I arrived at Riviera Country Club—having wisely parked on San Vicente, then walked the mile or so to the entrance, instead of enduring the Baatan Death March that is the shuttle-bus system—just in time to see Phil on the first green. I followed him through 14, where I decided that he should immediately contact Dave Stockton after his round and even consider giving refunds to the people who bought his book on the short game.
He missed so many makable birdie putts that it became painful to watch, but the two horrible chips he hit actually did hurt, since they struck far too close to home.
I had a good time at the event, though, so I'm glad I attended. And Steve Stricker, the world's new second-best player (though the best active player, and not a stone-cold prick ... wait, perhaps that's not the right phrase) deserves the win,
especially after basically giving this event away last year to Phil.
Not glad the Colts lost, but I am by no means crushed, since I think it's great
for New Orleans and for Louisiana that the Saints ain't the ain'ts no more.