At the Turn: How Two Electrifying Years Changed Golf Forever - Hardcover

Eubanks, Steve

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 060960743X ISBN 13: 9780609607435

Verlag: Crown Publications, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

Follows the 1997 and 1999 Ryder's Cup tournaments and all the championships in between as it profiles some of the great golfers of the present day and describes how they have transformed the modern sport.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Steve Eubanks is a former PGA golf professional, a contributing writer at <i>Golf World</i> magazine and CBS SportsLine, and a contributor to <i>Golf Digest</i>. He is the author of <i>Augusta: Home of the Masters Tournament</i> and coauthor of Laura Baugh's memoir, <i>Out of the Rough.</i>

Aus dem Klappentext

of the new millennium, the sports world is about to change forever.<br><br>In two-and-a-half astonishing years, professional golf was reborn. Formerly dismissed as an elite, white, middle-aged, rich man's game, golf has rocketed into the mainstream to become a multicultural, multibillion-dollar sport, with young, hotshot athletes to rival those in the NBA and demographics to win the hearts of networks and merchandisers everywhere.<br><br>From the U.S. team's devastating loss at the 1997 Ryder Cup to their come-from-behind triumph at the 1999 Cup through the record-setting summer of 2000, Steve Eubanks tells the story of the new boys, the bad boys, and the good old boys who changed the way America -- and the world -- think about golf. With detailed coverage of the rise of David Duval, Sergio Garcia, and, of course, Tiger Woods, as well as the backbiting and chaos at the British Open, the backstage power struggles at the PGA, and the tragic death of Payne Stewart, <b>At the Turn </b>is

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One

A Question of Life and Death

The late October air was crisp, not cold, even though the first snowfall was less than a month away and residents of Geneva were hurriedly preparing for the winter ski season. Rain and fog had draped the city in gray for most of the day, but skies cleared by late afternoon and a few remaining clouds bumped lightly against the snow-capped Alps as dusk settled. Flickering lights from a ferry bound for Montrose shimmered against Lake Leman providing the perfect backdrop for a quiet dinner.

A small battery of patrons littered the restaurant: bankers mostly, dressed in dark suits and French-cuffed Egyptian-cotton shirts with all the accoutrements required for status in the Swiss financier community. It was somewhat prejudiced to assume every professionally dressed man or woman in Geneva was a banker, but with only 180,000 residents, and over 450 banks, it was also a pretty safe bet. Locals could always pick out the bankers, distinguishing them with relative ease from the government emissaries, artists, importers, and International Red Cross executives who worked and lived in the city. Of course tourists remained the easiest group to spot. Late October was a transition period for tourism as the weather had become a bit too nippy for waterskiing and day trips to the botanical gardens, but skiers wouldn't arrive for another month or so. It was also a Monday, which meant the Parisians who had been in town for the weekend had returned home, and the cathedral of Saint Pierre, a sprawling structure showcasing architectural and artistic history from Roman rule through the Reformation, was closed. All that remained (in this popular dining establishment at least) were a handful of casually dressed visitors seated silently at two tables in the corner. The bankers were relatively subdued as well. All in all, it was a peaceful night for dining out, exactly the kind of relaxing experience Jean Van de Velde and his wife Brigitte needed.

To the rest of the diners they were a mystery couple: obviously local from their demeanor and familiarity with the restaurant staff, but not a pair you could neatly place in the rigidly enforced Geneva hierarchy. Jean was certainly not a banker; the tan and weathered skin said tourist. The Rolex hinted that he might be an investor from Monaco, but his clothes and demeanor didn't fit that mold. He was young (33 to be exact) and strikingly handsome. With his thick black hair combed back he bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Gregory Peck. He certainly could have passed as France's latest film export, or fashion model. Even when reading a menu or prattling on about the relative virtues of tonight's roast pheasant special his eyes sparkled and his expressions showed an unaffected air of self-assurance and joie de vivre. Several of the patrons stared a moment too long assuming he must be someone they should recognize, but no one did.

