- 0 1 0 1 0 - THE BATTLE OF PUMPKIN RIDGE: A Stolen Day at the US Women's Open Pt. 2 Posted - 7/25/03 7:41 PM PST - 0 1 0 1 0 - (NOTE: The tournament strictly forbade photographic equipment..or so the sign at the gate claimed. Inside, photojournalists and random fans ran amok with everything from disposable Kodaks to $3,000 cameras. I believed the sign and left mine in the car. Here's a few doodle reenactments instead.) When I was 17 I robbed a gas station. Not with a gun or a knife. I rolled off with a tank full of what could have been free gas. My high-speed getaway de-evolved into a slow-speed one when I hit heavy traffic at the edge of a sidewalk. The attendant spotted me frantically trying to make a right turn and wrote down the license plate number. Sometime later, I was hauled out a high-school auditorium by two cops. I was in the middle of a test run for a production of The Importance of Being Earnest and was dressed, coincidentally, in a police uniform. On the ride back to the gas station, the cops were laughing. There should be a name for this sort of dread and embarrassment; the feeling that you've gotten away with something only to have everything come crashing down, hours later, well after you've forgotten that you've Broken The Rules. Years later, I'm being led past trailers towards a white tent and I've got that old feeling creeping up my spine. A security guard that looks like an ex-member of NWA is urging me along. I'm dehydrated, paranoid and dizzy. Will there be a squad car waiting? Will I become a inside-joke at police headquarters? My crime had been jaywalking while searching for a water fountain...and "stealing" passes to a women's golf tournament. Ice Cube starts talking about the tournament. He's confident that a player I've never heard of is going to win the champion's purse, which yields fame, glory and a cool $350,000. He throws out terms like "scratch" and "hardpan." I nod and agree with everything he says. I size him up. Ice Cube's about 30 pounds overweight. I could duck under a catering truck, hit the woods and sneak back to the course's makeshift parking lot. But this is a member's only golf course. They probably have helicopters and attack dogs. I wouldn't get far. I'm still plotting my escape when we arrive at the tent. Inside, dozens of staff members are lounging in folding chairs. Towards the back is a large washtub. Ice Cube leads me to it. "There's some Aquafina in there," he says. "Take as many as you need." No cops. No K9s. No trips to police headquarters. I take one bottle. - 0 1 0 1 0 - The 17th hole is surrounded by a crescent grandstand. There's enough room for a thousand spectators. Above the stands are members only air-conditioned suites. Over them, two ESPN cameras are pointed at the horizon. Pastels specks, a quarter mile away, are making their way towards the green and we are waiting for them. Underneath the stands, grandchildren are squealing and playing tag. They don't seem to understand the concept of "major sporting event." I'm surrounded by elderly people drinking Hefeweizen out of $6 cups. I still haven't tracked down the buffalo wings. One of the specks arrives. She's wearing a pink shirt with black stripes and looks exactly like Tonya Harding. A teenager is stumbling behind her, carrying a golf bag the size of a tree trunk from the redwoods. She talks things over with her coach and draws a club from the bag. A man in a pink shirt raises his hands to silence the crowds. Apparently, he's a golf equivalent of a referee. The kids below are oblivious and continue their game. She hits the ball and the crowd enthusiastically chants, "Come on, come on." It rolls twenty feet closer to the hole, not far enough. The crowd expresses its sympathy in a gentle but gigantic "awwwwww." Everyone politely claps. The entire process takes well over 5 minutes. In the same space of time, I've seen professional basketball teams score 25 points. Another player steps on the green with another teenage caddy drenched in sweat. This one is dressed in a white shirt and she looks like Peppermint Patty. She swings, the pink shirts raises his arms, the crowd mutters their "come on"s and her ball lands five feet from the hole. Everyone politely claps. A third, a fourth and a fifth player arrive with their own personal teenage slaves. They swing. The crowd mutters. Everyone politely claps for each of them. Apparently, the crowd is rooting for every player in the running. It's like a Field Day. There are no losers and everyone gets a ribbon for participating. - 0 1 0 1 0 - The group of players leaves the green and heads for the next hole. Down the fairway, another group has begun teeing off. A few people follow them but most stay. The crowd mumbles to itself. Their good-natured aura has left with the players. A blubbery man behind me growls, "She isn't playing that well. She's 10 strokes over par and hasn't won a purse in 5 years." He sounds like he has money riding on this. They critique each player and make marks in their score cards. Enough with the sports. I came here for free food and alcohol. On the other side of the grandstands, there's a white picket fence keeping "the public" away from a member's only stairwell. It leads to the air-conditioned booth. I flash my badge and brush past the volunteer guarding the fence. He firmly tells me that the Champion's Tent is two holes away. I take his subtle suggestion and head that way. After all, a "Champion's Tent" probably has a buffet. A mere observation booth probably doesn't have a single full-service bar. The temperature is still in the 90s and, while this course may be called Pumpkin Ridge, it's heavy on the ridges but light on the pumpkins. I still haven't found a single one. The hike to the Champion's Tent is long. Every 20 feet, someone in a pink shirt raises their arms. If you're walking, you're required to stop immediately. Some people halt in mid-stride and slowly turn towards the nearest golfer. When the arms drop, we're allowed to move again. - 0 1 0 1 0 - I arrive at the tent and it's surrounded by another white picket moat. This one is guarded by an ex-hippie couple. I show them my laminated pass but they want the arm band too. They smile impatiently. They're on to me. I search the fifty-million pockets in my shorts and, to their dismay, find the arm band. "You really need to wear that," they inform me. I slap it on and enter. "Whatareyoudrinking?" Inside there's a hundred large tables. Each is covered in a red table cloth and has fresh roses. Two plasma screen TVs flank