So Quickly

September has come back,
Again …
So quickly

“When September Arrives, Again”
Lawrence S. Pertillar




Nobody, so far as I could tell, took it over the corner on the sixteenth hole on Tuesday, though the wind was blowing hard from the southwest. The sixteenth is also known, at least to those of us who were there, as Sergio’s hole, because of the shot Sergio Garcia hit at the 1999 PGA Championship, when he missed a tree-root, hit his ball—with his eyes closed—and ran up the hill to follow it. It may have been the last moment of pure joy Sergio ever experienced, as the years—and the missed putts—seem to have weighed heavier and heavier on him. But Sergio’s old role, as spark-plug of the European players, seems to have been passed down, as to watch Rory McIlroy today was to see the kind of exhilaration that’s been missing from golf since Sergio took that shot.

I went to the Ryder Cup at Medinah today for two reasons, the first being to take my mom. The other, however, was more purposeful: to see McIlroy. I saw the 1999 PGA and what I remember most about it, aside from seeing Tiger hole out a 280-yard three-wood shot on the range before Saturday’s round, was just hearing the sound the ball made coming off Tiger’s club that year. It didn’t make, or didn’t quite make, the same sound when Tiger returned in 2006: in 1999, his shots sounded like a funeral salute by the USS Missouri followed by the sound of a Saturn V rocket lifting off. The only player whose shots made anything like the same sound that year was Sergio.

I wanted to know if McIlroy’s shots made the same sound, and though, because of the logistical difficulties of negotiating Medinah’s back nine in traffic, I only really got to seem him play one hole—the fourteenth—it was enough. He hit a second shot out of the rough on that hole that made The Sound, a sound that no one else’s golf ball made—and that I haven’t heard since 1999, during the tournament that began Tiger’s superhuman annus mirabilis from that late summer until the spring following the next year. Still, neither McIlroy nor anybody else took over the corner on sixteen, the shot I’ve waiting all season for someone to hit.

Over the winter the crew took out a bunch of trees all over the golf course, and a lot of them were on the inside of sixteen’s dogleg left: there’s now an open area there that used be arboreally enclosed. And with a following wind I thought that, particularly during a practice round, somebody might try it, even if it meant some risk to spectators. But nobody dared. And Tiger had long since left the golf course before his foursome—the teams practiced in foursomes today—reached the sixteenth hole. So I could not tell if Tiger’s golf ball still made the same sound, or how it compared to Rory’s sound.

Which is unfortunate, because almost certainly the story of this Ryder Cup is going to be Tiger vs. Rory, no matter if they end up playing against each other in singles or not (and almost certainly they must, as no one will accept anything else). And that itself begins another chapter in the history of this tournament: a chapter with especial meaning if one takes the Ryder Cup as a metonymy—and as George Orwell once suggested, there isn’t any meaning to athletic competition if we don’t—for some larger story.

“The 1991 Ryder Cup,” begins Curt Sampson’s latest book excerpt in Golf this month, “began in 1985.” That was the year that the European squad—which had been the Great Britain & Ireland side until 1979, and before that simply the British team—beat the Americans at the Belfry, in England. It was the first time the team from the right-hand side of the Atlantic had won since 1957, when the Welsh captain, Dai Rees, and his squad had held off the Americans at Lindrick. And that occasion had itself been the first time the accented team had won since before the Second World War.

“When the first wave of tough young American pros, steeled in the caddie yards, started winning in the late twenties,” Sampson writes, “the game was changed forever.” In those years, one might say, the narrative line was that of the upstart Yanks, the former colonials, come to repay the imperialists. And, for the most part, the “chivalrous but overwhelmed Brits” acted their role: dutifully laying down before the American firepower every two years just as, during the Second World War, the Brits seceded place before the American commanders.

Yet what Rory’s new accession to the world #1 position seems to imply that a new generation of people from the islands to the northwest of the European continent have no memories of the Blitz and rationing, or the strums of Mississippi-born, Chicago-bred Negros on electric guitars. And that, for Europe at last, the long legacy of a century’s battles against totalitarianisms of one kind or another, is over. If the long darkness of the Ryder Cup, as seen from the east side of the sea, mirrored Europe’s own eclipse during the Cold War, in other words, it seems that a new day is dawning.