Brigitte, on the other hand, was a strawberry blonde with just enough tiny wrinkles to confirm she was about his age. Were it not politically incorrect, she would have been described as cute--not ravishing or striking, but attractive in a deeper sense, with high cheekbones, soft skin, a pixie smile, and an engaging stare that confirmed her complete adoration for her husband. She had known Jean since they were 5-year-old children attending grade school in Mont-de-Marsan, a town of 40,000 in the southwest corner of France where the Van de Veldes were well-known industrialists. Jean's father, Jean Marcel Van de Velde, owned one of the largest commercial engine factories in the region, but Jean, the slightly awkward youngest of five brothers, wasn't cut out to sell combine engines to French farmers. Brigitte recognized his spark, and the two became steady sweethearts at age 15. "He's a good person to spend time with," she would say to anyone who asked, quite an admission after spending most of her childhood and all her adult life with only one man. "He never complains, never gets too demanding. He's very good company."

He was also quite popular these days. While no one in the restaurant recognized him (and in Geneva, where privacy is a sacred right, they would have left him alone even if they had) Jean Van de Velde was a professional, a golfer who, after 11 journeyman years on the European PGA Tour where he had posted only one victory and 31 top-ten finishes in 292 tournaments, had been thrust into semi-stardom in late July of 1999. It wasn't the kind of attention Jean or Brigitte wanted, and certainly they wished the circumstances surrounding their newfound fame had been different. But in typical que será, será fashion, they accepted their fate and fortune with smiling equanimity.

"So many more people want to know me, want my time, but that's exciting, you know," Jean openly admitted. There was a genuineness to his speech, as if no question was too inane, no subject taboo for him. His English, while good, was laced with a silky French accent, enough to confirm his status as a marketable celebrity--a "hunk" as they would say in the trashy tabloids, or a candidate for "Sexiest Man Alive" in some of the more sensational glossy weeklies.

"It's nice to have people wanting to know what you think and who you are," he continued. "But by the same time it's a bit heavy on your shoulders. There are a certain number of hours in the day, and when the demand is very big you need to sometimes sound like a bad guy and say you can't do that thing someone wants."

It obviously wounded him to be thought of as a bad guy, even by those who were so brash as to make unreasonable requests of his time. He had always been open and available, willing to answer questions anyone might have or sign autographs anyone might want. He even poked fun at his own accent, mimicking Peter Sellers's Inspector Clouseau perfectly. "Does your dog bite?" he would say, cocking an eyebrow just so. Even though he oozed savoir faire, there had never been an overwhelming demand for his impressionistic comedy, or his signature, or his time, during his decade on the European PGA Tour. There were the standard occasions when a voice would shout, "May I have your autograph?" followed by a cap or a folded program being thrust in his direction. "Sure," Jean would always answer, scrawling his name across the item with a black Sharpie. Then the inevitable question would come: "By the way, who are you?" Politely and without hesitation he would answer, "I am Jean Van de Velde." That was usually followed by an "Oh, well, thanks," and off the fan would go in search of Montgomerie or Westwood or any one of the many other players with more name recognition than Jean What's His Name.

But all that had changed. "The last half of the [1999] season I haven't practiced as much as maybe I should have, but that's the way it is, you know," Jean said with only a slight hint of guilt in his voice. "Since the Open it has been very hectic."

"The Open" Monsieur Van de Velde spoke of was the 1999 Open Championship, or the British Open, as it's referred to in America. The third of golf's four major championships played each year, the Open was the only world golf championship that existed in 1860, so there was no reason for the Brits to qualify it as the British Open. According to many imperialist Anglophiles "British Open" remains redundant today, since in many minds there is no other golf event worthy of comparison with the one, true, Open Championship. The U.S. Open, the only other major to qualify as an "open" contest, where anyone with an entry fee and a dream can conceivably work his way into the field, is a mere babe by comparison. First contested in 1895, the U.S. Open was a...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Crown Publications
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2001
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 060960743X
• ISBN 13: 9780609607435
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 292
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: MUSIC STORE professional GmbH; 22188841282; Lars.Mueller@musicstore.de; ; Istanbulstr. 22-26; Köln; 51103; Deutschland