Given the success of the U.S. Open at Merion GC last summer and Aronmink’s GC’s guest-hosting of the AT&T National in 2010 and 2011, why in the heck does a historic hotbed of golf like Philadelphia still not have a regular stop on the PGA Tour?

 

It’s a good question, and one that Frank Fitzpatrick tackles in today’s Inquirer:

 

Whatever your feelings about golf, this hole on Philadelphia's scorecard is, like the Phillies front office, difficult to comprehend. After all, if you were ranking potential PGA sites by purely objective standards, few cities would seem to compare.

Consider some of the Philadelphia area's attributes as a golfing venue:

Its golf history and traditions are as rich as those of any American city.

It's home to dozens of classic courses, including two of the top 10 - No. 1 Pine Valley and No. 6 Merion - in Golf Digest's rankings of America's top 100.

It displayed Tour-worthy passion and interest during those two AT&T events at Aronimink and again during last year's U.S. Open at Merion.

It's the nation's fifth-most-populous city and fourth-largest television market.

 

All good points.  Fitzpatrick goes so far as wonder aloud why the biggest, baddest corporation in town, Comcast, owner of NBC Sports and Golf Channel, doesn’t step forward to bring a tournament to town?  

It is the same question I asked in the Inquirer in 2002, in a post-mortem column on why the SEI Pennsylvania Classic couldn’t make a go of it at Waynesborough Country Club.  I, too, went so far as to propose a Comcast Championship:

 

So, imagine, if you will, the $5.7 million Comcast Championship at Waynesborough, Aronimink, Merion or maybe that new ACE course they're building in Lafayette Hill.

Imagine a prime date, maybe in late June, when the weather is perfect, the kids are out of school and everybody is not at the Shore.

Now imagine Pat Croce out there working the golf circuit, talking up the tournament to the players, pointing out to the players, by the way, that Comcast owns their beloved Golf Channel and would very much appreciate it if they supported the event by vying for the $1 million winner's check.

You think things would fall into place?

 

Alas, nothing happened then and, I suspect, nothing will happen now.  If the golf-hungry crowds at the AT&T at Aronimink, and the fever pitch of the Open at Merion, couldn’t jumpstart a conversation at Comcast to sponsor at tournament in Philadelphia, nothing likely will.

 

 

The load in the back of the car was just a little heavier driving home on Saturday after our beach week in North Carolina.   The coveted Conrad Cup, after all, was on board.

 

That is correct.  Against all odds, and perhaps several laws of the universe, your humble correspondent prevailed in the Conrad Cup, the long-running annual golf competition between me, my brother-in-law, Dan, and my nephew-in-law, Cole.  See earlier blog for background.

 

It was a runaway. Or a giveaway, depending on your perspective.  Fact is, on the day of the official Cup competition, Thursday, Dan held a decent – some might say substantial – lead after the front nine.  Sadly, for him, on the 11^th, Dan’s ball found a nasty, plugged lie in a greenside bunker.  It was so bad, he had no choice but to play it out sideways.  Still, on impact, he heard a "pop" and Cole and I heard a "whimper."  After that, Dan was toast.

 

"I’ve got no feeling in my left hand," he moaned on the watery par 3 14^th, after dunking two balls in the pond.  By the 16^th Dan was done, doomed to drive his cart and post "x", "x" on the 17^th and 18^th.

 

I almost felt bad for him, until I remembered that Tiger Woods won a U.S. Open on a broken leg, and that nobody feels sorry for Dale Jr. when he blows an engine on the final lap at Talladega.  It’s part of sport.   Besides, on a brighter note, it opened the door for me sneak in the back door and claim the Cup.

 

Cole, by that point in the Cup, was also toast.  He had played his best golf in the two warm-up rounds.  Dan was fairly steady all three days.  I, on the other hand, got better by the day.  Never mind the scores.  Some things are best left to the imagination. There are also privacy laws to consider.

 

In my earlier pre-Cup preview post, I mentioned that I was going to try to negotiate for strokes, or distance, or maybe the creation of a Senior Division, since Dan is about 10 years younger than me and Cole is 15 years younger.  We settled on letting me play from the white tees (6,351 yards), while they played from the blues (6,750).

 

Later, back at the beach house, I posed with the Cup.  I considered prancing around or doing cartwheels in some sort of World Cup-style post-goal celebration, but ultimately concluded that would be in poor taste, considering the ice pack on Dan’s hand.  Instead, I tried to be humble in victory.

