La Costa CC • Tournament of Champions, 1992
La Costa, 1992. Tournament of Champions. It’s one of those wet, sloppy days where the rough grabs your ankles and the sky grabs your soul. I’m a newer spotter, assigned to a group way down the board, out on the far reaches of the course where even the marshals look lost.
Then it hits me. Not a breeze. Not a sprinkle. A full-blown Dumb & Dumber emergency. Harry-after-the-laxative emergency. I’m not just dilated, I’m crowning.
I scan for a port-a-potty. The nearest one is up by the green. The question is existential: Do I gamble on a quick pit stop and pray the production truck doesn’t call for the hitting order… or do I stay on post and roll the dice with no change of clothes?
My guts vote. I hot-foot it to the plastic chapel. Alka-Seltzer once said it best: “Oh, what a relief it is.”
…and Then the Radio Happened
I stand, victorious—and my clunky Motorola, clipped to my belt like a brick, snags the seat and swan-dives into the abyss. I freeze. There are rules for a lot of things in golf. There are no rules for this.
Outside, I spot a kid loitering. I offer twenty bucks. He counters without speaking. We settle on forty—all the cash I’ve got. I hold him by the ankles and lower him like a crane into a place OSHA won’t certify. He emerges, retching, radio in hand. I toss him the towel I’d been using to keep rain off the unit and do the fastest field decon in history.
Right then, the headset crackles to life: “Hey, Dick—what’s the order on 17?” It’s the spotter coordinator (not known for gentle phrasing). I don’t even know if the radio works. I press transmit. I give the order. It goes through. Back in the saddle, smelling like victory… and other things.
Moral: In live TV, you will have your moment. It just might arrive at 30,000 feet above sea level—or three feet below it.
Looking back, it’s hilarious. In the moment? Not so much. File this under Chapter Two of Confessions of a TV Golf Spotter. More to come.
