Playing On, With Hope, Hard Work

Tiger Woods has transformed golf utterly, and there’s no better place to witness the changes than the stately Congressional Country Club, site of this week’s U.S. Open golf tournament.

In the old days, you had to stop by the caddie shack to see serious concentrations of non-Caucasians at a golf event. The closest the game got to diversity was some jovial Hispanics - Chi Chi Rodriguez and Lee Trevino - or reserved blacks, such as Charlie Sifford and Lee Elder.

But these days, pro competitions attract people of all colors and income brackets. Together, they participate in a group event known as “Where’s Tiger?” You see them moving in great fast hordes, calling out to one another: “Is Tiger on 13? Which way to 13?”

When they’re not sprinting like wildebeasts, they’re wandering around such things as the “Merchandise Tent,” a Wal-Mart-sized emporium packed with overpriced shirts, hats, shoes, artwork, photographs, tees, mugs, umbrellas, golf balls, golf bags, golf books - everything but golf clubs.

People snatch up this stuff in the hope they will become instantly talented. Woods has committed the unspeakable crime of making golf look easy - not just the shot-making but also the travel, speeches, appearances, commercials and press interviews.

He was at his best on Tuesday, when he stepped into the tournament’s press room - normally part of an indoor tennis center. He sauntered in at ease - wearing a tastefully coordinated brown outfit and his ubiquitous Nike baseball cap. He plopped down on a comfortable red armchair, crossed his right ankle over his left knee and sat back. This was his subtle way of letting journalists know that their audience with him could commence.

Reporters, who like to think of themselves as savage inquisitors, approached Woods like high school boys conducting an exploratory flirtation with a new date.

“Tiger, do you think you can win?”

“Tiger, how does it feel to be an inspiration to kids?”

“Tiger, did your dad help make you tougher?”

“Tiger, what do you think about the rough?”

It takes adult forbearance to withstand such a siege without breaking into laughter, but Woods maintained his composure - even after one ruffian insisted on knowing what kind of house he planned to build and what kind of golf facilities he would include on the premesis. Smiling, Woods replied: “I don’t know. I’m just 21.”

A smitten reporter colleague bent near at that point and whispered: “Is he 21 or 41? What composure!”

It is difficult for mortals to appreciate what Woods has accomplished in his nine-month pro career. But one young black man in the room understood completely.

David Carnell stood in the far corner of the tennis complex, wearing khaki pants, basketball shoes, a Titleist baseball cap and a black polo shirt bearing the job title: “Security.” He was in charge of guarding the large, loading dock-sized door through which Woods would make his escape.

Carnell is a golfer, one year younger than Woods. “He’s been my idol since I was 13,” he explains. The two played in some of the same junior tournaments years ago.

But Carnell hasn’t had all of Woods’ advantages. He’s never took a lesson. He had to caddy so he could find a place to practice. He played a year in college and then decided to take the plunge. He pored over schedules. He applied to play in qualifying tournaments - contests that would enable him to get into the big competitions. He roamed the states and made occasional detours to Japan.

“I don’t want to emphasize that Japan part,” he says. “I live here. I want to make it here.” He punches the word “here” to underscore his determination.

When asked the difference between him and Woods, he answers quickly: “Money.

“Moneymoneymoneymoney.” He believes he has the talent, the game. He just needs a sponsor - somebody to buy some balls, some clubs, a few plane tickets. He’s not whining. He’s explaining reality.

Far below the Tiger Zone there exists a golf underworld where people smitten by the game huddle in solidarity. They don’t make beans. They support themselves by playing in bitsy tournaments and giving lessons on the side. And everywhere they go, they carry memories as tattered as old family photos - recollections of the time they took on one of today’s stars and won, or almost won, or should have won …

As Carnell talks, John Morris, the vice president of communications for the Professional Golfers Association, comes by. He has heard of the kid. He wishes him well.

Carnell says happily: “Thanks. You’ll see me! Next year! The Open!”

Woods doesn’t acknowledge Carnell as he slips out of the tennis center and into a waiting car. But it doesn’t matter. Carnell sees him.

And having seen his idol, Carnell pulls on a vest, grabs a bag, glances over his shoulder and heads out. Some pros have just begun their rounds for the day. But the young man can’t linger any longer.

The dream of stardom may hang over his head, as visible and untouchable as a full moon. But between now and fame, David Carnell still has to think about more mundane things, such as making enough money to get to his next tournament.

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