“Six months is a long time,” he said. “Then when I started playing again, there was all the attention—which I thought I was prepared for, because it hadn’t really bothered me at Q School. I’ve thought about it a lot since then, and here’s what I think I’ve figured out: When you’re playing well, attention doesn’t bother you—nothing bothers you. When you’re on the golf course, you don’t hear anything; you’re oblivious. But when you aren’t playing well, everything bothers you; everything seems harder. You hear everything people say. You start to worry about not living up to expectations. For the first time in my life, I actually felt pressure to play good golf. That had never happened to me before. Golf had always been easy for me. It was what I did. When I was younger, I changed my school schedule so I could get out two periods early [missing a nonrequired music class and a physical education class] so that I could spend time with a personal trainer and have more time to play.
“A lot of people were critical of the decision my parents and I made, but college wasn’t for me. I knew that, and, most important, I was good enough. If I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have made it through Q School. Golf was what I wanted to do; it was what I always loved doing.”
It was also quite lucrative at the outset of his pro career, because corporations love youth and they are all looking for the next Tiger Woods—or at least the next Phil Mickelson. Tryon seemed to have that kind of potential. He was the most Gen-X of the young guns, clearly still a kid with a love for video games and a tendency to call almost everyone he met “dude” (though always in a polite way). He signed a five-year contract with Callaway and shorter contracts with Target, EA Sports (“I was on a video game,” he said proudly), and Red Bull.
“The good news is, I took the money from those contracts and invested wisely,” he said. “I’ve got a nice house, and I’m in good shape financially, which means I can work my way through what’s going on with my golf game without worrying about how I’m going to make a living.” He smiled. “The only thing I have to do now is find my golf game again. It’s been missing in action.”
At twenty-one, Tryon looked a lot different than the seventeen-year-old who had blown through Q School four years earlier. His dark hair was long and curly, and he had a full beard that made him look more like a young biker than a young golfer. He was baffled by his golf game but still felt he was going in the right direction with his life. As he sat talking in the house right off the 18th green that he and Patrick Damron were sharing for the week, some of his laments—“I three-putted twice today for par on the par-fives; that’s killing me”—were familiar to anyone who has ever talked to a frustrated golfer. But he made no excuses for his struggles and blamed no one for his fall from PGA tour phenom to mini-tour player.
“I try to remember that I’m still very young and golf is a lifetime game,” he said. “Sometimes I forget, and I feel like I have to get my act together now. But then I calm down and realize I’m still a work in progress. I’ve had some injuries, and I’ve had some growing up to do. But I don’t have any regrets about the decision I made or about where I am.”
He had broken off from his parents, most notably his father, for a while when things started to go awry. “We bickered,” he said. “Some of it was natural teenage stuff. But some of it was probably the pressure we both felt when things didn’t go the way we’d thought they would when I turned pro.”
Now, though, he said, his relationship with his father was very good, and his dad had learned to let him do his own thing. “I travel with my girlfriend now, and that’s about it,” he said. “My parents live ten minutes away, and I talk to them all the time. But I’m making my own decisions, and they’re fine with that.” He smiled. “I’ve got one real issue in my life: I’m not making enough putts.”
He had finished first stage tied for 10th and arrived at Lake Jovita feeling more confident, he said, than at any time since his run in 2001. He had come down to Lake Jovita a few weeks prior to the tournament and played a couple of practice rounds with Garrett Willis. “Shot eight under par one day,” he said. “This is a good golf course with fast greens. You make putts, you can score.”
The first day of second stage had been frustrating but okay—an even-par 72. “I’m leaving shots out there,” he said, standing on the putting green not long before dark. “I can’t afford to miss makeable putts. I’m hitting the ball great, but you can’t score if you don’t make putts.”
He wore the look of a golfer who believes he’s close—but knows close isn’t good enough. “Q School is Q School,” he said. “You can talk all you want about what-ifs when it’s over. In the end, they don’t matter. What matters is what is, not what if. And what is right now is that I’ve got to start making putts.”
