Day 1

[I wrote this on the laptop mostly to ensure that I could still use my fingers--that'll make sense in a moment. Nothing else can tell the story of Kohler like this will.]
     I'm in a hotel room in Lomira, in the Cheese state on Tuesday evening, trying to defrost after watching several hours of practice for the 86th PGA Championship. I've sunburn on the top of my head, windburn on my cheeks, aching thighs and calves (Whistling Straits is the longest course in major championship history), and frozen toes. It was raining and 58° as I walked off the course. It does not feel like August. The heat is on in the hotel room; I'm wearing sweats, fuzzy socks and a t-shirt and thinking longingly of the thick sweatshirts that I have--on a shelf in a closet at home.
     Several observations merit mention from day one. First, Whistling Straits isn't actually in Kohler. It's in Sheboygan. It's part of the Kohler complex but physically separated from the city (town) of Kohler by 15 miles (to the NE). That's pretty weird and makes for some shitty driving directions. Sheboygan is both north and south of Kohler, and both north and south of the course. Naturally....
     That brings up the second important issue: travel. (a) By and large, people in this state drive like fucking lunatics. They consistently drive as if they have access to not only their own lane, but the oncoming lane and the side of the road as well. It's alarming! (b) The distance between the starting point of this adventure and the course is alleged to be 184 miles, and should have taken about 3 hours. It took nearly 4½. (c) The only hotel to be had within the state was in Lomira, which by the 1-inch-equals-10-miles rule is about 20 miles west of the course but through the perfect state highway system is about an hour (by way of 43 South, 33 West, and 41 North) away. Happily, though, it's an adorable, quiet town and the hotel is clean and new. After November's trip to the grad school city, this is exquisite.
    Third: clothing. What are people thinking when they choose their clothes before heading out to watch a golf tournament? It was in the low-to-mid-60s today. Lots of people were in jeans or khakis with wind-shirts, sweaters, or sweatshirts and seemed perfectly comfortable. I was optimistic and chose my longest shorts, a thick t-shirt and an almost flannel-soft button-down. I was nearly warm enough for most of the day. But the women in 10-inch skirts--what's up with that?! They couldn't possibly sit on the ground, and that's what you do at a golf tournament!

     And they couldn't walk the dunes in their jeweled or feathered flip-flops. And that’s what you do at a links-style course!

     Even some of the players wore questionable clothing. Take Jesper Parnevik--he was wearing white pants, a lime-green shirt, and a white jacket. I'm not saying "white" in some vague sense. I mean WHITE, like, chalk-white. WITE-OUT white. Blinding-white. Crazy. Who in the world gets up in the morning, takes a shower, stumbles blearily toward the closet, scratching and thinking, "Hmm. Practice round for the PGA today. What to wear? Oh, yeah, I've got that insanely white jacket-and-pegged pants combo. I'll pair that with...ah! The lime-green, skin-tight t-shirt that makes me resemble a 6-foot tall Swedish fucking golfing lizard. Yeah, that's it."

    Fourth: babies. Why do people persist in bringing infants to events like this? I can see only two possible reasons. (a) "I cannot leave my child for so much as one second." Answer: "Stay home with your child. No one, particularly the players but certainly the other 40,000 spectators here today, wants to hear your squalling brat interrupt the best golfers in the world while they prepare for the final major of the year." (b) "I don't want my child to miss this opportunity!" Answer: "If your kid is small enough to require the use of a stroller, it will not remember this moment in its life. Leave it at home."
     Fifth: Pants. Nope, this isn't exactly an extension of the clothing rant. There was a guy, walking with 3 friends on the cart path. He was wearing a silky gray polo shirt, tan pants and black shoes--and white underpants. How do I know that? Because his pants had split up the back. Yes. About 5 inches of the poor dude’s tighty-whiteys were peeking out through the opened seam on his ass. Walked behind him for probably a half mile, up and down the dunes, wanting to tell him but not knowing how. "Um, excuse me, but I think you have a problem in your assless pants." Nope. "Pardon me, but you have an issue on your ass." Er, not. "Dude, pants!" "I’m sorry, but I think you may have split

Mandatory Credit: David Cannon/Allsport

your pants. Not that I was looking...." I’d have died. Or laughed, which would be even worse. And besides, by the time I had summoned the courage to think I should say something, the small group of people behind me saw it and started laughing about it. And came up to me and said, "Breezy, eh?" So we all laughed (and I felt like such a bitch). And then another group came up to us and saw it and started laughing...and by that time there were probably 20 of us, and it was so out of control that I couldn't do anything. It was like Kitty Genovese all over again. So, if the incredibly unfortunate guy whose pants split on the Tuesday of the PGA happens to read this--I apologize for not saying anything. I didn't want to make it worse. I didn't take a picture of it, if that makes it any less embarrassing.
     Sixth: heroes. One of the people who I watched today for a long time was Bernhard Langer. He's one of my favorite golfers ever, but also one of my very favorite people in the whole world. He's German, we share a birthday (and with the late Mother Theresa, no less!), and he’s married to a woman who’s from my current domicile. That's all well and good, but really has nothing to do with my admiration for him. That's all about the yips. Bernhard Langer may be best known for suffering through one hell of a case of the yips in the '80s, and for biffing the biggest putt at the War on the Shore (the Ryder Cup at Kiawah Island in '91)--I'm copying in this picture against my better judgment because it’s so very representative of what golf is about.

    Bernhard Langer missed that putt, and Europe lost the Cup. And he could've taken the blame for it on his slight shoulders--he’s not a very big guy, really, and in person looks particularly slender and gentle. But he recovered from the yips, and he recovered from that putt, and since then he's won at least 17 tournaments worldwide, and this year he's the Captain of the European Ryder Cup squad. That means so much. He’s an inspiration. Take what you’re given, learn your lessons, deal with it, and go on.

    That's enough for today. Time to sleep, so I can get up early tomorrow and find more to observe.