Putting the P in PGA

By Tom Anselm

I made my foray into the morass that is the 100th PGA Championship at Bellerive Country Club two weeks ago on a Tuesday. My brother Don got me a ticket for $20 and I thought, okay, let’s get a taste. Well, it was an interesting one, to be sure.

Started out on an auspicious note, as I got on the shuttle bus at Creve Coeur soccer field and just as it was pulling away, I checked my pocket for the good old mobile. Nope not there, nor on the seat. Stopped the bus, got off, went back to car. Not in car. Drove car to a closer bus stop. John the Shuttle Guy said, ‘let’s call your phone, see if it’s still in the car.’ Which he did. Which it was. Second try, jumped on next bus, 10 minutes to course, all is well. Security was easy. Then…

About a 15 minute walk just to get to the first stop of interest, which was THE GRAND MEGA MALL of GOLF SWAG. (not the official name… just my name for it.) This place was so huge it had its own zip code. Everything you ever wanted in a golf store, from apparel to tees to a bottle opener that looked like a tinkle trough/tombstone to a picture with Sergio Garcia/Tommy Fleetwood to a $600 watch with the PGA Championship logo to… well, you get the idea. I walked through this wonderfully frigid center, stopped off at the little boy’s room but couldn’t get clear directions, so I waded into the rushing stream of golf-kit-bedecked humanity as we all swam north to the course.

Went down several flights of steps, since almost everything was built up over the grounds on giant platform walkways to avoid damage to the clubs entranceway, around a 40-foot-wide walkway that skirted the driving range, down more steps approaching the 18th green/first tee, then around the back side of the Clubhouse entrance. All the time, Mr. Bladder signaling frantically that he couldn’t hold out much longer. And, alas, not a Johnny-on-the-Spot sign to be found. Finally, a friendly fellow pointed me in the right direction. ‘About 50 yards down there, sir, past the hospitality tent, along the path by the first tee.’

I looked that way, and all I saw was, literally, people’s heads, not moving, nary a place to pass, as some dang golfers were teeing off. (Side note #1: Why do golfers need such silence when they hit? Baseball/football/hockey/soccer athletes perform admirably in the most insane-decibel-level of conditions.) So this route was not an option. ‘Let’s figure out something quick’ said Bladder to Brain. ‘Almost time to go, here.’ So it was back to said MEGA MALL to find that relief station.

In the course of this adventure, I am slowly discovering that I may in fact suffer from claustrophobia, with my ankle screaming at me to ‘sit down, why doncha’, brother Don texting me ‘where are you!? I got two drink tickets from Blake’ (his son, volunteering through his college program.) Like I need a drink… well, maybe I did, but that would have just added to the crisis.

Finally… I get to the stand of at least 40 gorgeous green human waste depositories rising like a mirage not 15 feet from the MALL exit… 15 feet, Jaden?!… and … AHHHhhhhhhhh. (Sidenote #2: Memo to PGA: Howsa bout locating some of these all-important facilities more strategically throughout the patron’s areas? I mean, the vast majority of visitors are not carrying access credentials for the ‘corporate chalets’ liberally scattered about the course.

So at this point, I am about near done. Yeah, I know it’s the 100th PGA Cham… so what. I did get to watch 1991 PGA Champion John Daly, bedecked in crazy floral shorts and smoking a Marlboro while warming up at the driving range (John Daly, the antithesis of Country Club-ism… love it!) and then decided to just beat the swarms back to the shuttle site, then home, where it is 70 degrees and the toilet is three feet away instead of 300 and I get instant replays from 13 angles of every shot on the Golf Channel Okay. Deep breath.

It was a great event to be part of, even for the limited time I participated. I was able to bring my unofficial Khaki short count (something I do at every golf event I attend… just cracks me up) to nearly 200 in less than two hours. I picked up a nifty pennant commemorating (and verifying!) that, yes, great-grandchildren, Grandpa Tom was at the 100th PGA… oh well, you get my drift.

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