All of which seems to imply that it is now the United States that plays the role once played by imperial Britain: a fading power, still august in its dotage but whose day is slowly receding. It’s an image that I suppose a great many people, even aside from European golfers, might like to conjure. Yet I happened to watch Bill Clinton on the Daily Show the other day, and he made a point young Rory and his fans—and, perhaps, others with more sinister thoughts— might like to contemplate.

People pessimistic about America, the former president pointed out, ought to know that, in two decades, America will be younger, in a demographic sense, than Europe. It will also be younger than Japan. And also (perhaps more astonishingly)—because of the one-child policy and a complete lack of immigration—America will be younger than China. Which is to say that, even if the next Tiger happens to have been born in Northern Ireland—which hasn’t yet been proven—it may be more likely than not that the next Rory will be born in America. Though, it may be, he will arrive—like the wind on Tuesday—from the southwest, and his surname be not dissimilar from, say, Garcia.


Spanish Lessons

Q. Would you use a local caddie at Medinah?

SERGIO GARCIA: No. I’ll see who I use.
Sergio Garcia at the Barclays, 25 August 2012


Sergio Garcia, whose earliest professional memories of major championship golf are bound up with Medinah Country Club and the 1999 PGA (he shot a course-record on Saturday, hit a shot that people still talk about on Sunday, and battled Tiger all the way to the last hole), took a local caddie at the Wyndham two weeks ago—and won. This week, at the Barclays at Bethpage, he took his friend Wayne Richardson, who usually works for CBS Sports—and finished third after leading through 54 holes. Naturally, the press corps asked him about his future looper plans, including whether he would use a local caddie for the Ryder Cup at Medinah. Sergio demurred, but the fact that he was asked the question at all simply astonished me—and inspired a bit of fancy. So, let’s say some kind of miracle happened (which it won’t, for innumerable reasons) …

The first thing that a caddie needs to know about his player is how far the player hits the ball with all of his clubs, and as it happens Golf magazine has a feature called “What’s In My Bag?” that not only tells you what clubs are in a player’s bag, but also how far he hits each one. Unfortunately, Sergio does not seem to have a relationship with Golf, or at least he hasn’t been a subject for that column before so far as I can tell. What my research found is that Sergio’s distances have been a matter of debate on, a website for jesus-these-people-are-nerdy-even-for-me golf wonks, for years. Even back in 2008, as it happens also at the Barclays, the golfwrx people were talking about how the television announcers were saying Garcia didn’t carry a three-iron, as he hit his four-iron 250 yards. (See this page: Which is, obviously, absurd.

On first hearing such a thing, I’d say that the amateur’s reaction is “What?” But there are reasons Sergio might actually hit a four-iron that far, including the fact that a lot of people wouldn’t recognize what he’s hitting as a four-iron. Most tour players’ clubs are bent a few degrees flatter, meaning that a tour pro’s seven-iron likely has a loft closer to the amateur’s six-iron—and since most amateur clubs these days have less loft than clubs did even ten years ago, Sergio’s four-iron might be pushing the loft of, say, Tom Watson’s two-iron in 1977.

The other reason is that Sergio’s swing involves what’s called “de-lofting” the clubface at impact. In other words, his hands are so far in front of the ball when the club makes contact (with said ball) that the effective loft of the club might be as much as a club more. When Sergio hits his ball, that is, a seven-iron has effectively become a six-iron, and so on. It’s possible to watch videos of Sergio’s swings on YouTube and other places, so if you feel the need to check this out, go ahead and I’ll wait.

If you’re back (or never left—I usually just keep reading when websites encourage those kinds of jumps), maybe we can proceed. What I resolved to do, in the absence of any better information, is find out where Sergio ranks in driver distance, find a comparable player whose iron distances are known, and kind of work from there. Clearly, there’s a lot of give in that sort of exercise, but this is all fantastical anyway so what the hell.

