It was a Wednesday in late January of 2009, and I stood on the slope to the right of the 18th green on the Torrey Pines South Course.
As the golfers finished their pro-am rounds in the PGA Tour’s Farmers Insurance Open, out of the corner of my right eye I caught a blur of a large person rushing at me.
I recognized the voice before I had a chance to turn and see his face.
“Hey, golf guy!”
It was Chargers quarterback Philip Rivers. Until he reached out to shake my hand in that good ol’ way only he can, I wasn’t sure he was talking to me.
Months earlier, we in the Union-Tribune sports section put together a foursome of San Diego sportsmen to play the gnarly, major championship-ready South Course shortly before the 2008 U.S. Open. It turned out better than we could have ever hoped. Rivers obliged, along with Hall of Famer Tony Gwynn, then-Chargers head coach Norv Turner, and motocross star Broc Glover.
I chronicled their day, and it was memorable. Glover medaled in the group, shooting 94. Rivers carded 99, Turner shot 100 and Gwynn good-naturedly cackled his way to 119 – 100 more strokes than his jersey number.
Anyway, Rivers ed me from that day, and in a gesture that would forever put me solidly in his corner, didn’t hesitate to come over to say hi. He didn’t have to; that’s just who he is.
In my subsequent time pitching in with some stories out at Chargers camp, Rivers never called me by my given name. I’m not sure he knew it. But, honestly, it was far more satisfying to hear, “Hey, golf guy.”
That’s me, for sure, the Golf Guy.
Hopefully, I’ve been your Golf Guy, though it’s with mixed emotions that I tell you that our run is coming to an end.
I’m leaving the Union-Tribune this week, having accepted a writing and editing position on the digital side of Golf Digest.
I agonized over the decision. Understand, as a kid, I threw papers for the Evening Tribune during the week and the Union on Sundays. I wrapped rubber bands around the stories of Jerry Magee, Nick Canepa and Bill Center before I ever dreamed of working alongside them.
Life has its twists, however, and though I didn’t see this one coming, it’s a new adventure I can’t up. There’s no more fertile ground for quality golf journalism than Golf Digest. It’s the gold standard, and when I was asked to be a part of that, I was compelled to say yes.
Without my nearly 24 years at the Union-Tribune, there’s no way that’s ever possible.
Over the last two decades I’ve had the enormous, humbling privilege and honor to cover golf here. I succeeded T.R. Reinman in the summer of 2000, and until late 2016, I wrote nearly everything that appeared on Tuesdays in the very popular “Page Fore.”
By my count, that’s nearly 900 golf pages produced over the span. It’s a number I can’t quite wrap my head around, but, of course, it seems like just last Tuesday that I wrote the first one.
The amazing thing is that over those hundreds of times, there were very few weeks when I scrambled to find something to write about. That’s how good this golf town is. Truly, it’s like no other.
Eighteen Masters covered, 17 U.S. Opens, 12 PGA Championships, three British Opens, two Ryder Cups. More than 200 golf tournaments total. I can’t tell you how many times I got a chuckle out of people asking if they could “caddie” for me, maybe carry my notebook.
I had the good fortune of this newspaper investing the money to be there for you. I hope I delivered something worthy of your time more often than not.
On my end, it was an absolute blast.
I don’t think the timing to be on the beat could have been better. I watched Sam Snead hit honorary tee shots at the Masters before he ed. Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player and Tom Watson were in the late stages of their playing careers, and to see each of them walk their final competitive holes at Augusta National was an honor. I cried for all of them.
Then there was covering the bulk of the careers of Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson.
In this last 10 years came the emergence of youngsters such as Rory McIlroy, Jordan Spieth, Jason Day, Justin Thomas and San Diego’s own Xander Schauffele. Each of their stories is unique and compelling enough to last us another decade, at least.
My introduction to majors for the paper was Woods’ scintillating playoff win over Bob May in the 2000 PGA. My last Masters for the U-T will be Woods’ improbable triumph last year. A nice bookend.
Nothing before or after has rivaled the experience of the 2008 U.S. Open at Torrey Pines. Rocco Mediate. Tiger. The birdie putt at 18 on Sunday. The playoff on Monday. There was a charge in the air that I’d never felt at a golf tournament. The fact that it was happening in our hometown, on our municipal course, after years of buildup, was indescribably cool.
How do I describe covering Mickelson after all these years? I have the same answer for everyone: Give me a few beers and a couple of hours.
He’s mercurial. Complex. Goofy. Daring. Smart. Hard-headed. Wholly accessible at times, completely disinterested at others. We’ve had our ups and downs, but I can truly say that he’s been the most fascinating athlete I’ve ever covered.
