Maginnes: Going to extreme measures to prepare

I asked my fast-talking agent to repeat himself. "How do you feel about playing in the Uruguayan Open?" he asked again. Turns out, I had heard him correctly. Then we discussed the particulars. The tournament sponsors were going to pay travel, put up the purse (if you could call it that) and everything. So I said, "What the hell..."

John Maginnes had an interesting trip to South America. (Badz/PGA TOUR/WireImage)

After all, I was exempt to the finals of q-school after finishing in the top 20 on the 1995 Nationwide Tour money list. Of course, this was back when only the top 10 earned PGA TOUR cards, but at least I had earned a pass into the finals for my efforts. The problem was that the season ended a good six weeks before the finals, and I needed a golf tournament to play in to prepare. The only tournament anywhere on the planet that would have me was the Uruguayan Open two weeks before the finals. I could go to South America, play a tournament and be back on Monday night nine days before the finals began. In theory this was a good plan.

The fun started the moment that I got off the plane in Montevideo. I had been told that I would be picked up at the airport. I was told a lot of things that did not come to fruition, though. I was sitting on my golf clubs outside the terminal watching taxis go by but I had no destination. I didn't know the name of the hotel or the golf course, and my Spanish is nonexistent in such matters. You would expect me to be in a panic but the truth is I was too relieved to be afraid. After the flight from Buenos Aires I was just happy to be alive.

About an hour later a South American player approached me and asked if I wanted to share a cab to the golf course. How he managed to pick me out of the crowd is anyone's guess. (Perhaps it was the fact that I was curled up in the fetal position clutching my Titleist bag.) Once we got there, I played an abbreviated practice round on what can only be described as a classic Ellis Maples gem. At the hotel that night I discovered that the boys on the South American Tour were on an exotic -- not to mention, intoxicating -- vacation. It took about a half a beer to make a couple of dozen new friends. There were players from all over the world. I knew a few from previous travels but most were new to me. I heard travel stories that were hilarious and terrifying, at the same time. They had a new audience, and I was happy to drink and listen.

When the tee times came out the following afternoon, I was paired with Ricky Gonzalez, who now is a successful player on the European Tour. I knew Ricky from the Nationwide Tour and I was pleased to be playing with a familiar face. We had the first tee time on Thursday. I played very well and shot a 64 that I knew would put me near the lead. Ricky had struggled with a quick hook all day and shot 78. After a short practice session I went back to the hotel, and after a short nap I went downstairs to do a little sight seeing before dark. I ran into an American player in the lobby. He offered congratulations and condolences in the same sentence. Realizing that I was puzzled, he told me what had happened after I left the course. It had started raining and they called play. That's alright with me, I thought. But there was more to the story -- the officials had washed out the first round. The tournament would begin anew on Friday, and we would play 36 holes on Sunday.

You can imagine my reaction. A hole played is a hole played. You can't erase a round of golf. Who ever heard of such a thing? Not to mention that it was now early evening and the sun was back out.

With a minimum amount of complaint the next morning -- enough to nearly get me deported, I embarked on my second opening round. You can probably guess what happened. I played pretty well, but not nearly as well as I did in the disappearing opening round. Sunday brought the longest day of my life, 36 holes before a flight home. I was still in contention with nine holes left but faded badly on the back nine. This could have something to do with the fact that it was 95 degrees and the golf course ran out of drinking water by noon and only had "agua con gas" (i.e., tonic water) left. And you guessed it, Ricky Gonzalez hoisted the trophy. Yes, the very same Ricky Gonzalez who I beat by 14 shots in the non-existent first round. But I don't begrudge Ricky. He just played within the rules, as bogus as they were.

I was rushed from the golf course to the airport to begin the adventure home. My flight took me from Montevideo to Buenos Aires. From there I had to take a cab from the domestic airport to the international airport, which was an hour away. I made the flight to Miami by less than a minute. From there I flew to Charlotte and then to Raleigh, arriving around 4 o'clock Monday afternoon. At this point I had managed to change clothes but still hadn't had a shower. I won't even tell you about the shopping trip in Raleigh that my new wife took me on after I landed.

I have played in too many q-schools to count and prepared in almost as many different ways. However, none were quite as drastic as a flier to an oppressed region of South America to play in a golf tournament. Looking back I was better for the trip. However, at the time I was just ticked off. I had traveled to the bottom of the world to have a golf tournament stolen from me. At least, that is how I looked at it. That motivation would serve me well the following week.