We traveled to the U.S. Open by plane (see Louis C.K.’s priceless bit about air travel on David Letterman). I had set my alarm for 3:01 last Saturday morning, not because I missed the 3 (like when you try to stop the gas pump exactly on $40.00 and it goes to $40.01, so you go on up to $41.00 and it stops on $41.01), but because at that time of morning, every extra minute of sleep seems important.
Our plane was taking off at 6:00, and KM, who has enough of the Althoff DNA that tardiness makes her break out in hives, insisted we leave by 4:15 (I debated my you-know-what off to get her to budge from 4:00).
I got up first and put the coffee on as we moved through the quiet house like sleepwalkers who sort of knew where they were going. We had pretty much packed the night before, so after showering and loading the car and checking my list, twice, I sat on the couch and turned on the Golf Channel for replays of the German steamroller, Martin Kaymer. “This may never get interesting,” I thought, remembering it was Kaymer I’d watched at the last big tournament we’d attended, the Ryder Cup at Medinah, make the big putt at the end to clinch it for Team Europe, capping an epic comeback.
I listened as Tim Rosaforte, the dapper dresser with the smooth head, said why he thought Kaymer might be tough to catch. One of the first things we would see after arriving at the course was a Golf Channel set with Rosie and Lauren Thompson. They were staring, silently, waiting for a cue I guess. Rosie wore a pink tie and Lauren looks better in person. I wondered where Holly Sonders was.
Back to reality, I heard the brunette in my life saying something. “Huh,” I grunted from my dream world of birdies and babes. “I’m ready,” KM repeated for who knew how many times. It was 4:04; the Althoff gene was in full force and I knew it was fruitless to protest.
We drove through the darkness toward Hill and Bill Airport, the night sky and the sign to Pine Bluff reminding me of the many early morning Destin departures we took when the kids were young. After finding a parking spot in the deck, we headed toward the terminals. I’d packed our four chairs we’d bought at Medinah in 2012. I had our two chairs and Bob’s and Lisa’s, our world golf event-traveling companions. Bob is KM’s brother, and KM was sure he’d already be there, waiting for us. “It’s pretty early,” I told her. We checked the two bags and headed to security and the gate beyond.
We both had TSA clearance, which is a real perk. There’s something sickly satisfying about passing long lines of people as they struggle to get everything in and out of those plastic busboy tubs while balancing on one foot as they remove a shoe.
TSA lets you skate right through. You don’t even empty your pockets. If you fly a lot, the $80 fee, good for two years, is well worth it. If you haven’t paid, which I haven’t, they might choose you randomly. We got lucky this time.
At the gate, we saw that Bob and Lisa had not yet arrived. Actually, no one had arrived. “Good thing we beat the rush,” I told KM. She smiled back at me, which is always a good start to any day, and, with some of the things that fly out of my mouth, usually a nice surprise.