| | | Editor's note: When we got to work today, we found another e-mail from that bartending, skateboarding buddy of ours in California. We decided to pass it along again. A word of warning: always wear a helmet.
Chapter 31
... in which our hero saves defending U.S. Open champion Tiger Woods from a bitter rival
You would never figure on Tiger Woods being superstitious. But before he flies off for the week at any major, he stops in at Lore's for Nachos Xtreme and a special Margarita Tigre that he insists I mix personally.
We've been buds ever since I helped him work on his driving accuracy (see Chapter 22) by heading rough-bound tee shots back into the fairway.
The Margarita Tigre is two shots of tequila, some fresh-squeezed lime and French sea salt, with the glass rim rubbed with the sweat from the inside of the golf glove Tiger used to win the U.S. Amateur for the second time.
"Here's to Tulsa, Wheeler," Tiger says, raising his lucky drink.
"To the U.S. Open," I say.
Me and whoever else wants to, usually my homey Puker, start growling like big cats -- Grrr! Grrr! Grrr! Grrr! -- as Tiger washes down the drink in one big slurp.
"You're Tigerized now, dude," I say when he sets the empty glass down on the bar and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
"I better be," he says with a big Tiger grin. "They're lengthening the course to keep me down. They've rigged a 642-yard par-five at Southern Hills. Driver, Two-wood, one-putt -- eagle, dedicated to you, Wheeler."
It wouldn't be easy to come up with a better feeling than having the king of the links dedicate a hole in your honor. Double-eagling Janine -- maybe.
Suddenly there's a loud boom.
The front doors to the bar explode and splinter. And in through the smoking wreckage steams Casey Martin. He's in a golf cart. But he's painted the front of it to look like one of those avenging monsters in that movie, "Scream."
"Look who's going off to the U.S. Open," Casey says to Tiger.
|  | | Tiger Woods encountered an unexpected obstacle on his way to Southern Hills. |
Tiger tells Casey to calm down, and I offer him an order of Nachos Vicente Fox, which is corn chips, cheese, beans and peppers drenched in Coca-Cola, but Casey claims he's not here to eat or enjoy himself, much less take part in any celebration having to do with Tiger going off to win the Open.
"It should be me going off to win the Open," Casey says.
"And someday soon it will be, Casey," Tiger says, still trying to calm him down.
"Not if it was up to you, Tiger," Casey says. "I had to go to the Supreme Court to get a tee time, and you never said a public word for me -- dude, I was your college teammate."
"Take it easy, Casey," Tiger says.
We're all starting to get a little nervous.
"The way I figure, If I can't play that 642-yard hole, neither will you, Tiger-bait," Casey says.
He flips his golf cart into drive and rams Tiger's barstool, almost knocking Tiger into the mirror behind the bar.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Putting us on equal terms," Casey says. "Maybe if I ruin your leg you'll understand."
He backs up and gets ready to ram again. Tiger hops off and begins running for his life. Casey slams his cart into drive and takes off after him, trying to mow him down.
"Casey, knock it off!" Tiger is screaming.
Customers and tables and chairs and glasses are scattering all over Lore's. It's like Casey's equipped his cart with four-wheel drive, because it's smashing through wood and climbing the steps into the main restaurant, and Tiger's barely managing to stay ahead of it, even though he's toppling chairs and platters in Casey's way.
Our manager Stu Getzler will usually tolerate the occasional free-for-all, but only if there's a good reason. By the look on his face, this isn't it.
|  | | Casey Martin knows how to use driving to enhance his game. |
"You had to make me get ramp access, didn't you, Wheeler?" he screams at me, as me and Puker rush through the carnage to head Casey off in the main room.
Tiger's standing on one of the banquettes where Casey's cornered him in his death-cart. He's got a 3-iron in his hand and he's swinging it at Tiger's knees.
"Let's see you walk 7,000 yards on a bum leg, Coverboy," Casey's screaming.
"Your shoulder's opening up too soon!" Tiger's yelling. "That's why your swing is no good."
Most untrained restaurant staff wouldn't know what to do in a situation that threatened to disqualify from competition the reigning U.S. Open champion. But that's what separates me from the rest of the bartenders of the universe.
I whip a tablecloth off a table that Casey's plowed onto the floor, and I rush in and drop it over his head so that he's suddenly blinded.
Puker jumps in too, and we've got Casey wrapped up like a ghost in a sheet, and we drag him struggling out of his cart and onto the floor where we can sit on him until he stops screaming and flailing.
"Good job, fellas," Tiger says, climbing down from the banquette and taking the keys to Casey's golf cart out of the ignition.
He holds them over the sheet by Casey's head and jingles them back and forth.
"Hear that? Those are the keys to your cart, Case," Tiger says. "You get your tour card, you come and find me."
"I'll find you, Tiger," Casey says through the tablecloth. "You can't stop me."
Me and Puker follow Tiger out, and he tells us we better meet him at the Gulfstream for the flight to Oklahoma. We can see this isn't exactly the sendoff he was looking for.
Tiger usually has security when he's out in public. This week in Tulsa, obviously, it needs beefing up.
Next week: In Chapter 32, Ichiro and Jennifer Capriati pour their hearts out to our hero.
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