Course Could Turn Him Into Meatball

PEBBLE BEACH, Calif. — I’ve always said if Pebble Beach were human, it’d have a dagger in its teeth, murder in its heart, a patch over its eye, a price on its head and the British Navy would be looking for it to hang it from the highest yardarm in the fleet.

It’s Captain Kidd, Blackbeard the Pirate and Captain Blood all in one, and it would go round saying “Shiver me timbers!” and “Avast ye lubbers!” and no merchantman--or golfer--would be safe from its predations. It’s a hellship.

You can almost feel the malevolence. Long John Silver never hated the sight of a Spanish galleon more than Pebble hates that of a guy walking up to it with a golf club in his hand and par on his mind. It’ll broadside him, keelhaul him, throw him to the sharks. You almost can’t bear to look. It’s almost like watching a baby carriage roll downhill into the water.

You better keep a sharp lookout in a crow’s nest when you venture around this hostile man o’ war, Pebble. It is armed and dangerous. Treasure Island, it is not. For a golfer, it is the Dry Tortugas, the Spanish Main, the Bermuda Triangle.

And, when you see what they’re throwing at it, you want to call the Humane Society, Amnesty International, the UN Security Council, the Supreme Court.

Pebble itself must be insulted. I mean, here it is flying the Jolly Roger, the Skull and Crossbones--and it wants foemen worthy of its steel.

Oh, it has the requisite modern legends of the game. Jack Nicklaus is here, Raymond Floyd, Tom Watson. The Young Turks are here--Fred Couples, Davis Love III, Mark O’Meara, John Daly. The constant U.S. Open winners, Hale Irwin, Andy North.

But, Pebble must feel just a little bit underestimated, taken for granted. It must feel like sniffing, “What do they think this is--the Greater Hartford Open? Some Buick Classic? The Kmart Greater Greensboro? Some Four-Ball at Epcot?”

Pebble looks out there and sees Tom Watson, Hale Irwin and Jack Nicklaus in one threesome. Then, it looks over at the next threesome and sees Tim Conley, Brandt Jobe and Scott Dunlap. Then, Joshua Zander, Frank Dobbs and John Hayes. Don Berry, Bob Burns and Michael Bradley.

The trouble with an Open is, you can shoot your way into it. You get into it on tradition--winners of the Open in the last 10 years, winners of the Masters in last five years, British Open winners, top money earners this year.

But there are guys in here who missed 13 cuts this year, who are golf professionals out of New Jersey and have never have played in any tour tournament. There are guys in here who are really 2-handicappers from Salinas. Greg Norman isn’t here--but the head pro from Kokomo is.

Pebble the Pirate must look out there and bare its teeth and scowl. “What happened to that fellow whose shirt was always coming out--Arnold Something-Or-Other?” Or, “Where’s that guy with the coconut palm hat, arms like Popeye and hillbilly accent?” Or “Shouldn’t there be this merry Mexican chatting up a storm and hitting these gorgeous fade shots into a trapped green?” Or “Where in the hell’s Hogan?” And, finally. “What are these rinky-dinks doing on my golf course--what do they think it is--a publinx?”

Pebble must wonder what in the world a Colin Montgomerie is doing here. I’ll tell them what Colin is doing here--the USGA Executive committee invited him. Colin won something called the Scandinavian Masters last year, but he missed four out of five cuts in the United States this year.

Then there’s Anders Forsbrand. Anders makes it because the top two money leaders in the European Order of Merit standings get in a U.S. Open.

Anders learned to play golf--are you ready for this?--in Sweden!

Now, Filipstad, Sweden, is not exactly the hotbed of the royal and ancient game that, say, Palm Springs or Florida is.

If it’s snowing, Anders would be a good bet. Where he learned the game, white balls would be hard to find.

Anders insists you can play golf eight months a year in the “south” of Sweden. If you don’t mind playing in a fur coat, that is. And, if you don’t consider “south” and “Sweden” together an oxymoron.

In the north of Sweden, he reminds us, you can play the game 24 hours a day. Provided the polar bears--or the yaks--don’t eat the ball. “You can get in 36 holes and then go to work in the morning,” he boasts.

Despite these considerable advantages, Anders left Sweden’s tropical paradise to migrate to Florida and Spain as soon as he learned to hit a one-iron. He probably got sick of having to put on all those layers of sunscreen on those linkside courses by the Baltic. A place where the sun shines at midnight would have to be hard on fair skin.

Anders solves this not by wearing a big plantation hat, but by avoiding the midnight (also the midday) sun of Sweden altogether. He lives in Marbella, Spain, where the sun sets conventionally and you can play without gloves and earflaps. Anders spent only 18 days in Sweden last year. It’s hard to shoot in the low 60s in the low 20s.

It would be great good fun if a Swede were to win our Open. It would be nice if a Saudi Arabian won the Olympic downhill, too. But it’s not the way to bet. Anders has played Pebble once--in 1989. That was the AT&T; (nee, the Crosby) where he shot 75-75--and was on his way back to Spain by the close of business that Friday. “The course,” he admits, “looks tougher now.”

Anders doesn’t need the course any tougher. But the USGA tightens the screws anyway for an Open. They’re always scared some Scandinavian or club pro from Jersey or a guy who should get strokes wins it. They needn’t worry. Jack Nicklaus or Ben Hogan--or Hale Irwin--always wins it.

Still, it would be a boon to international relations if Anders won it. The King would probably phone him up. His Majesty might even ask for some pertinent tips from his Svenska champion. Anders could give him one: “Always play with a red ball after September.” Then, he might add: “Or move to Spain.”