Eighteen Holes Carrying the Score Sign

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A few minutes before 7 a.m. I walked to the first tee with a PR person and a marshal and hoisted the standard with the names John Daly, José Cóceres, and Shane Bertsch over my head as instructed. Daly was at even par, Cóceres was 2 under, and Bertsch 1 under.

After I introduced myself to the ShotLink lady, the semiofficial scorekeeper—who looked at me incredulously—and told her why I was there, she sort of laughed and also had some counsel: "Drink lots of water, stay in the rough, walk behind me, stop when I stop, and don't talk to the pros." She too was a pro. This was her 28th Buick Open as a volunteer.

As I looked down the first fairway, for a 567-yard, par-5 hole, one thought was very clear: This was going to be a long morning. The early gallery was forming on the tee box, and there were a few spectators lining the fairway. The gallery was not yet big. It was already muggy and I was sweating.

The First Tee

The pros' caddies arrived and began filling their pros' golf bags with energy bars, water, and other snacks while chatting amiably among themselves. All three came up to us to introduce themselves—first names only—in a very friendly way. Daly's caddie asked me, "What the hell are you doing carrying a standard?" I told him I was writing an article, which elicited a smile and shrug.

Moments later the golfers arrived and proceeded to swing their really big drivers in graceful arcs of speed and power. Daly and Bertsch shook our hands and thanked us for our volunteer work without introducing themselves.

At precisely 7 a.m. the official starter announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the second round of the Buick Open." The gallery's conversations stopped as the starter continued, "On the tee is the 1991 PGA champion, John Daly from Pardanelle, Ark." A smattering of applause followed. It was early, the crowd smallish. Sportswriters call it the "Tiger effect": When he doesn't play, TV ratings go down and the crowds are smaller.

Wearing a bright yellow shirt and no cap, Big John, as he's often called, dropped his cigarette, nodded to acknowledge the gallery's applause, walked to the markers, carefully set his tee, and then placed the shiny white ball on it. He stepped back with the club in his big beefy hands, looked down the fairway, set his stance, and then proceeded to twist and contort his bulky 5-foot-11, 220-plus pound frame into an unnatural shape as he pulled the club up and then quickly down to hit the ball with a loud…CLICK! WHACK! It zoomed down the fairway. Returning to a "normal" posture, Daly gazed down the fairway and shrugged. The ball was going long, but would be in heavy rough.

The gallery called out: "Go get 'em, J.D.! Nice drive. Good luck." The other golfers were introduced and hit their first shots of the day with not much more than polite clapping. And so the day began. The first of 18 holes.

The Game Is Their Job

Being "inside the ropes" gives one an interesting perspective on a golf tournament. It's not like one is playing golf; rather, one is a mute participant in an event where one can observe the concentration, focus, and intensity of a professional golfer. Most of us play the game. The pros are working. This is their livelihood. They are professionals.

Just one errant shot or one missed putt can reduce what they earn by thousands of dollars, or worse. If they don't score well and miss the cut, that means they don't play in the final two days of the tournament, barely allowing them to earn travel expenses.

Unlike most everyday golfers who may walk casually, if they don't ride in carts, golf professionals don't just walk. They stride at a fast, purposeful pace. Focus, focus, focus—don't lose focus. No one wants to get a warning for slow play or hold up the group behind them. Keeping up with them was not easy.

Up the hills, down, trudging through the rough, hoisting the sign, resting the sign—for 18 holes the process was duplicated, without intently watching the golfers. I was not a spectator. There was a job to do.

Surprisingly there was almost no conversation, let alone communication among the three golfers. The pros did quietly question their caddies, but from what I could hear, it was about how to hit the next shot. Each was in their own zone.

Finishing the Round

Hitting out of deep rough on the second hole, Daly aggravated an old injury on his right hand and for the balance of the course would release the hand from his club as soon as he struck the ball. It looked odd, resulted in some poor ball striking, and caused some negative comments from the gallery. But Cóceres, an Argentinean, was not having a good day either and his Latin temper showed as he slammed his putter down. Bertsch was consistent, straight, and sinking putts.

At one point, there was a backup and long wait at the 12th hole. Daly's caddie walked over and as he handed me a golf ball, he said, "J.D. autographed this for you." That was the only communication I had with Daly all morning. He wasn't too happy.

The course for the Buick Open is long, but not very challenging for the pros. The media center was advised the cut would be at least 5 under par. Daly was even par to start, hit a couple of nice birdie putts, and at one time was 2 under, but the wheels fell off after he hurt his hand and he was 2 over for the second round and would not make the cut. Neither did Cóceres. Bertsch would play the weekend.

Leaving the 18th green, Daly was the only pro who said anything to either the ShotLink lady or me. He held out his left hand and said, "Thanks." My career as a pro golf tournament standard bearer was over. I had walked the entire 18 holes and even had a semi-gallery of my own: a photographer to record the event, a couple of friends who came to see if I'd really do it, and my son and wife who came to see if I'd last all 18 holes. Would I do it again? No thanks. But I'll never watch a golf game the same way again.

Marty Bernstein is a contributing editor at the American International Automobile Dealers Assn.