Sergio is, as of this writing, tied for 74th on the PGATour’s official stats for driving distances, which as it happens is not that far from Ricky Barnes, who’s tied for 78th. Barnes, as it also happens, has been featured in Golf’s “What’s In My Bag?” column, so for the purposes of what follows I’ll be roughly using Barnes’ distances to stand in for Sergio’s. All caveats apply, and all mistakes are, obviously, mine. In a sense I’ll be caddieing for a kind of Barney Garcia monster, but it’s also true that I’ve seen both Barnes and Garcia play in person, and while nobody’d ever mistake one for the other, I’ll try to have an idea where I’m starting to go seriously adrift—and remember, the Ryder Cup is match play, which means that complete precision isn’t quite necessary.

To begin then—and only to begin, because I’m not so silly as to try to cover the whole course here since reading anything that long would lead to my readers to start demanding caddie fees themselves—with Course Three’s first hole. The first is the one that, in the old joke we like to tell guests—after they’ve hit their fourth shot into some kind of proximity to the green, then chipped up and three-putted—is the easiest one on the course. According to Sergio’s driving distance stats, he averages about 290 yards off the tee. (This is surely nonsense, because even in 1999 I saw him hit a drive that went at least 360 yards on Course Three’s twelfth hole, and during that tournament he averaged about 315 yards off the tee in the first round.) But let’s say Sergio is conservative.

The first hole is only 435 yards or so from the very back, so that Serge—we’re already on a nickname basis—only needs 280 or so off the tee to get it to the 150 yard marker: Ricky Barnes hits his nine-iron about that far, as do most tour pros these days, so that’s about all any of them need to go these days. Past the 150 marker is a downslope, so a good drive that’s further than that will probably end up inside a hundred yards—with the caveat that it’s on a downslope, and it’s harder to hit the ball square on a downslope. The choice Serge will face here then is: try to intimidate his opponent by bombing one down the hill (and risk getting a weird lie), or laying up to a reasonable distance, then sticking the second shot close. What choice he makes on the very first tee, in other words, will say a lot about what Sergio thinks of his opponent’s abilities.

The second hole at Medinah is one Sergio’s had some history on: he holed out a chip there in 1999 for a seemingly-impossible birdie during his opening 66, which set the course record (until Skip Kendall fired a 65 the next day). The second will measure around 190 yards from the back tees during the Ryder Cup, so Serge will probably want to hit a seven-iron (Ricky Barnes hits his seven 180, but Phil Mickelson hits his 190; Serge is probably closer to Phil than to Ricky). But although September is usually fairly mild when it comes to wind speed in the Windy City, that average is weighted.

According to, in Chicago “the highest average wind speed … occurs around September 29, at which time the average daily maximum wind speed is 16 mph.” That’s a pretty considerable number, at least for golf; it would mean that Serge would have to hit at least another club to be sure of carrying the water that fronts the hole. Most likely, that wind would be out of the south or west (each has a 17 percent chance, according to Weatherspark), which on the second hole means it would be coming from the player’s right; that would mean that Serge would probably want to hit a left-to-right cut shot, which would also have the benefit of holding the somewhat-shallow green better. The downside is that cut shots usually don’t go as far, meaning that Garce (we are now being slightly creative with the nicknames) might have to club up even more, possibly to as much as a five-iron.

Still, Sergio’s length would probably be to his advantage over nearly anyone on the U.S. squad, which would mean that he’d have the chance to send a really dominating message to his opponent on the first two holes: a huge drive on the first hole, followed by a soaring iron shot to the second green, might be enough to win him the first two holes by themselves. Which would certainly help the Spaniard out, since Sergio isn’t known for his putting prowess—though he’s apparently putting better: he’s ranked 20th this year in the new putting stat, “Strokes Gained,” which measures how many shots a golfer has gained (or lost) against the field each week on the greens.

That brings us to where I might really be able to help Sergio, which is on Medinah’s greens. I don’t mean to boast, but there isn’t anyone on the planet who can read those greens better than I can, and there are a few spots on the first two greens where experience might actually matter even against guys who read greens every week with hundreds of thousands of dollars on the line. Both of the first two of Course Three’s greens have hidden breaks: the first has a mound towards its front that can make putts go the opposite way to where they might appear to want to go, while the second, notoriously, usually breaks away from the water to the green’s front. With good reads, Sergio could easily go birdie-birdie to open his match—and leave the second green with a two-up lead.

