Winning the NCGA Public Links gave me some exemptions into other high profile amateur events. One of those was the 1992 California State Amateur, where contestants played two rounds of stroke play at Spyglass Hill and Pebble Beach Golf Links to qualify for a match play field of 32. Spyglass Hill was always extremely tough and Pebble Beach had just recently held the United States Open, with Tom Kite being the newly crowned champion. I struck the ball very well at Spyglass, but the putting was substandard and I posted a 75. Then I parred the last three holes in firm/windy conditions at Pebble Beach to shoot 78. I made match play just under the cut number of 154. I think my exact qualifying number was #26, so I was matched up against the #7 qualifier, who was from Southern California. This was many years before the internet existed, so I couldn’t do any advanced research on him.

I put on my finest outfit for the match and as a 23 year old punk, when I heard my opponent was in his mid-thirties, I was mentally advancing myself into the 2nd round. Plus, we like to say Northern California is a completely different country (and far superior) than Southern California, which gave me additional motivation. I had a nice warm up and was slapping some putts around the practice green when I first sighted my opponent and his caddie.

First off, his clubs were in a raggedy bag hooked on a wobbly pull cart. I might be misremembering, but I thought one of his head covers was a gym sock. Second, he and his caddie looked like they were dressed to play Pacific Grove Golf Links, known locally as “the poor man’s Pebble Beach.” I thought they’d mixed up their tee times. My opponent’s golf shirt was hanging out of his trousers and when he bent over to look in his bag, his boxers peeked out. I was going to make quick work of this stiff–I was sure of it.

The front nine was back and forth, but this man was much better than I expected. He was equally long off the tee, hit crisp irons shots, and admittedly, had a much better short game than I did. I won the 9th to get the match back to 1-down. Now with the honor, I striped a drive down the 10th and he wiped his onto Carmel Beach. This was the momentum boost I needed. I had 160 yards left to a front right pin for my 2nd shot, and he had over 200 yards left for this third shot after taking a penalty drop.

He and his caddie took forever to finally choose a club and in hindsight, I think it was the equivalent of calling a timeout in basketball when the other team has the momentum. I had my 8-iron pulled and I was ready to roll, but in match play, whoever is away has the honor. While I can’t tell you exactly what club this man hit out of the right rough, I would guess it was a 2 or 3 iron based on the distance it travelled. At first, I thought it was headed towards the cliffs on the right, but as I watched it in flight, I realized it was painting the flagstick. It stopped a foot from the hole, which meant he was in with par. That is the beautiful thing about match play because his spectacular shot made me reconsider mine. Suddenly, I was looking at the cliffs on the right that I hadn’t noticed. I pulled my approach into the left bunker, blasted out to 6 feet and missed. Now, instead of the match being all square, I was 2 down. He birdied the 11th and won the 12th with a two putt par. I was cooked and we were soon shaking hands on the 14th green.

This loss bothered me for a while. Who the hell was that dude? In fact, I carried it quietly in my subconscious until 2015 when I hosted a group at Rancho Santa Fe Golf Club near San Diego. I walked into the clubhouse and the first thing one sees is a massive board that has all the Club Champions listed. There was a name on the board that I recognized. As of this writing, he’s won 14 club championships in a row and 17 over an 18 year span. He won the 1990 Southern California Amateur, the Trans-Mississippi Senior in 2012, is a 9-time San Diego City Amateur Champion, and he qualified for the 1988 United States Open. His name is Patrick Duncan and he was the “stiff” that took my lunch money at Pebble Beach roughly 25 years prior. At that point, I nodded to the board and Mr. Duncan with the proper respect and was able to let the humiliating defeat wash off.

I think the appearance he cultivated at that State Am was just for show because Rancho Santa Fe is one of the ritziest clubs in California. And it worked. I underestimated him based on appearance, and I got straight hustled. Now that I’m long in the tooth, I definitely agree that “youth is wasted on the young.”