 

Back home in Philadelphia, the Cup now occupies a prominent place on the bookshelf in my office.  It will remain there until next June, when my family returns to the beach to pig out on Eastern North Carolina barbecue, hush puppies, shrimp, ice cream cake, assorted adult beverages and, of course, another Conrad Cup.

Now that the U.S. Open is behind us, I can turn my attention to perhaps the most anticipated event on my personal golf calendar.  I refer to the Conrad Cup, a heated intra-family competition that takes place every summer during our annual beach week in North Carolina.

 

Named in honor of my late father, the Conrad Cup, which is coming up on it’s 25^th anniversary, is a dog-eat-dog – or, more accurately, a brother-in-law eat nephew-in-law, battle royale each June when my two sisters and our families descend on Emerald Isle for the one time of the year that we all get together.

 

No money is at stake in the Conrad Cup, only pride, dignity, suffering and humiliation.  Each evening after the round, somebody’s got to trudge up the steps to the beach house with his head hung, to be met by wives, sisters, fiances and assorted offspring, all trying to access the day’s outcome by the looks on our faces.

 

"Oooohhh, Joe does not look happy..." is an often-heard refrain from the peanut gallery. 

 

The actual Cup is a coffee can, which my sister Eleanor created years ago by painting it green, in the spirit and color of golf, then mounting it on a pedestal made of three golf balls.  Fancy, it is not.   Coveted, it is.

 

The field for the Conrad Cup is so-so.  There’s my brother-in-law Dan, from Raleigh.  He’s married to my baby sister, Jane.  Dan has been a good player for years, with a handicap that never climbed above the high single digits.  Dan is almost 10 years younger than me and he’s at least 10 yards longer than me off the tee.  He’s most dangerous with a putter in his hand.

 

There’s also Cole, from Durham, who is married to my niece, Julie.  Cole, who is 15 years younger than me, is also mid- to high-single digit player, and he also hits it past me.  A criminal defense lawyer, Cole hates to lose and he is not above resorting to gamesmanship if he thinks it will give him an advantage.

 

Then there’s me, a former mid-single digit player, whose game has been eroded by Father Time and two titanium hips that cost me considerable distance off the tee.  There’s also the undeniable fact that I’ve never met a putt I couldn’t gag.  My trend lines are not headed in the right direction.

 

In the early years, when my father was alive and still playing golf, we’d go out as a threesome – me, him and Dan.  Dan and I would call our match the Conrad Cup. We had some hard-fought matches, often punctuated with trash-talking and frequent cases of lock-jaw when one of us was facing a two-footer that meant something.

 

Eventually, my father turned 90 and put away his clubs for good.  But that was about the time Cole married into the family, launching a whole new competitive era of the Conrad Cup.   In fact, the last few years of the Conrad Cup have been the best.  We found a new and better golf course to host the Cup, and we all enjoy each other’s company.  Besides, what could be more fun (or agonizing for the loser) than a hole-by-hole review of the day’s Cup doings over dinner with the entire family.

 

For a stretch of three or four years, Dan dropped out of the Cup.  He couldn’t take the time away from work to make the trip, but he was also having knee issues that prevented him from playing much golf at all.  Then it was just Cole and me, mano a mano, for the Cup.

 

We all have our favorite matches and memories from the Cup.  If Dan or Cole want to boast of their victories, they can get their own blog.  Personally, my favorite Cup memory is from 2008, when it was just me and Cole.  We both were on top of our games the whole week, back in the days when we both were shooting in the mid- to high-70s.

 

Anyway, that year, the Cup came down to the final round, the final hole – a big, beefy 566-yard par 5, a classic cape hole design, with a tee shot that is about an 180-yard carry over a lake, into a banked fairway that turns left and wraps around the lake.  It’s a three-shot par 5 for sure, and the third shot is over the lake again, into a peninsula green that is buttressed and surrounded by heavy planking, like the island green 17^th at TPC Sawgrass.

 

With the Cup on the line, Cole and I both had knots in the pits of our stomachs as we stepped to the tee.  Naturally, the previous 71 holes of very good play by both of us went straight out the window.  Trying to bite off too much of the dogleg, we both hit our tee shots into the lake.   We reloaded and found the fairway on our second tee balls.  But the our horrors were only beginning.

 

Lying three, I pulled my 4^th shot into the lake, giving Cole just the opening he needed.  Too bad for him that he stone-cold topped his 4^th into the lake.