I am sure that all of the caddies for the Ryder Cup will see these breaks early in the practice round, but sometimes it’s possible to miss something in the heat of competition, and maybe it’s worth something to have somebody who can say—with authority—precisely the way the greens will behave. If I really did have anything to offer Sergio, or anybody else on the Ryder Cup team, it would be that I suppose. There are some places on those greens that I’ve seen even professionals misread badly; it’s possible, I suppose, that I might be able to help out in that dimension at least. And it might help Sergio—who ended up losing the Barclays to Nick Watney this afternoon—even more. When it was all over, Watney said this: “I made more putts than I made all year.”

Tell You Wrong

I embrace my rival, but only to strangle him.
Jean Racine. Britannicus, Act IV, iii.

“Joe Frazier, I’ll tell the world right now, brings out the best in me,” Muhammed Ali said after the “Thrilla in Manila” in 1975, the third and final fight between the two: the one that “went the distance” of 15 rounds in the searing tropical heat of a Third World dictatorship, the one that nearly killed both men and did land them both in the hospital. Phil Mickelson wasn’t as lyrical after giving Tiger Woods an eleven-shot beating at Pebble Beach a few weeks ago: “Although I feel like he brings out the best in me,” Mickelson observed, “it’s only been the past five years.” (Since 2007 Mickelson’s been 8-3-1 when playing against Tiger, bringing the overall record to 13-13-4 in the thirty times they’ve been paired together.) For years, golf writers have lamented the fact that there have been no Tom Watsons or Lee Trevinos around to challenge Tiger as those players did Jack Nicklaus; as it turns out, it seems that rival—Phil—has been there for five years. But are rivals only recognizable in retrospect, and if so what does that mean for the “rivalry” theory?

I take it for granted that anyone reading this will be familiar with the complaint that Tiger has not faced any worthy rivals; as an example, I will cite a story from Yahoo Sports from nearly four years ago. It’s simply entitled “Tiger Misses What Arnie, Jack Had: Rivals.” “Tiger has no true rival,” wrote Dan Wetzel then, “no one familiar face just as cold-blooded, talented and intelligent to push him to perhaps even greater heights.” The complaints implicitly voiced here are longstanding, going back at least to the excitement surrounding the PGA at Medinah in 1999, when Sergio Garcia appeared to many about to challenge Tiger. Such complaints appear much like the usual sportswriter’s fantasies, like the “clutch” player—so far as I know, no player has ever been shown to perform better than his career numbers might indicate in particular situations, in any sport—or that running and defense wins football games. A contrarian might reply, for instance, that Tiger’s run was fueled by a number of breaks: the fact that David Duval essentially fell off the planet after 2001 might be the first item on that list.

Phil’s record with Tiger might suggest that simply because only a few of Phil’s and Tiger’s matchups have come on the final day of a major that one of them ended up winning (which disqualifies, for instance, the electric final day of the 2009 Masters, when Phil shot a 30 on the front nine but didn’t win), they have in fact been “rivals” the whole time—which in turn might suggest that a further combing of the data might discover other “rivals” whose presence had been undiscovered because they had not appeared at widely-televised moments. It’s kind of a silly argument, but as it turns out someone’s taken it seriously and quantified the difference between Tiger and his fellow competitors—and it’s really true: Tiger, in his heyday, didn’t have anyone who remotely approached him.

In 2008, as it happens, a paper published in the Journal of Political Economy by one Jennifer Brown entitled “Quitters Never Win: The (Adverse) Incentive Effects of Competing with Superstars,” found that in general players not named Woods took an additional .8 more shots in every tournament Tiger entered. The effect was even more pronounced in the first round of tournaments, where Woods was effectively conceded another third of a shot by the field, and yet more so among “elite” players: those close to the top of the leaderboard gave away nearly two shots to Tiger. Although these margins seem thin, the difference between first and second on the PGA Tour is usually one shot; what that’s meant, according to Brown, is that meant the rest of the tour players have conceded something on the order of $6 million to Tiger over the course of Tiger’s career.

