A Course Called America by Tom Coyne

Author:Tom Coyne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Avid Reader Press / Simon & Schuster
Published: 2021-05-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHASKA, MINNESOTA

The Twin Cities offered three US Open venues for inspection. Minikahda and Interlachen felt like the quiet classics, while Hazeltine was a muscle car idling at the starting line, ready to host another major tomorrow. Minikahda was a charming Golden Age track where Chick Evans won the 1916 US Open as an amateur. Its name came from the native Dakota words for “by the water,” and so it was, with a white-pillared clubhouse overlooking the largest lake in Minneapolis. It shared designer DNA with nearby Interlachen—Scotsman Willie Watson laid out the first holes at both—but Donald Ross overhauled Watson’s Interlachen holes in 1919, adding angry false fronts protecting perched greens and an eighteenth that was downright devious. Set high above a pitched fairway beside the Tudor clubhouse, you had about three yards to make your approach stick on a tilted Slip ’N Slide. Interlachen would go on to host the 1930 US Open, where Bobby Jones took the medal en route to his Grand Slam, and a plaque on its ninth commemorated his clank heard ’round the world. Distracted by spectators running across the fairway, Jones topped his second shot on the par 5, skipping it across a pond where lily pads carried it across the water and tossed it onto dry land.

Eric and I arrived at Interlachen on the Sunday after Member-Guest. The caddies were whipped from back-to-back double-loop days; their pockets were already full of cash, so we were lucky to find two willing to go around again. Keith and Mark warned us that this was technically their day off, and that they might still be feeling the effects of their Saturday night. I didn’t care; I’d carried some of my best loops pie-eyed, and I just needed someone to help me over the false fronts. My guy, Keith, was ex–Special Forces, and we laughed a lot that afternoon—until a former caddie buddy of mine, Mike, who’d relocated from Philly to Minneapolis, joined us to walk the back nine.

Keith busted my friend’s chops at one point, to which Mike casually replied, “Shut the fuck up.” Now, in Philadelphia parlance, “Shut the fuck up” translates to “Oh, go on, you silly fool.” But in Minnesota, it translated to “Shut the fuck up.” Keith stood up out of our cart (our caddies had opted to become chauffeurs at the turn) and said, “What did you say to me?” The jovial looper was suddenly a Green Beret. I pulled him back into the cart and drove off, explaining that Mike meant nothing by it, that it was a Philadelphia thing. He was quiet for a moment, then laughed. “I get it. I served with guys from Philly. Ball-busters. I like that.” The moment passed, and Keith tried to coach me through eighteen, but I couldn’t help sending one long and capping a solid scorecard with a 6.

We retired to the clubhouse, where I could see that Interlachen was clearly a hang-around family club, with a bustling campus of kids bounding down the steps in bathing suits.

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