He’s got a wonderful family, too. Some of my happiest memories on the beat are strolling outside the ropes with Amy Mickelson at Pebble Beach or Riviera. Our kids were usually the subject, and she always listened as much as she talked.
There’s only one athlete who ever offered me a ride on his plane. It was Phil. He’d just smoked Woods with a final-round 64 in the 2012 Pebble Beach National Pro-Am, and in his delirium he said I should him on the flight home that night.
I was beyond stunned and could hardly speak before finally gurgling out a “Thank you, but no,” having decided writing a story, making deadline and keeping my job should probably take priority. It was an awfully gracious gesture, though.
I’ve been there for all of Mickelson’s five major wins except the British Open. His first Masters victory in 2004 was the best, of course. But Augusta in 2010, when he won amid the cancer fights of Amy, and his mom, Mary, was more emotional.
One of the greatest parts for me, and hopefully you, is that it seemed we always had San Diegans deep in the mix in pro golf. In my time on the beat, beyond Mickelson and Schauffele, Charley Hoffman, Pat Perez, Chris Riley, Scott Piercy and Michael Kim won tour events.
Think about San Diego’s pro golf windfall. From Billy Casper’s 1959 U.S. Open victory to Mickelson’s British triumph in 2013, there is a tightly sewn quilt of major champions. Casper, Gene Littler, Scott Simpson, Craig Stadler, and Mickelson. Schauffele seems like a good bet to keep the run alive.
Billy Casper will always hold a special place for me. He welcomed me with open arms – no surprise there – and one of the greatest experiences of my life is lunching with him and Nick Canepa in the upstairs dining room of the Augusta National clubhouse.
Billy told us stories of his cherished times at the Masters and pointed to a painting behind me, above my right shoulder. It was a portrait of former Augusta Chairman Clifford Roberts.
“Look at the signature,” Billy said.
Dwight Eisenhower had wielded the brush. You could have knocked me over with a pimento cheese sandwich.
Then Casper escorted Nick and me – one at a time – into the Masters Champions locker room. I stood there in a hush, unable to utter anything more than, “Wow.”
Another encounter with a true legend came in a phone call a few years ago. San Diego Country Club was organizing a tournament for high school girls and calling it the Mickey Wright Invitational. Julie Goldberg, the organizer, asked if I’d like to speak to Ms. Wright, the San Diego native considered by many to be the greatest female golfer of all time.
I didn’t know that was possible. It was rumored for years that Wright was reclusive and didn’t speak to the press. But Goldberg had her call me from her Florida home, and we had a fascinating and delightful conversation. Wright couldn’t have been more friendly and engaging. The moral was: Don’t always believe what you hear or read.
I’ve had to write too many obituaries. Casper, Littler, Paul Runyan, Phil Rodgers, Ely Callaway, Tom Crow, Steve Horrell, Don and Betty Stadler, and the great La Jolla amateur Doug Clarke.
You experience the pain of those, but it’s balanced by the continuing relationships you hold dear.
In no particular order, there are people in my San Diego golf experience who need to be thanked and recognized: Mike Riley, Megan Mahoney, Holly Kennedy, Chris Spence, Ryan Donovan, Dale Walker, John Schroeder, Tiffany Joh, Johnny Gonzales, Chuck Courtney, Pete Coe, John Osborne, Dennis Paulson, Stacy Hoffman, Dean Knuth, Rick Schloss, Tom Wilson, Jay Rains, Tom Addis III, Kip Puterbaugh, Shawn Cox, Derek Uyeda, Bob Townsend, Chris Smeal, Brian Smock, Ross Marcano, John McNair, Roger Porzak, Mark Marney, Scott Bentley, Susan Casagranda, Joe DeBock, Don King, Rex Cole, John Ashworth, Monty Leong, Tony Perez, Howard Wright, Marty Remmell, Rick Johnson, Mike Zucchet, Dennis Baggett, Lindsay Allen.
There are many more fine folks in the game here who have shared their stories, be they amateur players, architects, starters, teachers, club makers or greens keepers. Is there a more cohesive sporting community in this county? I think not.
In the last few years, my responsibilities expanded far beyond golf, which was good for me. I was never one to focus on the Big Four sports in my life or work, and so covering San Diego State football, all UC San Diego sports, indoor Sockers, Legion rugby, Seals lacrosse, Loyal soccer and Del Mar horse racing was a challenge, an education and a pleasure.
My takeaway from the experience: Don’t sit on the couch and groan about missing what we don’t have. There are countless coaches and athletes in this town who are worthy of your time, attention and .
It’s very possible you’ll see me in the stands at any one of them, or maybe in the press box. This is a farewell of sorts, but I’m hardly disappearing.
Nevertheless, you valued readers should know, there will never be anything like being your Golf Guy.