Still, while that does I think prove the “no rivals” theory it doesn’t actually provide any causation: one possible explanation, for instance, might be found in the way that Tiger himself plays. According to his former coach, Butch Harmon, Tiger has methods to confound his playing partners: in an interview with Steve Elling of, Harmon said that Tiger for instance will “often putt out first” (which means that galleries will often be moving to the next hole while whoever he’s playing with is putting); that Woods will try to get to the tee box last, so the crowd will give him its biggest cheers; change his pace of play to play “fast” with slow players and vice versa; and hit three-wood instead of driver on some holes, so as to hit his approach first—thereby making his opponent wait to hit his shot. None of these methods are against the rules, of course—but they don’t win friends in the locker room either.

Yet Brown’s paper found no evidence that players playing with Tiger are more affected than those not playing with him. Joel Waldfogel reported in Slate that Brown’s work found that “being in Tiger’s foursome [sic] has no additional negative impact on performance.” In other words, even if Tiger was practicing gamesmanship—and it was successful—it didn’t show up in the statistics. Playing with Tiger or not playing with Tiger, all that seems to matter is that the other players know he’s there.

One way to test for that is to see if the other players have been “attempting longer, riskier shots to try to keep up with Tiger.” A website called notes that Brown’s account does this: if players were trying such a strategy, there would likely be what financial professionals would call “volatility”: there’d be more eagles—and double bogeys—when Tiger played than in other tournaments. In reality though, there “were significantly fewer eagles and double bogeys when Woods played.” Tiger’s presence wasn’t causing the other players to adopt a “high-risk, high-reward” strategy. Instead, it seems that he really just caused them not to throw things into some higher gear that, possibly, might have been available to them.

What’s interesting about this is that what it suggests that Tiger’s dominance was, in fact, the effect of something within his opponents’ craniums, not just a statistical anomaly caused in part by Tiger’s skillfulness but also by chance. But what it also suggests is that the nature of that dominance didn’t lie in something sportswriters ascribed to Tiger’s “aura” or his vaunted “Zen-like” mental discipline: the potential mechanism that Brown theorizes to explain the effect is quite different.

Brown finds the mechanism by analogy to other fields: she “cites the competition among newly hired associates at a law firm as another example of a nonlinear incentive structure,” as another review of her work says. Such a structure might be better known from the practice of the firm in Glengarry Glen Ross—where, as Alec Baldwin’s character Blake said, first place is an Eldorado, second is a set of steak knives, and, anticipating Donald Trump, “third prize is you’re fired.” In a law firm, usually only one associate might be hired from a given group: in law firms as in Ricky Bobby’s NASCAR, “if you’re not first you’re last.”

The mechanism Brown proposes, as described by Jonah Lehrer in an essay on the paper for the Wall Street Journal is therefore that “the superstar effect is especially pronounced when the rewards for the competition are ‘non-linear,’ or there is an extra incentive to finish first.” In such a contest, the rewards for finishing first are so exponentially better that finishes less than first are, by comparison, not as meaningful. “We assume,” as Lehrer puts the point, “that the superstar will win, so why chase after meaningless scraps?” In other words, Brown’s theory is that professional golfers, seeing Woods’ name in the pairing sheets, consciously or not effectively “mail in” their effort. They aren’t expending everything they have because they don’t expect to be rewarded for extra effort.

What that suggests though is that what’s going on in tour players’ heads isn’t a fear of Tiger so much as it is a rational calculation based, ultimately, on some sense of fairness or justice. Isn’t that what we might call a reasonable conclusion in the face of evidence of a “rigged” game? It wouldn’t matter from this point of view (though you might compare my previous work on Taylor Smith) whether the game were “actually” gamed in some fashion or other in Tiger’s favor, merely that players behaved as if it were. Or to put it another way, from an individual tour player’s perspective it wouldn’t matter whether Tiger was who he was from sheer ability or from some shadiness: the player-not-named-Woods’ own abilities would be disturbed in some way in either case.

Now this is extremely interesting because what it suggests is that even the perception of inequality is harmful. Brown suggests that societies that insufficiently spread the wealth, however that is defined, in the long run are inefficient: they fail to get the best out of their people. Unequal societies waste human resources. And worse.

