turn out to be our pilot wheeled away my golf-travel case, I brewed a com- plimentary coffee and attempted to wait casually. Everyone else appeared between 7.20 and 7.25, clubs slung on their shoulders. A round of smiles, greetings and fist-bumps ensued as the clubs and duffels were whisked away. As we walked onto the tarmac, there by the wing of our friend’s plane stood seven golf bags like cadets and one black Club Glove travel case on its belly. No hiding who was the first- timer. – MAX ADLER ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE At the 1997 Greater Vancouver Open, Mark Calcavecchia finished first, and I finished second. After we did inter-views, the spon- sors wanted us to visit with the volunteers and say a few words. Calc says, “Yeah, no prob- lem, but you gotta get us a plane to get home to Phoenix.” Unbeliev- ably, they agreed. Well, this plane was well- stocked, and we drank every drop of liquor on it and stayed up all the way home. By the time we landed, we weren’t in our seats; we’re lying on the floor. The pilot had to step over us to open the door, and our wives were there to scrape us off the floor. I haven’t flown private a lot, but I have to think that was a pretty epic flight.” – ANDREW MAGEE
oversize-baggage-claim stakeouts to play half as much golf. Private avia- tion is a time warp. The tail number and vague parking instructions were sent via group text on Tuesday eve- ning. A reply-all round of emojis and blasé one-word affirmations followed but no questions. This was an experi- enced group, and apparently this was all the requisite information. I arrived at 7.10 for our 7.30 takeoff, walked the 50 metres from my car to the ter- minal and discovered I was the first one there. After the man who would
Spot the Newbie A magnanimous plane owner invited seven golf buddies to his private Florida club for two nights. We were to leave frigid New York at a civil hour on Wednesday morning, play 18-36-18, and be home for dinner Friday – as far as work and family were concerned, the ultimate sleight of hand! At least this is how it felt to someone accustomed as I was to predawn security slogs and midnight
TURNING DOWN PHIL On a February Sunday in 2012, Phil Mickelson produced a triumph that likely ranks in soul-deep satisfaction behind only his six major wins. He entered the final round of the AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am paired with his forever rival, Tiger Woods. Both have legitimate claims to being the king of the Monterey Peninsula, and their rare head-to-head matchup figured to make for high theatre. However, Mickelson stifled the drama by shooting 64, smoking an error-prone Tiger by 11 shots to win the fourth of his five AT&T titles. Lefty was giddy, drunk on euphoria. How much so? After his press conference, I walked to the podium to offer a handshake and congratulations, to which Phil replied, “Are you going home tonight? You want to fly with us?” “Home” for both of us was San Diego and where I started covering his career in the early 1990s. We were professionally cordial but hardly close, and that’s why the offer caught me by surprise. A dozen complicated scenarios rolled through my head in seconds, involving filing my story, returning my rental car, journalistic ethics and whether anybody on the plane would talk to me besides Amy. What eventually came out of my mouth was a mumbled, “Tha-, thanks Phil, but I’ve got to work.” He offered his familiar smile and said, “Cool.” He might have even given me a thumbs up. I wandered back to my desk in the media centre in a daze. The only other writer who heard the offer, Alan Shipnuck, needled me about turning Phil down. I kind of felt like an idiot. I’d never been on a private jet and didn’t know if I’d ever have the chance again. This was Phil’s jet. But I did have the rare opportunity to write about one of the greatest days in a famous athlete’s life. When I hit “send” on the story, I knew I’d made the right call, and my own giddiness carried me and the rental car through the darkness north to San Jose. Wouldn’t you know it, in my post-offer haze and effort to write a special piece from a special day, I’d taken too long and missed my Southwest flight. The irony made me grin. – TOD LEONARD
GOLF DIGEST SOUTH AFRICA 73
JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2024
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