Changing Your Grip

It was sad news to hear this week that the venerable Atlanta Classic — formerly held at Atlanta Country Club — has joined the rosterof PGA Tour tournaments that are ending.  Gone.

Aside from the loss of yet another big tournament with a wonderful history, the loss of god knows how much money in charitable contributions and income to the economy of Atlanta in hotels, restaurants, every kind of rental company from cars to port-o-potties — okay, that’s a whole other story — . I have fond memories of that tournament as the birthpace of the concept of Very Sudden Death Golf.

It amounted to about four hours of creativity and insanity at the hands of Jeff Allen.

…. Geez, you know — I’m not sure if I have even seen Jeff since that tournament. And it’s been years now.  Jeff still lives in Atlanta and is still a friend of TJ’s and his second wife… But anyway!

He was one of the funniest guys I ever knew.  Definitely the most fun guy to walk the course with as I followed TJ.  I was at the Atlanta Classic on one of my few trips alone to be with TJ without the boys.

I made the most of my time with TJ on those trips. I once figured out that, adding up the times when we traveled together, times when TJ came home for the odd week or two, and the eight weeks he spent at home after the Tour year ended (it used to end in those days)– we actually spent about nine months apart over the average year.

So to be out on the Tour was quality time, and I was a wife that followed every day. Some wives spent their time by the pool or shopping; some stayed in the clubhouse out of the elements; some of us walked every step of the way.

I liked walking, following TJ. I had little idea what was really happening out there on the course. I mean, I knew when TJ would hit a bad shot — that was obvious. While everyone else followed the ball, I would watch his face.  And he was an emotional player. Some of his reactions were legendary — and not in a good way.

But for the most part, he was magnetic. 

Having a good friend along to follow — especially one like Jeff, who could make TJ laugh and ease some tension if necessary — was always a bonus.

Maybe it was the heat and the sun in Hotlanta, or whatever was happening with TJ on the course — or maybe it was just two warped imaginations melding together as we manuevered through the gallery, but we started to make up a new kind of golf game as we wound our way along the holes.

People are always talking about how boring golf is to watch. Not us, of course — when your livelihood depends on each shot, it’s very engrossing — but people who don’t know what they’re talking about.

So, we figured — what if golf was really dangerous? What if there were real boobytraps and bunkers with more than sand in them? What if the water hazards contained real hazards? If reaching into the cup after a putt might be the last move you made? What if a sudden death play off meant really sudden death?

The last man standing would win the check. Would that make golf exciting for the masses?

You know that saying Funny at the time?

OK, you had to be there. I don’t know what was in the Coke at the concession stands, but Jeff and I were staggering around in our own laughter, trying to keep decorum and quiet. TJ looked jealous from the ropes — jealous because he had to focus on his game, which may or may not have been going well at the time. (I believe he made the cut.)

Then we reached the hole bordered by a small hill on one side. Sitting on the hill was a woman in full sundress- and-heels regalia. You know — not exactly golf course attire. And eyes were sliding her way from the green.

TJ gave Jeff and me the high-sign. He came over to the ropes while waiting for the other player to line up his putt and whispered.

Miss Sundress had positioned herself on the hill to be in the line of sight so that the players could see she wasn’t wearing undies.

Ah yes — The Atlanta Classic. You will always remain in my memory.