If Brown, for instance, was looking for a society that uses a “nonlinear incentive structure” as its working principle, she might have stopped looking for it on pristine golf courses and started in on the southwest corner of Utah, which is perhaps (and probably not coincidentally) some of the most isolated terrain in the continental United States. In that territory north of the Grand Canyon lie the adjacent towns of Colorado City, Arizona and Hilldale, Utah. What’s noticeable about these two towns is that there are lots of large families headed by “single” women: the product of a polygamous sect, the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (FLDS). It’s an issue adequately explored elsewhere—Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven is perhaps an excellent beginning—but what’s not usually mentioned is something that has rather a bearing on Jennifer Brown’s research.

“Often,” observed the historian of marriage Stephanie Coontz, “the subordination of women is in fact also a way of controlling men.” Or as Libby Copeland, writing for Slate, puts it: “Rich old guys with lots of wives win twice: They have more women to bear them babies and do household work, and they also gain an advantage over other men.” Since they control access to marriage, any man who wants to get married has to deal with them—and since the rich old guys are taking a surplus, that makes a lot of boys inessential to the society. In a polygamous community, then, we’d expect to see a lot of homeless teenaged boys: in 2007, Time magazine said the number of boys abandoned by their polygamous families in that state may number in the thousands. The results of a “nonlinear incentive structure,” as Ms. Brown calls it, aren’t especially difficult to discern in this case: I don’t think the problem of a surplus of unsupervised and despairing teenagers needs much detailing. Nor, perhaps, do Tiger’s off-course problems appear as inscrutable.

I don’t mean, to be sure, to minimize the sufferings of women and children in such a community, but it is worth noting that such arrangements necessarily burden the whole community and not just particular groups in it. By laying down in front of Tiger, for instance, PGA Tour players effectively ceded him not only today’s purses but tomorrow’s: a tour that had had one or two other guys who could have gone the distance with Tiger in 2001 or 2002 might have gotten an even greater television contract. But by understanding the mechanism by which the trick is done goes a long way toward understanding how to combat it: removing the “nonlinear incentive structure,” rather than, as has been suggested, somehow convincing everyone on the tour that they’re “tougher,” or whatever, than they thought. Or to put it in terms relevant to a larger field, stop working on “raising self-esteem” or the like and more on regularizing pay-scales.

That isn’t, necessarily, to demand that the PGA Tour stop disproportionately rewarding its winners: golf is a sport, and sports aren’t necessarily the same as other parts of life. It can, and has, been argued that pro golf, in particular, needs a dominant, or a few dominant, players in order to make it interesting to the general public: if a different pro won every week, tournaments might come to seem like lotteries for people with the leisure to raise golfers. The regular appearance of some few names, perhaps, creates the possibility of drama.

Drama like that of the last Ali-Frazier fight. Frazier had trained for the fight like a man possessed, knowing that it would be his last shot at the title. Ali, in the midst of domestic turmoil, less so. Sometime in the seventh round, in the early Philippine afternoon—the fight started in the late morning for international television—Ali began to fade from the heat and a relentless assault from Frazier, who would not stop coming despite the furious combinations Ali laid on him. “Joe,” Ali said during a clinch, “they told me you was all washed up.” “They told you wrong, pretty boy,” Frazier replied. It’s arguable that, whatever the medical histories, neither man left that ring whole. For years, golf has wondered how to get that kind of effort out of its players. What evidence suggests is that if golf wants true rivalries, and the drama that results, it might do better to stop catering to the elite—which, despite the fact that it apparently remains unlearned in parts of Utah or the Philippines (or Wall Street), doesn’t appear a difficult lesson.

Fitzgerald and McIlroy Are NOT Dead—Yet

Guildenstern: Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
Hamlet III, 2

There’s a legendary looper I know somewhat who works mostly on the LPGA—but also has worked at Riviera and various other places—named Mike Troublefield. I last ran into him some years ago at Lochinvar, outside of Houston, Texas (where Butch Harmon spent some time before becoming guru to the stars). When I first met Troublefield, while I was working an LPGA tournament at Stonebridge outside of Chicago, he introduced me to the concept of the “yaddie”: a caddie who, no matter the circumstance, just says “yeah” to whatever nonsensical shot his player wants to hit. In Troublefield’s estimation, which is now mine, the worth of a caddie is shown by his willingness to say, at least once in a while, “no” to his player. It’s a point I’ve been thinking about this summer because of the recent focus on elite players’ caddies: not merely Steve Williams, but also through the rather lesser-known controversy over Rory McIlroy’s caddie, J.P. Fitzgerald.