8
Moving Day
THE FIRST TWO ROUNDS of most golf tournaments carry a certain amount of trepidation for most players because of the 36-hole cut. Everyone knows that half the field will be sent home after two rounds, and except for those at the top of the leader board, players are concerned about what the cut number will be.
That’s not the case at Q School, where there are no cuts. Everyone gets to play 72 holes—except at the finals, where everyone gets to play 108. What that does for most players is to keep either panic or calm from creeping in, regardless of where one stands at the end of two days.
At Lake Jovita, after two days of near perfect weather, twenty-two players were at five under par or better, led by Bubba Dickerson, who had shot 66–65 to take a two-stroke lead. Even though Dickerson was only twenty-four and was considered a future star, nothing had come easily to him as a professional.
He had decided to turn pro in the spring of 2002, which meant that he gave up the automatic exemptions he had earned for the U.S. Open and British Open as U.S. Amateur champion in 2001. (He had to remain amateur to use them.) He attempted to qualify for the U.S. Open but missed by two shots. Being just twenty-one and having a cool nickname—his full name is Benjamin Gordon Dickerson, but his older brother, Robert, had started calling him his “little bubba” when he was a baby—he was a sponsor exemption magnet during the rest of that year. He hoped to make enough money in the seven tournaments he was allowed to play under the tour’s rules to enable him to skip Q School, as Tiger Woods and Justin Leonard had. But he came up considerably short. Then he flunked the second stage of Q School. In 2003 he again failed to get through second stage, and he ended up spending two years bouncing between the NGA/Hooters Tour and the European Futures Tour (the European version of the Nationwide Tour).
He made it to the finals in 2004, earning a spot on the Nationwide Tour for 2005. He played solidly there, finishing 38th on the money list, which meant that he was two spots away from getting to skip second stage.
“The good news is, I know I can play the Nationwide and make a living there next year if that’s what I have to do,” he said. “But it isn’t what I want to be doing. I’ll admit this has been tougher than I thought it would be when I left college. But what I’ve learned from all this is, you have to be patient to be successful. I’ve learned it; now I’ve got to actually do it.”
Dickerson had left the University of Florida after two years. He was easy to spot on the golf course with his shock of red hair and, like most young players, his ability to hit the ball celestial distances. After he won the U.S. Amateur in his sophomore year, there wasn’t much left for him to do. Add to that the lure of the sponsorship money that comes to a U.S. Amateur champion turning pro, as well as the belief that he was ready for the tour, and the decision was easy for him. Three and a half years later, he had few regrets, but he had learned some lessons.
“I made mistakes on and off the course,” he said. “I signed with a management group that got me into some contracts where the guarantees were never met. I was younger than most of the guys I was playing with and didn’t know people. Plus, I didn’t really understand how much work I needed to do on my game to get where I want to go.” He smiled. “Hey, I
’m not exactly the Lone Ranger when it comes to dealing with some adversity out here. Everyone’s got a story of some kind.
“I just believe I’m ready now. I watch the tour and I see some guy, and I think to myself, ‘I can play better than that.’ Maybe I’m wrong. I was wrong coming out of college about how easy it was going to be, that’s for sure. But now I think I’m a little more mature and a little more realistic.”
Dickerson had another reason for wanting to spend 2006 on the PGA Tour: he and his wife, Mindy (his high school sweetheart), were expecting their second child in March. “If it’s time, then it’s time,” he said. “I’m trying to take the approach that this is just another tournament that I’m trying to win.” He shook his head. “Of course I know that’s not even close to being true.”
THE CAST OF CHARACTERS at Lake Jovita was both fascinating and diverse, ranging from tour veterans like Donnie Hammond, Mike Hulbert, and Guy Boros to youngsters like Dickerson, Chad Wilfong, Steve Wheatcroft, and Colby Beckstrom. Wilfong had made the finals in 2004, eighteen months after graduating from Wake Forest. Wheatcroft and Beckstrom were trying to make the finals for the first time. One young player who almost certainly would have been a factor was a no-show. Alex Rocha, who had tied for first place in the first stage at Tampa Bay, had made it to the finals of the European Tour’s Q School. He had planned to finish playing in Europe on Sunday and then fly in to Lake Jovita to tee it up on Tuesday. But weather delays in Europe had forced him to choose: wait out the finish of the European finals or fly home to take a shot at second stage.
