I dedicate this blog to my new friends Fredrik Lindblom, Hannah Gregg, and Timmy Jordan for teaching me that authenticity is most important when engaging your audience…
After my perfectly executed European Adventure (which I take no credit for, I just have great friends), it was my turn to deliver the goods for the 2nd leg of Where’s William Now. The buck stopped with me in the areas of planning, logistics, and execution. On paper, I had 12 Top 100 tracks in 15 days lined up– a veritable Rubik’s Cube of shifting and shuffling. But there is an ocean between great ideas and great execution. Suffice to say, the very moment I put the Captain’s hat on my head, the USS Sendell ran aground.
The flight from Dublin to London to Newark was smooth and painless. I had an aisle seat and two people sitting next to me with enormous bladders. As such, I did not have to get up unless it was my choice. I had a lovely British Airways meal and watched three completely different yet excellent movies: Three Goodbyes (tear-jerker), Edge of Tomorrow (action), and Marty Supreme (complete chaos). We landed on time, I cruised through customs, and the very first bag to hit the carousel was my massive olive suitcase. Where’s William Now? William is on a freaking roll.
However, 90 minutes later, my golf bag had yet to be located. I waited patiently knowing I had nowhere to go because my oldest son was landing around 11pm and I was his ride. When the agent walked slowly towards me, she had the look of a doctor about to give her patient some terrible news. And the news was accompanied by a Missing Baggage Form. I felt my knees buckle slightly as I imagined my sticks–my other 14 children–sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow shivering in the cold, wet, London night.
I picked up both of my sons 7 hours apart and delivered them to the hotel safely, but not efficiently. I was distracted and cranky. I hadn’t driven a car in a couple of weeks and New Jersey isn’t the place to get the rust off. I made several wrong turns with both of them, turning 10 minute drives into half hours while simultaneously screaming at Siri. I slept restlessly, struggling to remain positive because our first tee time at WINGED FOOT WEST was 2pm. I was scheduled to fight the Giant Cyclops, but my swords weren’t in my scabbard. I reluctantly texted my hosts and told them I had no sticks. As I settled into the reality of playing one of the finest courses in America with borrowed clubs, I felt some of my soul leave my body.
There are two courses at Winged Foot, plus Quaker Ridge, and Sleepy Hollow all within a 5 mile radius near Scarsdale, New York. The drive from Newark left some scars as I made more wrong turns, traffic bottlenecked, horns blared all around us, and I got my pockets emptied by tolls. But I got my valuable cargo across the Washington Bridge safely and the constant congestion of the city gave way to open pavement and massive trees.
After a quick lunch in town, we pulled into the gate, geared up, and made the walk up to the sublime stone clubhouse. The stones used in the construction of this magnificent building were actually collected from the property. The course was designed by Tillinghast and shaped with horse and plow. One of the holes is named White Mule to honor this history, with other hole names like Long Lane, Babe-in-the-Woods, Arena, Pulpit, Billows, Cape, Hells-Bells, and Well-Well. The 18th is called Revelations, and I was having another revelation that I would be playing this incredible property with rentals.
The Titleist clubs were high quality, but unfamiliar. We tried to get to know each other on the range, but the conversation was forced. There was just no chemistry, like the first five minutes of a Tinder date where you rue the next two hours. Our host professional Brett was an exceptional player and I couldn’t pick three better people to witness the carnage. My opening drive missed the fairway by 3 inches and ended up in a tight fist of Kentucky Bluegrass rough. I chopped it into a cross-bunker and hit a mediocre explosion shot to the front of the green. Two putts and I would graciously accept an opening bogey. But as I took a closer look at the green, it looked like the angry El Niño seas in Southern California. And if the heavy, bulky, closed face putter I was holding in my hands was the boat to help me navigate these swells, I was sunk.
My first attempt tried to crest the last wave before the hole like the movie, The Perfect Storm. Then, just like George Clooney’s trawler, it tumbled back past the spot where it was originally struck. I ended up four-putting the first for triple. Then I made double at the 2nd after a wayward drive and an attempted recovery that hit one of the giant elms and bounced back over my head. I three putted the fourth. I three putted the difficult 8th after hitting a great approach to about 20 feet. I three putted the par 5 ninth to turn in 43 shots, using 22 putts. The back nine didn’t get any better. I hit a nice tee shot to the difficult 10th and three putted. I hit it close on the 11th and didn’t sniff the hole. I rope hooked a three wood onto the par 5 12th to about 20 feet and three putted again. I three putted the 14th. I closed with two pars for an 85 with 43 putts. The putter felt like I was writing left handed for a couple of reasons. It didn’t feel anything like my regular putter, and I had grown accustomed to links greens over the last two weeks. I knew it would be bad, but not quite this bad.
In some good news, my sons played great–both breaking 80. We had a nice dinner and a short drive to the hotel, where they reminded me about my Winged Foot putting performance. Yes, boys, I know. I was there. And now–after this blog–all of you were there too. Authenticity.
As Mr. Mister once said, “take these broken wings, and learn to fly again.” My clubs have been found and will be delivered to my welcoming arms before we play Quaker Ridge tomorrow at 8:35am. Let’s get to work!
