A Day With the LPGA
April 27—The LPGA Tour’s in Orlando this week. Apparently someone forgot to tell Orlando.
As I veered off exit 58 on I-4 and made my way toward the tournament, I noticed one, yes, one, other car merge onto the exit ramp.
I’d be willing to bet that the ratio of staff to spectators was 1:1, slightly higher than what you would find at a Little League baseball game.
Perhaps the Kansas City Royals-type attendance figures during Wednesday’s pro-am can be explained by the genius who drew up the route to find the spectator parking lot. It should have been sad enough that I crossed over the same bridge twice, going in opposite directions both times, but it was even sadder that I wasn’t lost.
I haven’t felt that confused since watching President Bush’s last State of the Union speech.
Any who, once I arrived at Reunion Resort & Club, my first order of business was clear: track down Lorena Ochoa, the LPGA Tour’s leading money winner.
To use an analogy Berkshire County residents can relate to, she’s the Pete Bacon of fairway wood artisans on the LPGA Tour. On the 72nd hole of the Kraft Nabisco Championship, the year’s first major, she stuffed a 220-yard 5-wood inside 15-feet then made the putt for eagle to force a playoff eventually won by Karrie Webb. Weeks later, in Las Vegas, she stuffed another 5-wood inside 10-feet for another eagle during the first round of the Takefuji Classic.
And she’s got a great accent.
But she was overshadowed by her four male amateur partners on this day, mainly because of their incessant insistence to act as if they had any type of golf game.
For example:
On the tee of the par-5 17th hole, one guy hit a tee shot that never even considered going anywhere but wide right. Just picture the motion of your windshield wipers during a storm. That type of left-to-right movement.
As he walked off the tee, he began to examine the shaft of his club, as if the 50-yard slice he had just produced didn’t result from faulty mechanics.
He muttered something to himself then pointed to his caddy, who had taken a picture of his swing, as he had requested.
“Every time you shoot me, I hit a bad shot,” he said. “Maybe I need a new shooter.”
Maybe. And maybe Jack Bauer’s responsible for the death of David Palmer.
After 20 minutes following that headache, I caught up with Natalie Gulbis, who, not surprisingly, attracted a gallery of nearly 100 people, easily the largest of the day. But as I got closer to her group on no. 4, I realized that she wasn’t the sole interest of the fans.
Far from it, in fact.
Dakoda Dowd, a 13-year old amateur phenom playing on a sponsor’s exemption from Ginn Resorts mogul Bobby Ginn, had been substituted into Gulbis’ group.
Dowd doesn’t quite call to mind the exploits that Michelle Wie displayed at that age, but her story has garnered as much, if not more attention from the national media.
Her mother, Kelly Jo, has endured through a double mastectomy and intense chemotherapy treatments in her fight against breast cancer, which she was first diagnosed with in December of 2001.
Last May, doctors discovered the cancer had spread to her hip, liver and near her spine. She began her second chemotherapy treatment April 6th, but no one knows if, or when, she will fully recover.
Through it all, Dakoda has been a constant source of strength, a reason to continue.
With more than 180 junior victories under her belt, young Dakoda’s golf game has been featured in magazines across the country. Years from now, she could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Natalie Gulbis down the stretch of a tournament.
But her mother might not be there with her.
This week—every hole, every shot, every moment—Kelly Jo will be there every step of the way, through the ups and the downs, providing her daughter with a reason to continue.
If her tee shot on Wednesday at the par-3 5th hole is any indication, she could have a very good week.
From 180 yards, she played the best shot of the group—Gulbis included—and laced a fairway metal pin high, to a green protected by bunkers short, left and right.
For at least one week, Gulbis might not attract the largest galleries.
While Dowd prepared for her first appearance on the LPGA Tour, a pair of future hopefuls tugged anxiously at the ropes lining the driving range on the other side of the golf course.
Minutes later, World Golf Hall of Fame member Juli Inkster walked by. Both girls inched toward her and asked if they could take a picture with her. One by one, she crouched next to each of them and smiled.
As Inkster walked away, both girls glowed and smiled at each other. I didn’t hear either of them say anything, but I got the impression they were thinking, “I wanna be just like her when I grow up.”
Like them, I looked on in admiration as Inkster practiced, but I didn’t quite harbor those same aspirations as a youngster. I never could see myself playing on the LPGA Tour, but if the mood’s right, you might be able to get me into a pair of those capri's Inkster was wearing.
They just look so comfortable.
If you looked carefully, or had a twisted imagination, the driving range had a noticeable split screen image of the past and future versions of the LPGA Tour.
On one end, you had the past. Rosie Jones, 46, mucked it up with her caddy. Forty-five-year old Dawn Coe-Jones, chiseled and stone-faced, practiced diligently and scared the hell out of me. She’s got me by a couple inches and possibly even 15 pounds. Now I know how Phoenix Suns guard Raja Bell feels when Kobe Bryant posts him up.
On the other end, you had the future. Morgan Pressel, 17, 2nd in last year’s U.S. Open as an amateur, striped mid-iron after mid-iron at a target about 150-yards away. Several other players I couldn’t pick out of a lineup practiced alongside Pressel. All of them would get carded at a bar.
This isn’t your grandmother’s LPGA Tour.
To paraphrase a line from Rick Pitino during his days with the Celtics, JoAnne “Big Momma” Carner isn’t coming through those ropes anytime soon.
Not that I’m complaining.
As I made my way back to the clubhouse, I noticed an interesting parallel between the LPGA and PGA Tours.
Both have groupies.
Oh, you know what I mean.
The short-skirted, lip-sticked up flirtations who stalk Freddie Couples at every event.
The people in the gallery who don’t say boo for a good shot, but whistle when Freddie bends over and fixes his pant leg.
Those same flaunters have now made their way onto the LPGA Tour, as men, of course.
Behind the practice green, in front of the hospitality tents where sick old married men wearing sunglasses sit with their wives and check out the better-looking players, I spotted a male spectator a few years older than me who bore a striking resemblance to Brad Pitt, minus the good looks and one of Angelina Jolie’s adopted third world children in his arms.
He had on a pair of designer pants that paste to your legs and look tighter than FEMA’s budget. And he was wearing one of those belts that are too big for the loop holes in the pants. If Joan Rivers saw this guy, she would have puked.
I wanna be just like him when I grow up.