the seating area. The place looks like an abandoned prom. A group of sophomore frat boys sit near the entrance and wave to people on the path outside. An elderly couple leaves as I approach the bar. "Whatareyoudrinking?" I'm not sure where that's coming from. I can have whiskey but I take a Mike's Hard Lemonade instead. The buffet has been ravaged. All that remains is an untouched silver trough filled with shrimp casserole and a basket full of tortilla chips. I fill a plate and take a seat. "Whatareyoudrinking?" I turn. A blonde woman has been talking to the back of my head since I walked in. She's sitting at a table filled with empty plastic wine glasses. Her boyfriend/fiancee/husband is staring blankly at one of the TVs. I try to answer but in she's already started a conversation with the bartender. She's talking incredibly fast for someone's who's downed at least two bottles of free box wine. "YeahmyfianceeandIlovethistournament. Wecomehereeveryyearandabsolutelylovethegolfers andthecrowdandthetent. We'refromForestGrove. Yeah,I'maschoolteacherandmyhusbanddoesrealestate. ThisisfabulousbutwealsogotoLasVegaseverysummer. HaveyouseenthenweCoyoteUglyBar? Thestaffisallgirlsandtheydanceonthetables. It'ssowild!" The bartender looks like a bike messenger and is wearing sunglasses. He chats with her and they're getting along great. He tours with various women's tournaments and hails from the Vegas area. Pumpkin Ridge is pretty but there's nowhere in the area to go after work. The bartender leaves his post and takes a seat at her table. The husband is slumped in his chair and is sleeping with his eyes open. He's oblivious to his wife's flirtations. I run out of chips and lemonade. If I want more, I'll have to interrupt the serendipity across the room. I'll come back. - 0 1 0 1 0 - I join a crowd on the 18th and final hole. A line of golfers is waiting to tee off and a white rope separates them from us. Three photojournalists have their foot-long lenses trained on them but the television cameras have been covered with tarps for the day. Evidentially, these players are out of the running, below 20th place in the running and not worthy of live television. The crowd is enraptured but ESPN has probably cut their feed to a Canadian log tossing tournament. Each player tees off, everyone quietly claps and we follow them down the course. My fellow spectators all have beer but I don't. I haven't seen a single vendor all afternoon. Unlike other sporting events, no one is meandering through the crowd screaming "GET YOUR $6.00 CUP OF BUDWEISER HERE!!" A few eons later, the players finish up but they head towards another hole. Is there a 19th hole? They must be playing for fun at this point. The crowd follows and I'm determined to get to bottom of this. At the next hole, everything stops. Everyone is laughing and pointing at a brown object further up the course. A doe has wandered onto the green and is headed for the sandtrap. The golfers grumble among themselves as the rest of us jog down for a closer look. The deer steps into the sand and twitters its tail for a woman in a wheelchair. She has a disposable Kodak and is firing off a thousand shots a second. This is the single greatest thing she's ever seen. I figured the gigantic sign at the gate which sternly told me "Any spectators using photographic equipment during the tournament will be ejected" would be more strictly enforced. I will not be going home with a picture of a volunteer trying to scare the deer away by waiving her hands frantically. Two more staff members in pink shirts arrive but the doe is just getting comfortable. It test licks the sand and decides it doesn't like it. The deer's tongue throws out a mouthful and no one can think of what to do. The volunteers stare at the deer and attempt telepathy. A few minutes later the deer wanders out. A pink shirt frantically mows its tracks. Other pink shirts block her attempts to greet the players. Eventually, she takes the hint and allows them to play through. This is the most entertaining thing I'll see all day. The crowd returns to the players and we follow them. Finally, it dawns on me: PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S GOLF IS REALLY FUCKING BORING. All it took was a stubborn deer to reach this epiphany. I head back for more lemonade. - 0 1 0 1 0 - Back at the Champion's Tent, the blonde has left. The bartender looks crestfallen. He gives more free alcohol and I watch cartoons on the plasma TV. Other spectators wander in and sit on the other side of the tent. I'll need one last Mike's for the long hike back to the front gate but there's a large sign warning that food and drinks aren't allowed outside. A slot near the empty buffet table leads to a row of port-a-potties. Perfect. Outside with a fresh lemonade I find another guard protecting the toilets. I step inside one of the stalls, wait and exit. I cleverly hold bottle low near my knee, out of the view of the guard. She couldn't care less and I tromp through a forest full of pine needles back to the path. - 0 1 0 1 0 - It takes 30 minutes to get to the front gate. I have no idea where I left the car. The sun is low on the horizon and the wheat field is a cloud of dust. I head towards what looks like a barn. The whole thing looks like a sci-fi Vietnam movie. I run into a drainage ditch inexplicably lined with barbed wire. Walking around isn't an option. I take my time but the shorts and its million pockets still get caught. I slice open a ring finger on a rusty spike. Somewhere in the dust, a horse neighs. The cut isn't bad but I imagine I'm leaving a trail of plasma behind me. I find the car and bleed on the steering wheel. I have another epiphany: PROFESSIONAL WOMEN'S GOLF REALLY FUCKING SUCKS. Not that it's golf's fault. Or even (wo)mankind's fault. The sport can be fun, if you're playing it. Watching it is like standing behind someone playing a video game. The problem here is money. The affluent have ruined this old Scottish pastime with excessive rules, elitism and stiff green fees. The average person can't afford to play and a nasty stigma has seeped into this sport and nearly killed it for the rest of us. Televised tournaments aren't helping matters much. If only the rich had a passion for horseshoes. I drive and suck on my finger wound, the wheels contributing to the dust cloud. I wonder what Skip will do with his holiday weekend. Three weeks later, I can't name a single player in the tournament or if any them actually won. Next time: How to properly light a barbecue. Previous -->