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At the 17th Hole

The most arena-like atmosphere on the PGA Tour is the raucous par three sixteenth hole at TPC Scottsdale during the Waste Management Open each February. But the complex at TPC Sawgrass which encompasses the approach and green at #16, as well as the entirety of the 17th hole is surely in the runner up position. It’s an outdoor arena, a stadium. I guess that’s why it’s called the Stadium Course.

Corporate boxes ring the entire area and would form a complete circle if there wasn’t the need to allow the fairway on 16 to advance up to the green. The lone exception to the barrier of elite access viewing stands in this enclave is a modest open bleacher area just behind the causeway entry to #17 green. 17 sawgrass overhead

A regular Joe can mosey up the stairs unencumbered, no need to sport the correct credential or properly colored wrist band. He can grab a beer at the small bar up top and then reconnoiter for a bit while he spies the best spot, if any exist, where he can rest his sore feet after traipsing about a golf course the size of Rhode Island.

I found myself standing at the rail of these same bleachers mid afternoon Thursday, sizing up the crowd and watching the folks seated in rows adjacent to empty seats that might, or might not, be a good place to plant my derrière.

It’s my experience, hard earned through trial and error (plenty of error), that picking the wrong seat can lead to a range of negative outcomes-from minor annoyance to near disaster. And as I surveyed my fellow golf fans arrayed throughout these stands it gave me pause.

The first groups from the afternoon wave that teed off at #10 were now playing #17 and the crowd wasn’t sure if it wanted to settle in. Buy everyone was sure of one thing- they needed to have a beverage.

And so the “excuse me ballet and shuffle“ broke out in just about every row, as the men (mostly men, more thirsty, or chivalrous, perhaps) usually furthest from the aisle, stood up and headed for the bar. This initiated the chain reaction of their row neighbors standing to allow tight passage to the aisle. Repeat from the opposite end in five minutes time but with some trepidation, as row mates tried to avoid an unintended beer shower.

I decided to hang on the rail and forsake the pleasure of taking a load off and try to focus on some golf.

With the pin position up front, the prospect of some balls taking a swim was in play.

Alex Noreen flighted a low spinner that raced back toward the front bulkhead but stopped just short of the water on the collar. He calmly holed his birdie putt and the crowd started to pay attention at last.

The quality of approach shots was really very high, as player after player finessed flighted wedges off the small backstop behind the pin, or lofted higher shots that landed like a sack of sand on the front edge.

Everyone was dry until Gary Woodland tugged his wedge a bit, it landed past the pin, skidded more sharply left, slowed down to a trickle, and just when you thought it was safe, it was wet. After his third shot from the drop zone, a mere 80 yards away, Woodland faced a 20 footer for bogey, that was not to be. Such a short hole, such a large number.

By the time Paul Casey had made it to the tee at #17, I had made my way out of the bleachers, finally tired of the endless cocktail cha cha that kept that bleacher crew happy.

I had a great view from directly behind the tee as Casey, who’s played great golf the past two years in a forty-something resurgence, hit a little shot that was a little bit too little. Casey gave a quick look to his bagman, as if to say, “that one’s on you”.

Instead of moving to the drop zone, Casey opted to re-tee. With the same club, the same swing, he got the same result. He smiled, shook his head, and it seems to me he might have muttered, “That one’s on me”.

Happily, his third tee ball found terra firma. Casey gamely waved to the crowd and headed to the green and right out of the championship.

Oblivion can be so easily found at this little hole, this island green- either on the course or in the bleachers.

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