During the Irish Open last month, McIlroy lost three shots during the first day of the tournament to shoot 70, which is a respectable score, but it caused an American ex-pro-turned-commentator named Jay Townsend to go into full-blown meltdown mode: Townsend said, via Twitter, not only that McIlroy’s course management was “shocking,” but also blamed it on Rory’s caddie, Fitzgerald, by saying that “I thought JP allowed some SHOCKING [sic] course management today.” Rory fired back, also via Twitter, by replying “shut up … You’re a commentator and a failed golfer, you’re opinion means nothing!” [sic]. All of which is tremendous fun, but also brings up a sensitive subject: namely, how much was J.P. to blame for McIlroy’s meltdown at Augusta in April? Or to put it Troublefield’s way: is J.P. a yaddie?

To be sure, in light of his victory at Congressional in June, the collapse in Georgia seems merely a prelude—rather like Bobby Jones walking off the course at St. Andrews in the summer of 1921—but at the time it seemed ominous, with many speculating that McIlroy might turn out like Sergio Garcia, another young phenom who never (or hasn’t yet) learned how to close out his rivals. Now such fears appear ridiculous, but the real question isn’t whether McIlroy is a world-class player (which now is answered), but the passage of time allows us to ask a different question about McIlroy’s failure: the question of just how much responsibility (or ability) a caddie has to derail a player from boarding a bogey train.

Unfortunately, there isn’t any video available to me (that I know of) of the first round of the Irish Open this year, so it’s unclear to me just what it was that Townshend was referring to in his tweets. But it is possible to view video of Rory’s 10th hole at Augusta—where McIlroy made the triple-bogey that began the string of bad holes that lost him the tournament—on YouTube, which provides the only neutral evidence of the relation between J.P. and Rory and what J.P.’s possible role in the blow-up might have been. So I watched it.

Before getting to what I saw, though, it’s important to note just what sort of limitations a caddie’s job has. Obviously, J.P. doesn’t hit the shots; he merely carries the bag and (occasionally) might provide a bit of counsel. J.P. didn’t hit the huge hook that ended up so far left of the 10th fairway that it was nearly left of the Butler Cabin—Rory did. Just as clearly, neither of them (but particularly J.P.) could not have seen that coming (though it’s been remarked that the hook is Rory’s “miss,” the shot he tends to hit when he loses focus). In other words, J.P. can’t bear responsibility for Rory’s drive.

To this point, Rory had been playing spectacularly well that week, since after all he was winning the tournament. Some might point to the bogies he made at the first hole and the fifth in the final rounds as foreshadows of what was to come, but J.P. could not have thought of them as anything other than bumps in the road: both holes are spectacularly difficult ones now after the several redesigns at Augusta in recent years. Maybe Rory might not have been playing so well as he had in the first round, but then there weren’t a lot of 65s shot this year so Rory was bound to regress to the mean in following rounds (he shot 69 and 70 respectively in rounds 2 and 3). Rory’s lead was four shots beginning the final round so, as J.P. must have known, it wouldn’t take a spectacular round for the Northern Irishman to win. (All it would have taken, in retrospect, is another 69 to beat Charl Schwartzel, the man who ended up winning.)

Despite the bogies on the front nine, McIlroy had made a birdie on the difficult 7th, so not everything must have looked bleak to J.P.. There were plenty of birdie holes coming up, so the caddie must have been thinking that even after the horrible drive, a bogey or even a miracle par weren’t out of the picture, which could still be saved by birdies or even eagles on the two five-pars at 13 and 15. It wasn’t a reason to panic. McIlroy smartly pitched out to the fairway on 10, leaving a not-too-difficult shot to the green for his third shot. It’s on what happened next that any question of J.P.’s role has to rest.

