Decorum was the Rule of Order during the US Open, hosted by the iconic and storied Pebble Beach Golf Course.
Unlike the drunken party that is the Phoenix Open, now called the Waste Management Phoenix Open (a perfect sponsor for the desert party that it is), Pebble Beach is like that innocent lass whose skin is milky and whose hue is rose.
At Pebble Beach, crowds are quiet; the ocean is still; the vistas are breathtaking; the turf is exceeded only by the opulence and old money that circulate like subtle breezes off the coastline.
I must admit that even though I had sprained my ankle the night before, tangling myself in my new vacuum hose and missing a step, I knew that nothing would keep me from the atmospheric fog of Pebble Beach.
We saw the usual crowd magnets but somehow the views and stateliness of old Pebble Beach dwarfed whatever expectation I had about seeing Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, or Brooks Koepka. (yawn). Only Rory McIlroy and Rickie Fowler–two fine representatives of their generation and of men who seem about something more than themselves, were of interest to me.
I’m over Tiger Woods. Actually, I never was in to him anyway as I was with George Harrison, Franco Nero, and other men whom I have admired along the way of life.
The real draw at Pebble Beach is a sensual, arresting, imaginative look at Cypress trees, small perfect beaches, and the luscious quiet, even around the greens. That sliver of turquoise water rolling into a white sand beach!