When most people think of a golf tournament they probably envision a stuffy, quiet environment that involves a lot of soft clapping. Majors like The Masters, The US Open, The PGA Championship, or The Open are the pinnacle of golf tournaments with every pro competing for the top spot. The green jacket that heralds your place amongst iconic players like Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Phil Mickelson, or Tiger Woods is the envy of the sport. Yet every year in Scottsdale, Arizona the true nature of golf is revealed.
Golf is not this enlightened gentleman’s activity. It’s driving around in a little cart pounding eight Coors Lights before you’ve reached the back nine after screaming profanities and excuses when a putt breaks the wrong way. While it’s a sport you can win against other people, in the words of Bobby Jones: ‘You are not playing a human adversary; you are playing a game. You are playing old man par.’
Each shot you take is not contested by another player or dependent on how your opponent is performing. The competition is against yourself and how you’re able to navigate the terrain. Which is why every time I play with my sister’s boyfriend it quickly devolves into a “laugh at the other person’s pain” experience that I’ve continued to win once he becomes lil’ slugger bombing it out at ninety degrees. Shit-talking is an inherent part of the game because you understand the collective struggle in trying to conquer the impossible and laughing in the shared frustration from a futile fight. It’s also the root of why everyone gets so excited at an amazing hit because that slight moment of triumph indicates a minor victory against the almighty. All of these traits are proudly embodied in The Phoenix Open, otherwise known as “The Greatest Show on Grass” and more appropriately “The People’s Open.”
Taking place in late January or early February before the Sonoran Desert becomes a hell-scape of heat, we take a couple roadies on the shuttle bus as we join hundreds of thousands of other fans at TPC Scottsdale. Ushered through the green, white, and gold entry we’re immediately welcomed with drink stations and crowds to introduce the party. Starting with two tall boy Coors Lights, we mosey around the promotional stands and monitors displaying the current standings. The first groupings we want to see include Bubba Watson, Jordan Spieth, Rickie Fowler, Bryson DeChambeau, and Tony Finau. All of these players are likely to be hall of famers that are coming up on the ninth hole green to finish out their round for the day.
While they’re all around hole six or seven we take position around the green as several other people share the same desire we do; quickly crowding the area as fans walking the course with the group show up. Off in the distance a white speck drops from its apex and plops a few feet from the hole. Then another, and another, and another until the players are pulling out their putters to finalize the score. The quick moment of silence as each player pushes the ball into the cup is not followed by respectful murmurs, but hootin and hollerin fueled by early afternoon buzzes. My greatest superpower is the ability to sweat regardless of the current weather, and as the heat rises so does my aptitude for perspiration, meaning it’s time for another round of drinks to attempt containment of my overwhelming power.
A refreshing whiskey coke is my current companion as we explore the merchandise stands of fun apparel representing the laid-back atmosphere of the tournament. Bright colors, the sound of excited fan reactions in the distance, and the hustle and bustle of the shops make this event more like a concert festival than a sporting occasion. Another beverage refresher, and we make a fruitless attempt at getting into the sixteenth hole.
The sixteenth is the iconic environment of the tournament. Massive stands house screaming fans that actively switch from excitement to disappointment for the par three. It’s actively encouraged to cheer and make tremendous amounts of noise while the players tee off. If the shot sucks, the crowd will rain a stream of dissatisfaction by audibly booing the player, but all in good faith and fun. Certain players will hype the crowd up to generate more racket, clamoring for "The Greatest Show on Grass." It’s the call of golf’s providence. We want to see a good shot. We want to see the course struggle against the players, not the other way around.
For us though, we can only listen to the rowdy crowd and watch the shots on the nearby display because we don’t want to wait in a two-hour line for a chance of entry, but that’s okay because there’s a little gem on the farthest part of the course called “The Ridge.”
Just like the sixteenth, it’s a par three with fan stands to encourage booing and shouting. A massive bar sits in the middle to offer beer, wine, and tequila shots. Unlike the sixteenth though, you can walk right into the area without worrying about waiting times. It’s a short trek out to the area, and with the notoriety of the sixteenth, the crowd funneling out there diminishes, but the excitement persists. Par threes are the most entertaining holes when viewing in person because you can witness the entire play without having to move. Longer holes you either get to see the tee off or the putt in, but not both clearly. With par threes, you get all the action without having to walk; it’s a win-win. If you’re also a connoisseur of degeneracy they offer an excellent gambling opportunity. Money doesn’t need to be at stake, but cold drinks can be based on a two-step bet.
Before the pairing from the previous hole gets to the tee box, each participant gets to choose a number from one through three. Then each person picks a color; in this case green, yellow, or white. The first number is based on which player you think will get the closest to the hole without knowing the order of shooters. The color corresponds to the Caddy Races. After the players hit, the caddies begin a competition of speed to the green. The first one to step on the thin grass is declared the winner, which transforms the group into the equivalent of a man pleading with a jockey to whip the horse faster after he bet his last penny on the ponies. I’m yelling at the yellow caddy to slow down so that he doesn’t pull a muscle and be forced to retire early after this potentially terrible hamstring injury ruins his livelihood. I’m only looking out for their best interests, at least long enough for the green caddy to speed walk the last five feet.
Some caddies are simply psychotic masterminds that love nothing more than to tease the feelings of the crowd who don’t want to chug anymore of this lukewarm beer because the proper player’s ball won’t go to his nice little cup home. One caddy reaches the edge of the green and turns to face the constituents begging him to take one more step. He looks back at the other two caddies trailing behind before lifting his foot just above the finish line causing the crowd to beseech mercy. The other caddies are an inch behind ready to provide a disappointing comeback before the man offers respite and claims victory to send the crowd into a roaring cheer. I’m certain some of the players that day didn’t receive even a fraction of the applause that caddy did.
This form of entertainment lasts for the next few hours before it’s time to call it a day. Slowly lowering ourselves from “The Ridge,” we saunter through several other holes to catch remaining glimpses of the late groups. Passing back by the sixteenth the line is still plenty strong for entry, but across the way is a simulation booth that allows you to take a crack at teeing off on a virtual rendition of the hole. We stop in to boo each other’s poor shots to the flag, embodying a brief feeling of professional status even if only existing in The Matrix.
Stopping by the gift shop on the way out to snag a hat, we start the journey back to the shuttle bus. Entering the exit area one man took the true spirit of golf to new heights as he stumbles drunkenly around the sidewalk. Maybe he tried the simulation as well and is trying to cope with knowing he will inevitably lose to the course. Maybe in the end he wanted to celebrate the game the same as we all do, with a couple drinks to forget the terrible shots we make and to blurrily remember the great ones. There’s the point where alcohol becomes a performance enhancing drug for a golfer as they relax and just say “fuck it” before they hit a beautiful stinger into the middle of the fairway. There’s also the other point where they say “fuck it” and start hitting their entire supply into the water, but we shouldn’t judge a man for passion.
As that drunk guy’s girlfriend looks on in embarrassment as his friends try to get him to stand up properly he falls backwards in what I assume was him paying respects for “The People’s Open” by giving the ground “The People’s Elbow.” For that I thank him, because it was a wonderful finisher to close out “The Greatest Show on Grass.”