The grandstand formed a towering horseshoe around the back of the 17th green. From my post on the 18th tee box, I had been staring at its backside – and the backsides of the 900 fans it held – most afternoons since the start of the championship.
Now, amid its scaffolding and ruined grass lay overturned coolers, some tied-off bags of trash and coiled lengths of TV cable. No need to pretty things up as the event was nearly over. Concession stands were closing. It was a cold June day, more Buffalo than Boston. Many of the 27,000 fans had left or were walking quietly toward the exit points.
Everywhere the vast network of temporary ropes – the ropes that restrained spectators and defined the fairway crosswalks and created two-way rivers of compliant fans – now lay in the grass. But in my little corner of the course things were very much alive, the adrenaline of the still-unfolding story shot into these final two holes. Suddenly the 17th bleachers erupted with a loud swoon of disappointment, followed by another, as both Matthew Fitzpatrick and Will Zalatoris, the final pairing, missed their birdie putts.
From a gap in the scaffolding, the two contenders emerged with their caddies and began the long walk back toward me, vanishing from the crowd’s view. It was quiet enough that you could hear their irons softly clanging in their bags.
All week I’d marveled at this juxtaposition: players exiting the coliseum atmosphere of the 17th green to amble quietly to the 18th tee box – an 80-yard walk where they could gather themselves for their final drive. After four days, it was down to the 72nd hole at The Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts, two young stars of the game separated by a single stroke. Perhaps because the drama was rich, it seemed to take longer than usual for the group to reach the tee box, where each – neither yet a major champion – would strike perhaps the most important drive of his life. As the sole marshal in this strangely intimate setting, I stood by a tall Rolex clock, awaiting the players, my paddles tucked under my arm.
Volunteers, about 3,500 of them that week (890 were TCC members), did a lot of work, none of it glamorous. We were independent contractors for the USGA. Our labors were bartered. In exchange for volunteering at least four six-hour shifts, I got free passage to the national championship as well as a parking pass. Before you conclude who came out on top, factor in that I was required to lay out $250 for a zippy uniform package – two shirts, a quarter-zip, a rain jacket, two hats, a string backpack and a sleek water bottle, all emblazoned with U.S. Open logos. Oh, and I got a meal voucher when I was working, which could be exchanged for a sandwich, a drink, a bag of chips and a cookie.
The Country Club was founded in 1882 as a horse racetrack, its banked curves still visible on the perimeters of the first and 18th holes. Oddly, TCC has no founding architect; it was more an amalgam of various inputs. The first six holes were laid out by three club members in 1893. The following year, Willie Campbell became the club’s first pro and expanded the course to nine holes and then a full 18 by 1899. After an additional land purchase, two club members designed three new holes, which opened in 1908, followed by the final six holes, completed in 1927. In the absence of big machinery, earth moving – time-consuming and expensive – was kept to a minimum. The course still bears a rugged character, with outcroppings of pudding stone, long stands of fescue, and steep contours that reflect the land in an earlier form. Routinely ranked among the top 20 courses in America, our 27 holes are both intimidating and mystical, evoking Scotland as silver light pours over the expanse on a summer evening.
Before the championship, TCC and the USGA engaged course architect Gil Hanse to re-think a number of elements. For several years leading up to the Open, even in winter, you could see small gatherings of decision-makers moving around the course in golf carts, or pausing by a bunker, heads bowed, puffs of white breath rising in the air. The club’s previous Opens used a layout that took the best of our two courses to amp up the difficulty, but this time the hole selection differed from previous editions (dropping Main 4, a short par-4; adding back, for the first time since 1913, the TV-friendly 130-yard, par-3 Main 11, known as The Redan). In an echo of the club’s design traditions, a TCC member, Henry Richardson, suggested a new routing which was approved by the USGA. Fifteen holes from the Main and three holes from the Primrose constituted the new Open Course, playing 7,254 yards.
Even from my remote spot, distant roars could be heard as crowds moved and swarmed to see pivotal shots unfold across the 235-acre campus.
TCC is one of five founding members of the USGA and a host to three previous men’s U.S. Opens. All had ended in playoffs, most famously in 1913 when Francis Ouimet, with 10-year-old Eddie Lowery on his bag, defeated Ted Ray and Harry Vardon. In 1963, Julius Boros, 43, defeated young Jacky Cupit from Texas. Curtis Strange got up and down from the front bunker on 18 to best Nick Faldo in 1988, securing his first U.S. Open. (He would win again in ’89 at Oak Hill CC, the only person since Ben Hogan in 1950-51 to repeat.)
Returning to TCC after 34 years, the tournament appeared to be headed for another playoff finish. On the final day, players were advancing (Scottie Scheffler birdied four of the first six holes; Hideki Matsuyama surged to 5-under for the day and Collin Morikawa to 4-under). Others were falling back. Even from my remote spot, distant roars could be heard as crowds moved and swarmed to see pivotal shots unfold across the 235-acre campus. Live golf is unusual, with fortunes and storylines changing constantly. Sure, TV coverage eliminates FOMO (fear of missing out), but it also misses the wider tensions, the drama that envelops the whole property, and the sense that the golf course itself has become a character in the proceedings.
To watch individual athletes compete at the highest level in a sport you’ve never tried is distantly impressive. In my case, say, ski jumping, gymnastics or archery. But to watch the best compete at a sport you’ve labored at for decades is to be overwhelmed with awe, followed quickly by hopelessness. Before a shift, I wandered the grounds one morning, inhaling a hot dog, trying to puzzle out how we could take courage after watching these superstars pummel their drives and flick the ball delicately from impossible lies. Yet, we all keep coming back. The great majority of Open spectators were dressed for golf. Sure, it’s a practical choice, given the season. But I sensed that our attire and our proximity to the field of play allowed us to feel more akin to the pros. “I got that one too,” was a phrase I heard over and over, delivered with gallows humor from one fan to another after witnessing some miracle shot. Then I watched Dustin Johnson rope a 340-yard drive with a baby fade into the center of a fairway as wide as a two-lane road.
Nope. Don’t have that one.
In a long-standing tradition, select Massachusetts clubs were invited to host a hole, populating it with their member volunteers. Essex, Myopia Hunt, Kittansett, Wianno, Charles River, the public Robert T. Lynch course in Brookline and others all sent recruits. There was a reunion atmosphere to the days, greetings on the fly with long-forgotten golf buddies, and a sense of joy imbued by the awareness that we were all part of an event which we would remember for the rest of our lives. It put most everyone in a hugging mood.
With Zalatoris and Fitzpatrick now on the 18th tee for their final drives, I realized that my favorite part of the job was eavesdropping and trying to pick up swing tips, given that I stood seven paces from the world’s finest players for days.
My training was on the job and took all of five minutes. On my first day, I was handed two lightweight orange paddles by the marshal whose shift preceded mine. When the players arrived at the tee box, I lifted my paddles high in the air, indicating that the marshals located mid-fairway should close off the crossing ropes. Easy enough. Then as each player prepared to drive, I raised my paddles to get the attention of the marshals farther down so that they could follow my lead. A ball flighted straight down the fairway was indicated by slowly moving my paddles up and down, in a bowing motion. If a ball was headed right, tilt the paddles to the right and hold them high. Etc. An idiot could do this, you say. The height of some of the drives and the amount of spin on the ball made me wrong a number of times. Windy afternoons were harder.
Sometimes my shift was more than six hours. Other volunteers tended ropes, handled grandstand traffic, searched for errant shots, screened visitors to the corporate tents, worked at hydration or first-aid stations, or called for quiet around the green. Most holes had a dozen or more volunteers deployed at any one time, under the direction of a hole captain, who had a clipboard, an earpiece and a walkie-talkie. Though the captains were fellow volunteers, they were a cut above the rest of us. Our 18th-hole crew hung out between shifts at a concession and picnic table area east of the massive merchandising tent, which was erected on our usual driving range between holes 1 and 18. I could wave to them and ask to be relieved for a few minutes. Bathroom, meal voucher, lie down in the grass to stretch my back, check my phone, duck under the rope and get back to work. After my first day, my shoulders hurt.
With Zalatoris and Fitzpatrick now on the 18th tee for their final drives, I realized that my favorite part of the job was eavesdropping and trying to pick up swing tips, given that I stood seven paces from the world’s finest players for days. Zalatoris had the honor after a jaw-dropping birdie on the par-3 16th moved him within one shot of Fitzpatrick’s lead. He took the tee without hesitation, having conferred with his caddie earlier. He had driver in hand. I raised my paddles. I couldn’t imagine the pressure he must be feeling, having been close to major victories before and fallen short. He is taller and thinner and more angular than he appears on TV. His pre-swing routine was tidy, only one or two rehearsals. At 25, he faced arguably the most important drive of his life. He ripped a 305-yard bomb down the middle, his torsional movement so smooth and twisty that I wasn’t sure if I was looking at his right or left shoulder as he held the finish. I was amazed. I forgot to move my paddles. Thank God the ball split the fairway. Two hundred yards away, a fellow marshal looked back at me and spread his arms, palms up. Zalatoris handed the driver back to his caddie and looked away.
Nursing a one-shot lead, Fitzpatrick and his caddie, Billy Foster, wanted to talk it over. They spoke quietly by the tee box. Foster’s big break came in 1982 when he took the bag for Seve Ballesteros. Stints followed with Tiger Woods and Lee Westwood. Foster was seasoned. Though not yet a major winner, Fitzpatrick had history on his shoulders. At 18, he had won the 2013 U.S. Amateur here at Brookline with his younger brother, Alex, on the bag. The echoes of 1913 – when amateur Francis Ouimet slayed the pros – were everywhere. Fitzpatrick went with 3-wood. He too was very committed to his routine. I raised my paddles and made sure to catch his swing out of the corner of my eye. It looked good, though maybe a hint of rush in his stroke, or perhaps I was still trying to fathom the swing speed these players could generate. I tilted my paddles to the left. He had pulled the drive either into heavy fescue or one of several treacherous bunkers – we couldn’t tell from the tee box. Had he just given up the lead, or worse – the fescue was monstrous – given away the U.S. Open? From Fitzpatrick there wasn’t even a flash of recrimination or regret. He began the walk slightly ahead of Foster, his body loose, his gait unbothered. Outwardly, it was a remarkable display of how to compartmentalize a problem.
The 18th tee box was both a pressure cooker and a character revealer. I had seen Billy Horschel slam his driver down and let out a loud f-bomb a few days ago. On day two, waiting on the tee, Rory McIlroy juggled three golf balls while chatting with his playing competitors. A few players smoked cigarettes while walking to the tee, out of view of fans and TV coverage. On Saturday, after the cut, I noticed that there was less chatter among playing groups. It was a bunched leaderboard and lots of players had a realistic chance to finish high. After hitting his tee ball one day, a player pulled a wad of wet tobacco from his mouth and flung it into the grass. It was the size of a small, shiny frog. On Wednesday, the last practice day, an amateur qualifier (I think Travis Vick, from Houston), and his caddie, shook hands with me and asked me about the club and thanked me for volunteering. Thereafter, I assumed I’d be having similar chatty conversations with all of the players. I was very excited about this aspect of my marshaling, even thinking of witty things I might say to some of my favorite players, but it turned out that Vick was the first and last player who spoke to me.
I had spent all week hoping for a playoff as the format called for it to start on hole 1 and continue on 18, then 1 and 18 again if a player had yet to win. The first green was only 15 paces from the 18th tee. I would be in the catbird seat to marshal both.
What did I see in these players, these many fateful swings on the 18th hole? Aside from other-worldly athleticism, I saw commitment to process. We hear about that a lot, but in these pros you could almost see a change in posture and personality as they enter the hitting zone; they had trained to access an internal on/off switch. On the practice days, many of the top players had mental coaches or personal gurus walk with them, implying, in their final moments of preparation, that they valued behavioral over technical advice. Their caddies were like proud moms, or cheerleaders, always reinforcing the positives and cueing their players with supportive emotions.
The 18th tee box lay at the eastern perimeter of the course. The wi-fi was so-so. My captain texted me as Fitzpatrick and Zalatoris shrank from view, absorbed by fairway and distant grandstands alike. I had spent all week hoping for a playoff as the format called for it to start on hole 1 and continue on 18, then 1 and 18 again if a player had yet to win. The first green was only 15 paces from the 18th tee. I would be in the catbird seat to marshal both. But the hole captain wanted me to know that if there was no playoff, I was not to leave the 18th tee. I texted back: Why? Captain: USGA says sometimes fans will take tee markers and anything else they can find as souvenirs. Great. So a 65-year-old, tired and stiff-jointed, was the last line of defense against a possible grab for course memorabilia.
You know how it ended. Fitzpatrick’s 3-wood found the sand, not the fescue. He descended into the bunker, wasted little time, and clipped a 159-yard, uphill 9-iron that came to rest 20 feet from the flagstick – instantly recognized as one of the greatest pressure shots in U.S. Open history. I didn’t see that one, too busy developing my perimeter defense strategy. The golf world heard the groan as Zalatoris’ birdie putt passed within an inch or two of the cup. He settled for par. With Fitzpatrick already in for par, the U.S. Open trophy was his by the margin of a single stroke.
The USGA’s prediction was mostly right. Before the roar and ovation around the green had faded, a river of people simply reversed course and spilled down the 18th fairway toward me and a nearby exit. Some sprinted. Many fast-walked and whooped.
It had been one of the most memorable finishes and storylines at America’s most prestigious golf championship. It was summer. You couldn’t blame the fans for their buoyancy. But as they got closer, the crowd started to look much larger, like a rogue wave that you suddenly understand, with sickening inevitably, is actually about to pass over you. And come it did, at first in small bunches of fans, then streams, groups taking selfies at the tee box, then somehow a tee marker was missing, people were high-fiving, many simply wanted to stand there – to be at the spot where Fitzpatrick had pulled his drive, and then recovered in epic form. They asked me about my impressions and for a second I was flattered and forgot about the mission as hundreds of fans overwhelmed the area. None did anything stupid, though I did have to ask that two young men stop stuffing their pockets with handfuls of grass.
I found myself taking refuge by the Rolex clock. It had been my companion these many days. Damned if it was going to wind up in a college dorm room, some merch trophy to be admired by sophomores. They could have it all, but I would never give up the clock.
For first- and second-round U.S. Open tee times, click HERE.
Editor’s note: George Bell is an Emmy winning producer and writer of documentaries about endangered animal species, vanishing tribes and adventure. He gave up the air miles to marry and raise a family, became CEO of multiple internet start ups and later a partner at General Catalyst, a venture capital firm. He loves golf, and writes about sports and other topics for various publications.