© 2003 by Thrillerauthor
FORT WORTH, Texas - The eyes of the sporting world are on Annika Sorenstam today as she becomes the first woman golfer in over fifty years to play on the PGA tour. Although most of the men playing alongside her in the Colonial Open have been supportive, Denny Grimes has made no secret of his disdain. The diminutive Grimes, who has won two tournaments on the PGA tour this year despite being the shortest player off the tee, vowed to demand a place on the women's tour and play in a skirt if Sorensen outscores him at the Colonial.
* * *
As the fates would have it, Sorenstam and Grimes were paired together in the last twosome to tee off on Friday. It was the round that would determine which golfers got to advance to the final two days of the tournament, and the gallery that followed them around the course that afternoon made Arnie's Army look like the Baghdad defenses. I was there, following it all as a stringer for the Wall Street Journal, and the story that follows transcends sport. The battle of the sexes will never be the same.
Anika got off to a good start the day before, posting a round of 71, one over par. Grimes was comfortably ahead of her at two under par when they teed off together on Friday, and he managed to increase his lead to four strokes before the wheels fell off on the back nine. It all happened with shocking swiftness: Anika birdied the seventeenth hole with a long putt, and after she drove into the center of the fairway, Grimes hooked his drive into deep rough. He would have been better off with a lost ball, but the marshals were able to find it, buried in a thicket and screened from the green by a copse of trees. Grimes went for the pin, and although he managed to get the ball up in the air, it ricocheted off one of the trees and caromed into a ravine.
Three strokes later, an exhausted Grimes finally made it to the green, where Anika was waiting for him with a sweet smile, lying two. Grimes labored over his putter like a heart surgeon over an operating table, but he rimmed the cup. When Anika drained her eight foot putt for birdie, the scoreboard behind the eighteenth green said it all: Anika Sorenstam had a composite score of 1 under par, which made the cut. Denny Grimes finished at even par, and his life would never be the same.
Grimes was besieged by reporters as he fought his way to the clubhouse, and I thought I could see tears in his eyes as he tried to answer their questions. Most of the sports writers were respectful, but the event had become a media circus, attracting feature writers, fringe publications, and a rogue reporter for a notorious shock jock. Things hit rock bottom when a voice boomed out, "Hey Denny, what's your dress size?" Poor Grimes retreated into the locker room amidst a chorus of laughter and catcalls.
* * *
Say what you will about Denny Grimes, but he is a man of his word. Or rather, he was a man of his word, and I am not referring to honesty here. Two weeks after his humiliating defeat at the Colonial, he missed the cut at his next tournament. It was the beginning of a long downward spiral that was excruciating to watch, although fascinating to report. The demise of his golf game may have been precipitated by his collapse on the eighteenth fairway at Colonial, but it was accelerated by gleeful revelry in the galleries as his misfortunes continued.
To my surprise, Denny's harshest critics were not women. It was the men who taunted him, as if his defeat had somehow let down their half of the population. "How's it feel to lose to a broad?" one miscreant shouted out in the middle of Denny's backswing when he teed off his first time out after the Colonial. Denny shanked his drive out of bounds, and never recovered. The following week, he missed the cut again, spraying the golf course with errant drives and approach shots. He managed to make the cut the next week, and was playing well enough to be in one of the final pairings on Sunday, which only made matters worse. His performance on national television that day was among the most painful things I have ever witnessed. The gallery hooted in derision as Denny put three balls into water hazards on the back nine, and a small riot broke out when the outmanned security guards tried to evict some loudmouthed spectators.
I was following Denny exclusively now, in preparation for a long profile that I hoped to sell to one of the leading sports magazines. I observed him closely during this period, both on the course and off. He must have thought I was stalking him, but it was not until my article appeared in Sports Illustrated that he finally confronted me.
Death of a Thousand Cuts by Carrie Freese
The gradual disintegration of a human being is a terrible thing to watch. Yet that is what is happening on the PGA tour to Denny Grimes. Ever since he blew up on the eighteenth hole during the second round of the Colonial, the former PGA Champion and Ryder Cup hero has been a shadow of his former self. He walks the course now with a haunted expression, and by his own account, he is "putting like a basket case."
His money winnings have plummeted. His sponsorships have dried up. He has given his private jet back to the leasing company, and flies coach to the tournaments that still accept him. If he continues at his current pace, he will lose his PGA card by the end of the year.
Then there is the fan mail. Tons of it, delivered daily in huge sacks, piled up outside his home in Orlando to greet him when he returns from the latest tournament disaster. Virtually all of it negative, and most of it caustic, although nothing like the barrage of one-liners delivered nightly by Letterman and Leno.
The only bright spot is the one million dollar award promised by one of the major tabloids if Grimes can make the cut at an LPGA tournament. But even that will elude him, since the president of the women's tour announced last week that they will never allow Grimes to make a mockery of women's golf by keeping his promise to wear a skirt in one of their tournaments.
* * *
I was sitting in the coffee shop of my hotel, waiting for the opening round of the next tournament Denny was scheduled to play in, when he came up to my booth and asked me if he could join me. The issue of Sports Illustrated with my article was clutched in his hand.
He was much better-looking up close than he appeared on television. His sad eyes were framed by long lashes that most girls would have killed for, and his chiseled nose and high cheekbones would have been the envy of fashion models. His skin was smooth and deeply tanned, and he carried his slight frame with unusual grace. But what I noticed most about him were his hands. His fingers were slim and almost delicate, despite the thousands of hours of practice on the driving range and putting greens.
"You did a nice job on my obituary," he said in his soft voice, which had just a trace of a southern accent. Not the broad twang of a good old boy, but the melodious drawl of Virginia aristocracy. "Are you going to cover my funeral too?"
Completely disarmed, I stammered something about how sorry I felt for him.
"Poor old Denny Grimes," he said with a sigh. "He used to be one hell of a golfer."
"Maybe you'll snap out of it this week," I said without conviction.
"Nah, I'm done for. My head is so screwed up, I'll never get back into the zone again." The zone is that special place, known only to professional athletes at the highest level, where the mind lets the body take over and do incredible things. "Maybe I can caddy. You'd enjoy writing an article about that, wouldn't you?"
"No, I wouldn't. Are you telling me you're going to give up golf?"
"Look, my PGA days may be over, but I'll never get golf out of my system. I just love it. Can you understand that?"
I tried to respond, but he kept on talking. "The funny thing is, it's not the tournaments, or even playing the game. I love the smell of the fresh cut grass. The sound of the birds. The wide open space, even when you're surrounded by a big city. That's what's killing me, knowing that I used to get paid for playing golf, and knowing that I'll never be able to make a living at it again."
This was a side of Denny Grimes that no one had ever seen. Notorious as a womanizing playboy, he had gone through three marriages, and left untold broken hearts across the country. Who knew that he had a sensitive soul? Maybe I was on to more of a story than I realized. At that precise moment, the idea hit me.
"So the money's gone?" I asked off-handedly.