Rocha, who was Brazilian by birth but lived in Florida, decided to go with the bird that was almost in hand and stay in Europe. He ended up tied for ninth in the European school, which gave him full status on that tour in 2006.
Beckstrom had finished third in Tampa and was still riding high when he opened with a 66. A second-round 72 left him in a strong position and still feeling confident. Most of the field was bunched close behind the twenty-two players who were at five under par or better after two rounds. Almost no one, even Dickerson, who was eight shots inside the cut line, and Grant Waite, who was two shots behind Dickerson, could rest easily. Those who trailed felt there was plenty of time to catch up.
“You don’t have to do anything spectacular unless you’re way back,” said Blaine McCallister, the longtime tour veteran who was right on the number at five under. “It’s a fair golf course, and if you don’t make any big numbers, you can get a couple under every day and do just fine. Of course, you have to understand that. You can’t go out there a few shots back with 36 holes to play and try to play the front nine in eight under. It’s not going to happen.”
Two players who were a few shots outside the number but still close enough not to panic were David Gossett and Jeff Curl, who had finished 36 holes at 142—two under par. The two men were paired together along with Jimmy Green, another former tour player trying to get his card back, for the third round. They teed off on the back nine. Curl, who had missed at second stage the past two years, was trying to get to where Gossett and Green had already been: the PGA Tour. He was also trying to follow in the footsteps of his father, Rod Curl.
Anyone who followed golf in the 1970s was familiar with Rod Curl. He was only 5 feet 5, but he could really play golf. A solid money winner for many years, he beat Jack Nicklaus by one shot at Colonial in 1974. He was known as a fierce competitor during his playing days, and as he followed his son around the golf course now, it was apparent he hadn’t changed.
“This is tough to watch,” he said after Jeff’s opening-round 71. “I watch him, and I’m reminded of how dumb I was at that age, the mistakes I made back then, because he makes the same ones. If I could have put my mind into his body today, the highest he can shoot is 69. Maybe better than that.”
“Last year he played great golf at first and second stage and still didn’t make it. This is like taking finals three times in a row. You pass the first time, they say, ‘Okay, we’re going to make the questions tougher, and you have to take it again.’ If you pass the second time, they make you do it all over again, except it’s for six rounds, not four.
“But if you’re in the finals, you have a job. That’s why this stage is everything.”
It was quiet when Gossett, Green, and Curl teed off in front of a gallery that consisted of Rod Curl and Gossett’s teacher, Jonathan Yarwood. He and Gossett had worked together during Gossett’s formative years, before Gossett had gone to work briefly with David Leadbetter. Yarwood, whose profile had widened considerably when another of his pupils, Michael Campbell, held off Tiger Woods to win the U.S. Open in June 2005, was a dead ringer for Hall of Fame pitcher Dennis Eckersley: long, straight, black hair and a suave mustache.
Yarwood had flown in the day before to check Gossett’s swing and provide moral support for him on the golf course. The day began routinely enough with all three players making par on the 10th hole. They hit their drives at number 11 and started walking off the tee. At that moment, Yarwood’s cell phone rang.
Most people aren’t allowed to bring cell phones to golf tournaments. Those who are (players, caddies, media, officials) know the phones have to be turned off when they are anywhere near the golf course. At the Masters, the rules are so strict that if anyone is caught carrying a cell phone on the course—even if it is turned off—it is confiscated, and the person may be asked to leave.
There aren’t any rules like that at Q School, but it is so quiet on the golf course that a ringing cell phone sounds a bit like a cannon being shot off. As soon as he heard the phone, Yarwood knew he’d made a mistake. He reached into his pocket, took the phone out, and, without looking at the number of the incoming call, shut the phone off.
