LONE RANGERS

Golf is a game of honor, etiquette and fair play -- one that relies heavily on the players to ensure that everyone follows the rules.

But as I discovered while working on the driving range at last year’s U.S. Open at Pinehurst, N.C., when it comes to practice, the world’s top-ranked player, Tiger Woods, gets special treatment.

My parents, who live in Pinehurst, arranged for a dozen relatives to serve as volunteers during the 2005 U.S. Open. My uncle and I were assigned to the practice area, where we passed out range balls under a blistering sun. The meticulously groomed, 12-acre practice area was created for the Open by closing the parallel fairways of two Pinehurst courses. The setting was as picturesque as any painting by Claude Monet.

Our job consisted of keeping watch over the driving range and handing out Navy blue, drawstring bags filled with newly washed golf balls. The balls, more than 18,000 of them, were segregated so players could hit the brands of their choice -- Titleist Pro V1s and Pro V1xs, Callaways, Nikes, Hogans, Bridgestones or Srixons.

It was during my initial shift on a muggy Monday afternoon that I learned of Woods’ preferential treatment. I was in a cramped shack passing out balls when a “picker” -- an employee who retrieved practice balls on the range -- approached the window.

He carefully handed me a dozen Nike balls, as if they were precious Easter eggs, and in a hushed tone said, “These are for Tiger.” The picker instructed me to put the balls in a carton hidden below a cabinet. Scrawled on the box in thick black ink was the admonition: “For Tiger Woods Only.”

I’d never heard of such an arrangement when I volunteered on the practice range for the 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst, or during the several years I worked the Kemper Open in Potomac, Md.

So at the beginning of each day, several bags of Nike balls with a special “TW” stamp were set aside for Woods’ use only. None of the other players in the field were allowed to touch them. This meant that workers on the range had to laboriously pick through hundreds of Nike balls, looking for the microscopic “TW” initials after Woods practiced.

One Pinehurst range captain told me that Woods’ special balls had arrived late, so the first day he’d practiced by hitting regular Nike balls from the range inventory.

Woods wasn’t the only player who favored specific practice balls.

Former PGA Championship winner David Toms insisted on hitting practice balls numbered only 1 or 2 at Pinehurst. Some volunteers accommodated Toms’ wish by sorting the low-numbered balls and putting them in a bag with his name on them. Granted, I’ve known amateurs who fret that playing golf balls marked with a 7 or 8 will somehow lead to higher scores, but Toms took this idiosyncrasy to a new extreme.

During the week, I got to mingle with Phil Mickelson and Ernie Els, watch in awe as pot-bellied bombers John Daly and Jason Gore spanked prodigious drives and marvel at the quirky practice habits of pros who devoted hours to perfecting their swings.

I also couldn’t help but overhear players and their caddies, spouses, swing gurus and agents. I listened one morning as Fred Couples, Davis Love and Justin Leonard debated various brands of wristwatches. Rolex was their apparent favorite. Or when Mickelson gushed to his coaches about a new, binocular-like device that measured precise yardages by calculating distance and slope -- although these devices aren’t allowed during tournament play.

My most awkward moment at the range involved Mike Cowan, a veteran caddie with a handlebar mustache and an endearing nickname, “Fluff,” who had been unceremoniously dropped by Woods in 1999.

Cowan became visibly ticked when I told him that Callaway balls were in short supply and that his player, 2003 U.S. Open champion Jim Furyk, would have to hit another brand. I assured Cowan that when some Callaways came back, I would bring them to him.

After Mickelson’s caddie returned some Callaways, I rushed out to where Furyk was hitting and handed the balls to Cowan. He glanced disdainfully at the half-filled bag and tossed it back.

“Not enough,” he grumbled.

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the canvas bag and up at Cowan. I desperately wanted to tell him what I thought. But I picked up the bag and walked away, preferring to keep my tournament pass for the rest of the week.

Woods and Daly generated the greatest buzz on the range. Several hundred spectators jammed the bleachers and stood three-deep behind rope lines on most days as they practiced. Mickelson, however, put on one of the most impressive exhibitions. Instead of aiming at flags spaced 25 to 50 yards apart, as the rest of the players did, Mickelson had a member of his entourage put down white towels every 10 yards or so. Watching him hit towel after towel with his wedge shots gave me a new appreciation for his legendary short game.

When players completed their practice sessions, we picked up any leftover balls and filled divots with sand. Many pros regard their divot patterns as works of art: Some, like Vijay Singh, left neat rows that resembled a miniature cornfield. The rectangular divots produced by Tom Pernice Jr. were so uniform, you could have played a game of checkers on them.

Daly had a practice routine all his own. He loosened up by grabbing a wedge and striking balls with the grip in his left hand and a soft drink in his right. Except for an occasional shank, the clubface struck the ball squarely nearly every time.

Then Daly worked through his clubs, and awed the spectators with his mammoth drives.

But much as in his personal life, Daly often left a mess on the range: extra-long white tees snapped in half, huge divots scattered about, a giant soda cup and half a dozen cigarette butts.