 

By then, our grand finale hole was becoming a comedy of errors, as we both wilted under the pressure.   Going for broke, we each hit another ball in the lake, then Cole hit one more in for good measure.  That’s when I thought he was going to throw himself into the lake.

 

Now, it was on me.  Lying eight in the fairway, with a 9-iron in my hand, I took one last look at the flag and pulled the trigger.  As soon as I swung, I knew I hadn’t gotten all of it. 

 

"Go, ball, gooo" I yelled.

 

The ball landed on the planking fronting the green, bounced straight up into the air like it had hit a cart path, then came to rest 18 inches from the hole. 

 

I laughed.  Cole howled.

I won the hole, and therefore the Conrad Cup, with a 10.

 

As a reminder of that most satisfying of victories, stuck in the corner of the mirror over my dresser is a dollar bill that Cole gave me that day, with the inscription:  THIS IS THE EXACT WIDTH OF THE BOARD THAT SAVED YOUR ASS!!!

 

In all the years, the Conrad Cup has been cancelled only once.  That was last year, when Dan couldn’t make it to the beach and I was in the hospital undergoing hip replacement surgery.  It rained most of the week, anyway.

 

So, as you can imagine, we are all excited about this year’s Cup, which will be contested next week.  It promises to be doozy.  Dan will be back this year.  His knee is apparently better, and he is back to playing plenty of golf.  Plus, he recently retired his set of 25-year-old Titleist irons in favor of a brand new set of Mizunos. 

 

The pre-Cup trash-talking, posturing and excuse-making has already begun, mostly in a series of emails between me and Cole.   Because I now clank when I walk, I am trying to negotiate a stroke or two a side, or maybe special dispensation to play from the Senior tees.  Heck, I might even create a Senior Division and declare myself the winner.

 

Cole is claiming his game is rusty because he has only played five rounds since November, owing to some cockamamie problem with his elbow.   But he says he’s not worried, because he’s got a plan.  He’s threatened to steer the conversation toward politics, which he knows will get my more liberal blood boiling.

 

"You won’t make it past the turn," Cole wrote in an email, no doubt cackling as he typed.  "That’s the secret weapon."

 

I told him that was cheating, like winning a bass fishing tournament with illegal bait.

 

Anyway, wish me luck.

We’re all very happy for Martin Kaymer.  Well, done young man.  He applied the precision and excellence of German engineering to a U.S. Open and came away a big winner.  Very impressive.

 

Now let me say this: B-o-r-i-n-g.

 

I mean, it’s not Kaymer’s fault or anything, but for the first time ever, I found myself watching the final round of the U.S. Open on my iPhone.  Technically, I wasn’t even watching, I was only checking in on the leaderboard every few minutes by refreshing my U.S. Open app.  If Kaymer had faltered, or if anybody had mounted a serious challenge, I would have made my way into the house and plopped down in front of the big-screen, high-def TV to watch things play out.

 

But it never got close.   And it was nice day – Father’s Day – and both my grown kids were over, and a couple of friends, and we had steaks, and my daughter had baked a special cake, and the weather was so pleasant out on the patio that, what the heck, how could it get any better than this?

 

It couldn’t.  Anyway, it’s not like the highlights wouldn’t be available on SportsCenter and Golf Channel.

 

In a way, it’s hard not to feel bad for the USGA.  Of all the thought and preparation that went into the Open, and the good luck with the weather, one thing the USGA never could have predicted or controlled was a wire-to-wire blowout victory that robbed their grandest spectacle of pretty much any and all drama.

 

Sure, there was the back story of Phil Mickelson trying to finish off the career Grand Slam, but that horse was out of the barn after Thursday.  And there was the heartwarming story of Erik Compton and the flourish of Rickie Fowler, but those are storylines that TV producers push when there is not battle to the finish to showcase.

 

I’m not complaining.  It was a special Father’s Day for me and for Martin Kaymer. 

Every now and then something happens that should make us all proud of the game we love and the character golf seeks to instill in those who play it.  One of those things happened over the weekend, when a 24-year-old pro from Tennessee who had played his way into the U.S. Open via a 36-hole qualifier, DQed himself five days after the fact, citing a guilty conscience.

 

Jason Millard, a mini-tour rabbit with one start on the PGA Tour this year (missed the cut at the Honda Classic), had shot 68-68 last Monday at the sectional qualifier at Colonial Country Club in Memphis.  It was enough to get him into his first Open, the biggest opportunity ever for the former standout from Middle Tennessee State.

 

But there was a problem.   Millard could not get it out of his mind that he thinks he might have accidently grounded his club as he stood over a shot in the bunker of the 18^th at Colonial, his 27^th hole of the day.