Before he could apologize, Rod Curl was in his face. “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled. “You can’t have a cell phone on out here. Don’t you understand what’s at stake?”
Yarwood apologized. “You’re right,” he said. “I forgot to turn it off. My fault.”
“Apology not accepted,” Curl said, heading off to find a rules official. He found Peter Dachisen, a longtime official from the Florida State Golf Association who had worked numerous Q Schools. When Dachisen asked Yarwood about the incident, Yarwood said that he had forgotten to turn the phone off and showed Dachisen that it was now off. That was good enough for Dachisen.
“I’m going to tell you this one time,” Curl said. “That thing goes off in any way while my son is swinging, I’ll kick your butt right here, right now.”
“He was pretty hot,” Dachisen said later. “I guess there was so much at stake for Jeff, and even though it was an innocent mistake, nothing seems innocent during the third round of second stage.”
Yarwood was about half a foot taller than Curl, but seeing how angry the ex–tour player was, he felt intimidated. Yarwood asked Dachisen for his cell phone number. “I think he felt threatened,” Dachisen said. “I felt pretty confident that nothing more was going to happen, but I think Rod made him nervous.”
Neither Gossett nor Jeff Curl was close enough to the heated discussion to be aware of what was going on. Curl went on to shoot even par that day, but Gossett blew up, shooting 78, which put him 10 shots outside the cut line with 18 holes to play. “You look at that score, and you think I chopped it all day,” he said. “I really didn’t. I’d hit 16 greens each of the first two days, and I was only two under par. I probably pressed a little bit, and I made three bad swings that blew up my round. No excuses, I just didn’t get the job done.”
Jeff Curl was still in contention, still at two under par. Unlike his father he had kept his cool throughout the day. “Harder to watch than to play,” Rod Curl said. “Especially here.”
AS EVIDENCED BY THE CURL-YARWOOD incident, tensions begin to rise on the third day of second stage. On the PGA Tour, the third round of a tournament is known as “moving day,” because if you’re behind and expect to contend, you have to make a move during the third round to give your
self a chance the last 18 holes.
Of course, on tour that’s a reference to players trying to win the tournament. At second stage, a tie for 19th place is just as good as finishing first because there’s no money at stake and everyone who finishes 19th or better is going to the finals and starting over again at even par.
No one dealt with the third-day pressure better than Tommy Tolles, who shot an eight-under-par 64. That gave him a four-shot cushion over Dickerson, who was in second place at 13 under after an even-par 72. Tolles had a seven-shot lead on everyone else in the field.
“The only good thing about being older [thirty-nine] is that I’ve learned to appreciate days like this more,” Tolles said, relaxing on the range while one player after another congratulated him on the round. “It’s taken me a while to figure a lot of things out about the game, but one of them is, there are very few players with ‘the gift.’ The rest of us are just out here scrapping it around. Guys like Tiger, Ernie, Phil, Vijay—what they do is like throwing a marble into a Coke can. Most of us can’t do that. They’ve all got something special, whether it’s Tiger’s toughness or Ernie’s hands or Vijay’s diligence or Phil’s creativeness. I don’t have any of that. I spend my life trying to keep my club face from opening up and losing the ball right. I smile when I hit a duck hook. That’s my game.”
Tolles tends to be tough on himself, and he certainly hadn’t had a free ride in the game. Growing up in Fort Myers, Florida, he was one of those kids who played everything. His father and one of his uncles were half of a foursome that started a concrete-pouring business as young men and sold it at a considerable profit in their thirties. Tolles tried football: “Got speared in the stomach. That was it.” He tried baseball: “Got hit in the helmet by a pitch. That was enough for me.” Golf was noncontact, and he was good at it.
“Good, not great,” he said. “I walked on the team at Georgia and never starred there. Golf was what I wanted to do, though. In fact, it was all I did. That may be why I flunked out.”
Tales from Q School: Inside Golf's Fifth Major Page 13
