Our friend Minoru Isutani must feel slightly betrayed by American business tactics. A Japanese mogul who falls in love with Pebble Beach Golf Links, he scrimps and saves and empties his cookie jar to pop for the asking price, about $850 million.
Then Mark O`Meara shows up on a postcard Sunday and acts like he still owns the place anyway. What`s worse, the 35-year-old Irishman exercises local knowledge and Yankee ingenuity. He smiles for six hours, he never puts up a dime, then he weaves through traffic to make off with another bundle of the house`s money. To avert an international incident, however, O`Meara does pay proper respect.
”This is mecca,” he waxes. ”I remember the first time I played here. It was in the mid-`70s. I was a teenager from Southern California who had only seen it on television. But even though I hadn`t been here, it was as if I had because I`d dreamed about it so often. Jack Nicklaus says if he had one round of golf left before he died, he`d want it to be here. I feel the same way. I`m so proud and so happy.”
O`Meara`s acceptance speech late Sunday is live, but it is also available on Memorex. By sinking a 15-foot par putt at the first playoff hole, he beats Jeff Sluman to win the Pebble Beach National Pro-Am. O`Meara doesn`t need a map to locate the podium or the vault because this conquest is his fourth in this tournament on the Monterey Peninsula. He is as much at home here as those giant quiche-eating seagulls, and a lot more welcome by the native white wine set because his aim is better.
O`Meara plays so well in this ritzy ZIP code that he plays no favorites. In 1985, he takes what is then dubbed the Bing Crosby Pro-Am. In 1989 and 1990, a rather estimable telephone company is handling the logos, and O`Meara makes consecutive collect calls. Now, the resort belongs to Tokyo and there are persistent rumors that the freight for membership will be bumped to a mere $750,000. But O`Meara survives a bit of hari-kari, anyway, and Sluman leaves with a doff of his visor.
”There are horses for courses, I guess,” says Sluman, who birdies five straight holes on the front side and has O`Meara down by four shots after the latter posts a double bogey on No. 8. Raymond Floyd, who will fill his pockets with Senior Tour funds when he turns 50 in September, also fades. The challenge to Sluman, besides maintaining any rhythm while waiting over almost every swing, looms ahead, where Paul Azinger means to defend his Pebble Beach title.
By No. 16, Sluman can deflate only by sticking a pin in himself. Which he does, and it is a shame. A drive toward the middle of the fairway would leave a short iron to the green. But he attempts to clip the dogleg with a 3-wood and plops in a bunker. His blast from there advances to yonder sand. He takes a bogey, O`Meara birdies and it`s even. At No. 18, O`Meara rams a 35-foot collar putt that falls for birdie or it barrels 5 feet past the cup. Sluman gamely follows with a 20-footer for a birdie of his own. One more inch, and Azinger makes it a sudden-death threesome.
When overtime commences, Sluman finds himself at No. 16 again. Now he uses a 4-wood and yanks it left to the slight rough. His approach grazes a tree, but O`Meara`s from a perfect position sails to the right scruff. This is getting a lot uglier than the scenery, and O`Meara`s fluffed wedge fits the motif. But he drains another putt for par, then watches Sluman miss and waits for another handshake.
Sluman, at 140 pounds, is smaller than his caddy, Tony Navarro of Moline, Ill. Yet Sluman is sneaky long and possessor of a solid game. Still, he falls to O`Meara, who runs this precinct.
”I can`t explain why I win here,” says Monterey Mark, ”except to repeat that I enjoy it so much here.”
Actually, O`Meara is good anywhere under the sun lately. In 17 rounds so far this season, he is 53 under par. He`s a sportsman, too. During mid-comeback Sunday, he asks the gallery to be still for his amateur partner, Mr. Telephone Company. Come June, O`Meara will be among the favorites for the U.S. Open at Pebble Beach, not that he shall recognize it. Landing areas will shrink, thick grass will abound, greens will appear like tabletops.
Then again, Pebble Beach already is different. Under Mr. Isutani`s regime, the course looks in better condition than ever.
”I would buy it,” dreams O`Meara, ”if I could afford it.”
He can`t, but he makes a killing playing for free.
