the first round. Heading into every major there’s always one or two headliners—at this year’s U.S. Open it was Tiger Woods roaring into Olympic after his magical victory at the Memorial— and I’ll usually follow these key players on Thursday, scanning the crowd for swing coaches, trainers, sports psychologists, agents, significant others, nutrition- ists, P.R. flaks, college teammates or any other members of the entourage that I can chat up while we walk the course. By Friday the contend-
ers are beginning to separate themselves and I’ll begin honing in on maybe a half dozen guys I think have a legitimate chance to win. I’ll keep chasing the people around them, but I will also supplement my research by reading old interview transcripts and stories I have the SI librarians send me. Sometimes little scraps of information can lead to great material. At the 2001 U.S. Open I was doing my due diligence on Retief Goosen; he has never liked to talk about being hit by lightning as a teenager but I found an old story in which he mentioned a cousin was with him when it happened. After the second round of the Open I did a driving range vigil and got a moment alone with Goosen. He told me the cousin’s name was Henri Potgieter but didn’t know how to reach him. That night I spent hours on the phone back to South Africa and finally tracked down Potgieter. No one else had his harrowing account and it brought to life Goosen’s amazing journey. (Potgieter: “Retief ’s clothes had been burned off of him. Even his underpants. His eyes had
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rolled up into his head. He wasn’t breathing because he’d swallowed his tongue. The smell of burning hair was overpowering. I was sure that he was dead…”) On Saturday night of
a major I concentrate on writing my “middle.” This is prose about the events of the first three rounds that I hope will hold up regardless of the winner. Getting it done a day early is like having mon- ey in the bank. At this year’s
were openly laughing at me, because they knew my head was about to explode. This year at Augusta, I had been trailing Phil Mickelson since Thursday, and had some great exclusive stuff from parking lot conversations on both Friday and Saturday evenings. By Sunday at noon my story was basically done. All I needed was for Phil to close the deal. When he made that ghastly triple bo- gey on the fourth hole I was
Masters. It was such a bond- ing moment I invited myself to that night’s victory party in Butler Cabin, a priceless bit of access that gave me the ending to my story. At this year’s U.S. Open
Shipnuck (on left) listening to Ernie Els after the U.S. Open final round
Open, Woods starred in my middle. He was the story of the first two rounds with his precise play, and his shock- ing blowup was the indelible event of Saturday. By then I had already walked with him for the better part of two rounds, interviewed two of his old Stanford teammates as well as his Open play- ing partners and his former swing coach Hank Haney, so I had lots of good material for 600 snappy words I knew would stand up. Sunday is always a stress-
fest, because crazy things can happen. It’s not like covering the Super Bowl, where there are only two possible out- comes. At last year’s Masters eight different dudes held a share of the final round lead and the other reporters
so crestfallen it’s a miracle my body wasn’t found float- ing in Ike’s Pond, next to Clifford Roberts’. I spend most major
championship Sundays monitoring the telecast in the pressroom. Unless it’s a runaway, being out on the course doesn’t work because I’d miss too much. But there are times when you have to play a hunch and unshackle yourself from the TV. At the 2007 Masters, Zach Johnson took the clubhouse lead well ahead of the final group. I thought his score would hold up so I went to find him. After sweeping the range and practice greens I found Johnson in the locker room watching the finish on TV. I was the only reporter in the room when he won the
Webb Simpson was in 29th place after two rounds and even with a strong Saturday he wasn’t on my radar screen. In fact, as he was playing the 72nd hole I still hadn’t seen him hit a shot in person all week. I decided to bolt out of the pressroom to watch him finish, even though that meant not being able to watch what Jim Furyk was doing on the telltale 16th hole. I was standing behind the green as Simpson was lining up his do-or-die putt on the last hole. (Bless you, inside-the- ropes armband!) Then Simpson did some- thing remarkable: he craned his head in my direction and smiled at his wife Dowd, who was standing next to
me. I said, “Did he really just grin at you?!” Dowd shook her head yes. (Later, as she waited outside the scoring area, Dowd told me all about their telepathic communication while he’s playing.) It was a remarkable little moment that said so much not only about their connection but also Webb’s peace of mind even facing the most pressure-packed putt of his life. I never would have picked up on the gesture if I’d stayed in the pressroom. I knew instantly it would be the perfect lead to my game story if Simpson won. From that moment on, I was pulling for him. It was nothing personal against Jim Furyk or Graeme Mc- Dowell; the story is my only rooting interest.
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