U.S. OPEN GOLF CHAMPIONSHIP : Welcome Is Hardly a Fitting Word for the Olympic Club

SAN FRANCISCO — “Welcome Golfers To The 87th U.S. Open Championship At Olympic Club,” read the sign in the airport reception area.

Welcome? To the Open? At Olympic Club?

Someone has to be kidding. Someone has to have a warped sense of humor. Welcoming a golfer to Olympic? That’s like welcoming Joan of Arc to the stake, Nathan Hale to the rope, Al Capone to Alcatraz. Lee to Gettysburg.

Let’s see. If you know a national Open at all, what’s that comparable to? How about?

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Welcome aboard the Titanic, the finest sailing ship ever built. We hope you have a pleasant voyage.

“Our crossing this trip will take us through one of the scenic wonders of the world, the great ice fields of the North Atlantic with a close-up of some of nature’s most majestic monuments, the icebergs.

“Those of you on the right side of the vessel will be able to get some breath-taking shots of these awesome forces of nature and to that end we have taken the liberty of removing several of the lifeboats to afford you as unrestricted a view of these leviathans of the icy deep as possible. We want to make this as unforgettable an experience as you can get.”

Or, how about?

“Greetings! Sitting Bull and the Oglala Sioux Indian tribe cordially invite Col. George A. Custer and the officers and company of the Seventh Cavalry to an outdoor cookout and archery contest on the happy hunting grounds of Little Big Horn on the afternoon of June 25. Map enclosed or just follow the smoke signals. Dress casual. Regrets only. Noonish. Dance to follow.”

Or how about?

“Passengers of the Hindenburg, achtung! You are now on board one of the finest lighter-than-air craft that has ever gone aloft, the world’s biggest bag of hydrogen.

“Please fasten your belts and observe the no-smoking sign when it appears. Our route today will take us through some of the thickest thunder formations in the hemisphere with a huge fireworks display planned for our docking in New Jersey.”

Or, maybe?

“Good efening, my young friends, und velcome to the castle of Count Dracula. Igor, please show our guests to their coffins.

“Vould you please leave your names on the guest register. Also your blood types.

“Please excuse the howling. The lycanthropes always act that way in a full moon. If there is anything you desire, just call and I will, how you say, be willing to go to bat for you.”

You see, no U.S. Open is a day at the beach. You watch the golfers check in and they all look like Cagney going to the chair. They might laugh and joke on the way to the Seiko Tucson or the Federal Express St. Jude Classic but nobody cracks a smile going to an Open.

They come into an Open like guys in chains. They know it’s going to be four days of silent screaming, a weekend at Gestapo headquarters. The rack.

But, that’s any Open. The Open here at Olympic is special.

This is not an Open, it’s a punishment for our sins. It’s not a golf course, it’s a penal colony.

This is the golf course that occupies the same place in history as Benedict Arnold’s horse, John Wilkes Booth’s gun or the cannon that opened fire on Ft. Sumter. It’s a traitor to its trust.

An Open course is supposed to run out the ribbon clerks. This course runs out the legends, runs in the ribbon clerks.

This is the course that lets Jack Fleck trip Ben Hogan out of a record fifth Open. This made Arnold Palmer throw away a seven-shot lead with nine holes to play.

A course that would do that would dynamite Mt. Rushmore, torch the Vatican. It’s not a golf course, it’s public enemy No. 1. It’s 6,700 yards of malice.

It shouldn’t be allowed in the family of great golf courses. It should be banned by the Helsinki Accords, the last bastion of sanctioned torture this side of Torquemada. It’s not a game, it’s the Inquisition.

It has a lot to answer for. How dare they put a tournament on the site of two of the greatest natural disasters in golf history?

They should just lay a wreath, stand bare-headed in a moment of silent prayer--and move the Open to Oakmont or Merion, some place where a Jack Fleck or an Andy North can’t win it and a Palmer or a Hogan can.

This place should be golf’s Arlington, a national cemetery. Never, in the history of mankind did a piece of real estate more misconstrue its function. You picture the golf gods holding their heads and groaning, “No, no, not him , you dummy! Those other guys!”

An Open is like no other sporting event. In a Stanley Cup, they don’t chop holes in the ice. In a Super Bowl, they don’t mine the approaches to the end zone. In a World Series, they don’t move the pitcher’s mound in 20 feet.

They do all of the above in an Open, so to speak.

In 1955, before they held the first Open here at Olympic, they called in Robert Trent Jones to, as he put it, “fortify” Olympic. He trapped it, lengthened it--and then they grew hip-high rough.

It was like giving 10 more claws to a tiger, another set of teeth to a shark. Guess who they caught in this overkill? Not some club pro from Albuquerque. Ben, by God, Hogan.

In 1966, they cut the rough some. But the 40,000 trees were 20 feet taller and 5 feet thicker. They were there to frighten the kids with theloops in their backswings. They frightened Arnold Palmer, who succeeded Hogan as America’s team.

Score: Olympic 2, America 0.

What little spiteful trick does this vengeful track have for the game this time?

Let’s see. There’s that colorful Spaniard with the little-boy grin and the bull-ring daring, an appealing champion in the mold of Palmer who either makes a 2 or an 11. Who never takes the rocking-chair route. It may gore him.

Or, maybe it’s going to harpoon the Great White Norman, the most charismatic figure to hit the fairways since the early Palmer. Perhaps it’s saving a few double-bogeys for him on Sunday afternoon as he starts the back nine with a multi-shot lead and a partner playing for second place.

Maybe it’ll get Nicklaus in its cross hairs this time. This is the golf version of Dirty Harry. It breaks the rules, punishes the innocent to get at the guilty.

One thing you had better keep in mind: Don’t bet on anybody you ever heard of. And don’t say, “Welcome,” to any great player. It would be kinder to say, “Go back! Before it’s too late!”