What McIlroy did was hit virtually the same shot that sent him into the trees off the tee—a big hook that sent him into the trees (again) left of the green. The television coverage cut away from McIlroy to show what was happening elsewhere on the golf course, and anyway J.P. wasn’t miked (as some Nationwide tournaments have done with caddies recently) so it’s hard to say what the two discussed on the way to the ball. Even then, J.P. could not have been panicking—although it’s unusual for a professional golfer to miss the same way twice on the same hole, J.P. must have known that a smart chip to the green, followed by a good putt, would still salvage bogey and Rory’s chances. The mistake J.P. made, if he did make one, could only have come prior to the next shot, Rory’s fourth.

That shot was a chip that hit a branch of a tree, thereby coming up short of the green and rolling back down a slope, virtually to Rory’s feet. If there’s anything that J.P. could have said before that moment it would have been, or should have been, something like “take the tree out of play” and “plenty of green behind the pin.” In other words, what J.P. should have emphasized was that Rory’s primary job for that shot was to get the ball on the green rather than try to cozy the ball next to the pin, which is apparently what Rory actually tried to do. By missing that shot, Rory made double-bogey a virtual certainty rather than a possibility, as it had been at every point before then.

That shot was, as it turns out, the climax of Rory’s tournament: he did go on to three-putt the 11th and four-putt the 12th, but it’s arguable that those misses were simply the result of what had already happened. Rory didn’t miss any more shots like he had on 10 (at least, none so badly); he just seems to have been rattled by the triple-bogey into putting poorly. It’s possible to say, especially about the four-putt, that J.P. should have taken his man aside and slowed him down, forcing him to focus on the putts and thereby preventing those horrible miscues, but it also seems clear that the crucial hole was the 10th.

Of all the shots, in turn, that McIlroy played on that hole (7 of them!), it follows that the most significant was his fourth, which was the one that made the triple possible in the first place. In other words, even aside from the fact that the fourth was the shot for par (as unlikely as that was), it was the shot that created the likelihood for what eventually happened: prior to then, McIlroy might still have made par, while afterwards the triple became not only possible, but even likely. For the purposes of determining what responsibility J.P. bears for McIlroy’s loss in April, then, the most important point would seem to be what happened before Rory hit that shot of all the shots he hit that day.

Unfortunately, the video doesn’t show what happened: whether, in short, player and caddie had any kind of discussion about how to play it. And, actually, it’s difficult to even make out just what happened on that shot at all: McIlroy suddenly appears, after a commercial break, behind some sort of bush or small tree, and hits the ball; immediately after, there’s the sinking sound of a ball striking wood: McIlroy struck the tree. The announcers do claim that McIlroy had to try to fly it over that bush, but the video doesn’t provide enough evidence either way: maybe he did, which seems likely given that the announcers were proximate (if they were), and maybe, given that Nantz at least wasn’t directly at the 10th hole, not.

What’s interesting about that aspect of the shot is that the alternative to the high-flying shot CBS’ announcers believed necessary is exactly the sort of shot one might think a golfer who grew up playing in linksland—as we might think Northern Ireland, home of Royal Portrush among other links courses, to be—would relish: a low-flying, then rolling, shot up the bank of the 10th green, thereby avoiding the tree branch. But, as McIlroy said during this year’s Open Championship, he isn’t really that sort of player: he prefers the high-ball American style of flop shot, down-the-chimney golf. And that’s the sort of shot he attempted on the 10th: a high shot that, had it not hit the branch, would have landed near the pin and, with the right spin, would have stayed there. Knowing his player’s preferences, J.P. might have decided that the odds favored the kind of shot Rory likes to hit, rather than one that he didn’t.

That is to say that the call J.P. made, whether he vocalized it or not, is at the end of the day a judgement call. It so happens that J.P. guessed wrong. But what Troublefield would want to know about what happened on the 10th is whether J.P. questioned his player about it or whether he just went along with whatever the boss said. As I’ve mentioned there isn’t anything at least in the public record about what happened in the moments before that fourth pass, but there are two people who do know: J.P. and Rory.

For the moment, and particularly after the U.S. Open, Rory is happy with J.P.’s performance, which seems to indicate that J.P. did say what needed to be said at that time. But what will ultimately let us know about what happened in the valley of Augusta’s 10th on that Sunday in April is what Rory decides to do about J.P. after the season is over, when he has a moment to calmly reflect on a season where he might have started out halfway to a Grand Slam but let it slip away on a grassy Georgian knoll.