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editor's note
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 Specifically, he’s on the 16th floor terrace of the Trump International Hotel & Tower hitting a 7 iron 220 yards into the middle of the Chicago River. His target is a floating green covered in artificial turf (with bunkers), tied to a barge. Davis and Jose Maria Olazabal were in Chicago to, in effect, touch gloves one year to the day before the start of the 2012 Ryder Cup competition, which will be held at nearby Medinah Country Club. Jose is the captain of the European team and Davis is captaining the Americans. Both of them hit the green squarely before their shots rolled off the artificial surface into the river. Davis, however, nearly knocked one of his shots straight into the hole. Say what you will about Bill Haas’ blast out of the drink at this year’s Tour Championship, or Sergio Garcia’s lumberjack job out of the gnarled tree roots at the 1999 PGA Championship, or any number of Tiger’s miraculous slashes. None of those had the casual accuracy and the jaunty Rube Goldberg goofiness of Davis’ downtown lob. Miracle shots make people gasp. Shots like the one Davis hit make them smile. This is because all truly committed golfers see every yard of the world around them, wherever they are, as the ideal place to strike a golf ball. They measure all distances visually in yards, evaluate all environments in terms of playability. Is it 175 or 200 yards from the western end zone to the peristyle end of the L.A. Coliseum, one might wonder, and have I got enough club to hit the JumboTron? How many blind wedge shots in a row can I make from my front lawn over the house and into the neighbor’s backyard pool? Every square inch of the planet that isn’t water is either a tee box or a fairway. Put any golfer in almost any spacious place with a little time on his hands and he’ll come up with the weirdest bits of course management since Phil’s impossible approach shot from behind those trees at the 2010 Masters. Here’s how bizarre it can get (and please forgive a personal example): On my only visit to Rome, I headed straight to the Vatican to marvel at the immensity and grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica. After two or three minutes of marveling, I started imagining crisp iron shots, struck somewhere near the Pieta, rolling neatly up to the steps of the front altar. However, a hazard presented itself in the form of Bernini’s huge baldacchino, the 76-foot-tall pillared canopy above the papal altar and the tomb of St. Peter. Should I try to hit a power fade or a controlled hook and go around it? Or smoke a short iron and try to go over the top? Or—God and Bernini forgive me—punch a long iron straight through the center, right between those twirly columns? It got worse when I took the elevator to the roof and started imagining St. Peter’s Square below as one big landing area that I could only reach by threading a careful shot between the statues of the apostles. The Via della Conciliazione morphed into a long, thin fairway. Beyond lay the sprawling Eternal City—now just one immense and very tricky golf course. I still see St. Peter’s in my mind’s eye mostly in terms of spectacular golf shots. I’ve persuaded myself that God (a single-digit handicapper, I’m told) understands. |
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