Lost at the Open

Bethpage Black

Naimah Jabali-Nash

This year’s U.S. Open returned to Bethpage Black for the second time in seven years. Having not been to the Open since Congressional played host in 1997, the tournament’s return to the Big Apple made it too close for myself and photographer, Ryan Kobane, to pass up.

After scoring two tickets off craigslist for Sunday’s round we were set. And I couldn’t help but hope for another epic Torrey Pines finishing round. We planned to set off on the Long Island Rail Road to Farmingdale’s famed public course. A course that the average hack could attempt to play, only if totally ignoring the glaring sign on the first tee box: “Warning: The Black Course is an extremely difficult course, which we recommend only for highly skilled golfers.”

While skimming the long list of rules lining the back of my newly purchased grounds pass—no cameras, no cell phones, no bags larger than 8’’W x 8’’H x 8’’D in their natural state—I thought, “Surely this can’t be true.” And began thinking of ways to somehow sneak at least one of my vital electronic devices past what would seem like top-notch security (all I needed was my cell). But there I was Sunday morning, ruler in hand, measuring every bag I owned to see which one would pass the litmus test. In fear of being rejected at the entrance gate after what would be an hour and a half commute, I decided not to be the rebel and follow suit.

The day was already off to a rocky start. Ryan was late, and thanks to the USGA I couldn’t call him. I stood under the few-stories-high Nike billboard that chronicled Tiger’s major wins at the corner of 34th Street and 7th Avenue (yeah, very original). Once Ryan strolled up, he finished his cig and we headed down to the train.

We purchased our 15 dollar tickets for the 1:16 train leaving for Farmingdale. Feeling robbed by the New York City transit system, I decided it was time for a drink. So we headed to a nearby Fridays to grab a cold, pre-round brew. After all, nothing was going to get us down—we were going to the Open. But that mission was quickly aborted when the bartender, who reluctantly turned on the Open coverage, noticed that Ryan’s ID expired the day before (nice). Instead, we settled for a cold, pre-round glass of water.

After an hour on the LIRR we arrived at Bethpage State Park. Twenty minutes later, I lost Ryan.

I figured it must have happened somewhere near the concession stand at the 16th. That’s when I spotted Sergio Garcia approaching his tee shot. I had seen Ryan take a few hard falls on the slippery terrain and refused to be the next victim. And taking into account that my Sperry topsiders weren’t the ideal source of traction on the mud-caked paths, I treaded carefully.

Making it through the slop created by the week’s rainy forecast, which reeked of horse manure, beer and freshly cut grass, I found an open spot against the ropes. Once Sergio stuck his approach in a safe spot for par, I turned around. “Great shot,” I said to a man who definitely wasn’t Ryan. “Yeah,” he said brandishing a half-full cup of Michelob Ultra. Giving him a half awkward you’re not who I was expecting smile, I stepped back a bit and scanned the crowd. “He should only be a few yards away from here,” I thought to myself. Sure. That’s when I realized finding Ryan amidst the sea of the other 5’9’’ white guys with caps and cool shades was a lost cause. I grabbed a quick bite and figured I would make the best of it.

Hearing the gallery’s cries, I knew that everyone’s favorite lefty, Phil Mickelson, was on his way. Phil was still in the thick of it, hunting down his first U.S. Open win and playing this week for his wife, Amy, who was diagnosed with breast cancer a few weeks earlier.

I rallied behind Phil, coming down the 16th and on to the par 3 17th chanting “Mick-el-son” after his tee shot gave him a good look at birdie. And once his drive on the 18th landed in the short grass, I meandered back through the crowds to catch sight of the final groups. Rounding out the third round were a thinner Lee Westwood, hot-kid Sean O’Hair, David Duval (yes, Mr. 59 himself) and the painter cap wearing leader, Ricky Barnes.

“Screw Ricky Barnes. Who the hell is Ricky Barnes?” scoffed a glazy-eyed spectator. Hearing that, I figured it was time to make the hike back to the clubhouse to confirm murmurs of 4th round starting times. Clouds still lurked above, but as long as the rain passed over and light was present—play would continue. In the shuffle of fans, the thought crossed my mind again of perhaps being reunited with Ryan. We hadn’t discussed a meeting place, but if I were to spot him, what better chance to find him than where we started?

My mission was curtailed by stomach grumblings. It was just my luck that I missed last-call for beer by a few minutes. I forked over the cash for an overpriced grilled chicken sandwich and a bottle of water. Making my way to an empty seat on a nearby bench, I met a woman who I’ll call Martha. “You’ve found the golden seat,” she said, nudging her head towards the JumboTron screen playing last year’s U.S. Open coverage. “Yeah, I guess so,” I answered.

Before I could take a bite of my sandwich the 40-something woman took the liberty of telling me about her father who suffered a head injury after losing his footing on a steep hill. “It’s slippery out there,” I said trying to sound somewhat concerned. I was still searching for Ryan. Lucky for Martha, her father was fine. She bid me farewell, after which a lanky, older man immediately took her place. He was a loner, just like me, but instead of loosing a co-worker, Dan, lost his son. “Did you have a meeting place,” I asked optimistically. “No. We parked at Jones Beach and took the shuttle over,” he said. “I’m never coming to another Open that doesn’t allow cell phones.”

I sat with Dan for a while. After he revealed that his son was 18, I felt a little better about leaving him (Tiger was about to tee off). “I hope you find your son,” I said and darted to the first tee to see the man in red. Tiger was trailing, but this was my last chance of the day to see him play. He fired it down the fairway’s right side, we roared and I skidded down the hill—still no Ryan in sight.