 

At the time, Millard consulted a rules official on the scene, who advised him that the decision whether to call a penalty on himself was his and his alone to make.  Nobody else saw it.  It was on him.

 

Millard didn’t call the penalty and went on to qualify for Pinehurst by one shot.  But for five days, it kept eating away at him.

 

"I'm pretty sure I grounded my club in the bunker," Millard told the USGA, Jason Sobel wrote for GolfChannel.com. "I didn't see anything for sure, but I felt something and I saw a small indentation. It happened so fast, I really don't know 100 percent but deep down, I believe I did.

"I couldn't find peace about it. For five days, I practiced and I couldn't get it off my mind."

So Millard did the only thing he could do, if he wanted to live with himself.

The whole thing is enough to give me hope for humanity, especially for golfers.  Golf takes a lot of heat these days about being in decline, or being the extravagant province of rich, self-important country club types who too often adhere to the life principle of winning-at-all-cost.

There certainly is that side to golf, and it is neither pretty nor good for the future of golf.  But as long as there are people in the game like Jason Millard, who will do the right thing in golf and in life, there is hope.

I was about to tee off with my usual foursome this morning when one of the guys, Tim, said to me, "Hey, you haven’t updated your blog in quite a while.  What’s the matter?"

 

What’s the matter?  What’s the matter?

 

This, after he and his partner in golfing crime, Stan, took $20 off me and my partner, Jack, on Saturday.  And they would take another $20 off of us today.  And why?  Because I stunk. 

 

How can I even think about writing an intelligent blog post about golf when I am wandering so hopelessly lost in the dense, dark forest of golf?  You know, even when you are playing your best golf, they say you never "own" the game;  you can only "rent" it.  Right now I couldn’t rent it with a Platinum Amex card.

 

Strangely, this all comes after a couple of months of me driving the ball straight and solid.  But now, inexplicably, I have entered into another dimension of suckedness.  I hit tee shots sideways.  Fat.  Smother hooks.  I pop them up.  Today, I even topped one, which I never do.

 

Tim was only too happy to pull out his iPhone to videotape my driver swing to show me where it was all going wrong.  I use the term "swing" loosely, when in fact we are talking about a move that has devolved into more of a spastic lunge, or some kind of seizure, than an actual pass at the ball.

 

Of course, what’s wrong is all in my head, which leads to it getting into my swing.  For some reason, I can’t swing through the ball; I quit at impact.  I’m trying to guide it.  If they could hook me up and do some kind of brain scan during my tee shots, I’m sure it would look like an electrical storm.

 

For a time today, I left the driver in my bag and went with my good, reliable friend the 3-wood, until that rotten bastard betrayed me, too. 

 

A couple of times, after I hit tee shots that went so far off line that I almost collapsed in a heap, I would look at Tim and Jack and Stan and they would be standing there stone-faced, pity written all over their faces, like those monkeys that see on evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.  Once, all three of them averted their eyes rather than bust out laughing.

 

Most baffling of all, just when I am sapped of all self-confidence and filled with self-loathing, I’ll crush one right now the middle.  Where did that come from?  Why can’t I do that every time?

 

The thing is, I’ve come to understand that these bouts of driver yips come and go, although lately they’ve been coming more than going.  And once they come, they stay too long, like a mooching relative. 

 

I could take a lesson, I suppose, but why bother?  Like the last time the driver yips barged uninvited into my life, they stayed until they were ready to go.  I can spend hours on the range pounding balls -- one straight rocket after another.   What’s the problem?  I ask myself.  I’ve got this thing figured out now.

 

But somewhere in the walk from the range to the first tee, the stomach starts to churn and the demons in the back of my head start whispering, "Psssst, Joe, we’re still h-e-r-e."

 

Stupid game.  Why do I have to be addicted?

It’s barely spring time but Joe Bausch, intrepid photographer and Chronicler in Chief of the Bausch Collection of golf course photo galleries is a it again.

 

So far this early season, Joe, who doubles as a chemistry professor at Villanova University, has added four more courses, raising the total number of galleries in the Bausch Collection 192.  More courses are on the way.  The latest additions are:

 

Pennsylvaniva

Bethlehem Golf Club

Butter Valley Golf Port

Fox Hollow Golf Club

 

New Jersey

Stone Harbor Golf Club

 

Each time Joe adds a new course, it offers the opportunity to re-post the video I shot of him working his magic when he played last fall.  Here is it: