wheat stalks. These rotting plants could have fed Sally Struther's brood for months. Now they were pseudo-pavement. Alice and Dorothy may have seen some weird shit in their respective wonderlands but a talking cat doesn't hold a candle to this.
The Pumpkin Ridge Course was a half mile hike away. When I arrived, I was covered in sweat and a large sign greeted me. "Only spectators with press credentials will be allowed to enter with photographic equipment. Cell phones will not be permitted under any circumstances." I'd have to sneak in my digital camera. I place it in the back pocket and now I have an easy-to-notice tumor growing out of my left butt cheek.
I look up and suddenly I'm surrounded by hundreds of senior citizens. How had they reached the front gate? They must have been flown in via helicopter. So this was what golf fans looked like: tiny, elderly people clutching programs and score cards. Where were their team t-shirts? Their home-made signs? Not a single one of them was shirtless and covered in paint. These people weren't going to a sporting event. They looked like they were on their way to an Indian Casino.
A dust cloud on the descent into Pumpkin Ridge.
A man in a woman's hat greeted me at the gate and asked me for my ticket. Ticket? Did I have a ticket? I searched my pockets and handed him one of the wrist bands. "No that's not it, friend," he smiled. The packet had included wrist bands and laminated passes for the Champion's Club but no tickets?!
A charter bus arrived and a legion of excited fans trickled out. These shorts had a million pockets. The tickets could have been anywhere. I pull out keys, wadded Kleenex and Smart Park stubs. He politely nods at each but none of them will grant me access to the Shang-Ra-La on the other side of the gate. The bus legion waddles past and I slunk away. I will not be drinking free booze today.
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Sometime later, I'm on Highway 26 and I've got a head full of rage. I should be on national TV right now, stuffing myself full of buffalo wings. Somewhere near the Manning Dairy Queen, I hit the brakes and roll into a junk shop parking lot. I excavate the cargo shorts. I grab the Thursday's Champions Club pass from a foot-high stack and scan the fine print on the back. "This pass will grant you access to both the tournament as well as the exclusive champion's tent." I am idiot. Regardless, I'm an idiot with a pass to the biggest professional women's golf tournament in the United States of America.
I turn around and 30 seconds later I'm breaking the sound barrier. 10 miles away, senior citizen are eating my complimentary nachos and pouring gallons of my complimentary vodka down their leathery throats. I blast through the wheat field and storm an access road leading to the front gate. Nothing can stop me now. The man in the woman's hat is there and I throw the pass at him. My smile is ten times larger and more obnoxious than his condescending smirk. "Welcome," he stammers. I have conquered this middle-aged Sphinx and free booze awaits.
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Past the gate, hundreds of elderly men and women are huffing and puffing up a cement hill. It's 90 degrees outside. Volunteers are barreling past in golf carts with empty seats. A white rope separates us from them. These people have paid hundreds of dollars to be here and, despite everything, look like they're having the time of their lives.
At the crest, a two-story scoreboard is manned by two people with microphones glued to their cheeks. They rush back and forth with large, white numbers in their hands. They look like officials at a stock market in the Caribbean. People around me scratch their chins and mark score cards. I do not have a score card and scratch my chin. I have no idea what's going on here. The names, numbers and golf terms are alien. Reading the board is like glancing through Tokyo Weekly.
My mouth is dry, the sun is cruel and I'm in need of something liquid. Someone tells me that the champions tent is five holes away so I go looking for water instead. I can't think straight and things are getting weird. This place is called Pumpkin Ridge? Pumpkins have water, right? I could use a pumpkin. Where are all the pumpkins?! I cross a pathway, a line of carts screech to a halt and someone yells. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to do that. I continue the search for a water fountain.
A security guard that looks like Ice Cube with a short afro runs up. He's dressed in shorts and a polo shirt.
A random spectator proudly displays his cargo shorts.
"Where are you going, dawg," he asks.
"Water," I reply with a dehydrated rasp.
"You're in the middle of a member's only area and you just crossed a tournament access lane."
I show him the Champion's Club pass crookedly attached to my shirt.
"Come with me."
"Will there be water?"
I've been on the course for ten minutes. The polo shirt and shorts hadn't worked. My disguise has failed. Maybe it was the hiking boots that gave me away. Or the cowboy hat. Or the $2.00 sunglasses. Or maybe it was the fact that I had almost caused a major golf cart accident. Whatever the reason, Ice Cube was leading me past a line of trailers and towards a large, white tent. An foreboding sign hung over the entrance: "Employees only." I was about to be arrested for stealing $1200 worth of golf passes.
To be continued...
Next time: What's inside that tent? Why isn't ESPN filming the deer in the sandtrap? Will I ever get those buffalo wings?
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