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By John Maginnes
PGATOUR.com Contributor

The public perception of life as a rookie on the PGA TOUR is often quite different than the reality. My rookie season began in much the same way that most players' do -- I missed the cut in my first event.

After the futility of Tucson, I came to know true frustration. I followed the TOUR for the next two weeks without getting into an event. I spent a week in Palm Springs and another in Scottsdale without playing in a tournament. I was an alternate at both events but my number never came up.

John Maginnes wasn't always laughing as a rookie on TOUR. (Stan Badz/PGA TOUR/WireImage.com)

After a month of mounting expenses and no income, I was feeling the pressure at Pebble Beach. The golf gods proved that they have a sense of irony on those hallowed grounds. After two rounds and a week of rain, the tournament was called. All pros received $5,000 in unofficial money and were sent on their way. I needed the money but I was playing pretty well and wanted to continue.

So one month into my TOUR career, I had one missed cut, a rainout and a homesick wife who caddied for me. I was several thousand dollars in debt. The sunshine and opportunity of San Diego was surely going to turn all that around. I mean, what more could possibly go wrong?

I played the North Course on Thursday and played quite well. The good play continued into Friday and as I stood on the tee of the par-5 18th, I was 6-under par. I was more than comfortable with my position. The cut, after all, was projected at 4 under. I would love to tell you that I made a 3 and moved into the top 10 going into the weekend. For that matter, I would love to tell you that I got run down by a renegade hot dog cart and was forced to withdraw but the fates were not that kind to me.

Now might be a good time to make a distinction between the levels of stupidity in professional golf. Phil Mickelson defined -- and used the word "idiot" himself -- last year to describe his final-hole meltdown at the U.S. Open. Idiot is a superlative that is only reserved for high-profile players on the game's biggest stages. My mistakes took on more of a "bonehead" quality. Bonehead mistakes are just like their idiotic brothers but the people who make them are supposed to make them. Furthermore, boneheads tend to have far less impact on the outcome of a golf tournament.

The 18th at Torrey Pines South is a par-5 dogleg right with a narrow fairway protected by bunkers on both sides. The green is wide and narrow with bunkers on the right and a small pond that guards the front-left portion of the green. The hole has been lengthened considerably in the last few years but back in 1996 it was reachable for most players in the field.

After a perfect drive I was left with 218 yards downhill to the front-left hole location. My wife had some definite ideas about how I should proceed from here. I will never forget the expression on her face as she implored me to hit 8-iron and lay up, leaving a perfect sand wedge to the green. I wanted to hit 1-iron -- you remember those, don't you? I knew that I could comfortably carry a 1-iron to the hole and take the the lake out of play.

"If you insist on going for it why not take 3-wood and rip it into the grandstand? From there you can drop in the back fringe and leave an easy chip." This was the suggestion coming from the bag, and it seemed logical. It would have seemed logical if I hadn't chunked it like an 18-handicapper into the pond.

The argument that took place on the way down to the drop area has become a thing of family lore and can't be repeated here. However, the situation, if not acceptable, was still manageable. All I needed to do was wedge my fourth shot on the green and two-putt for bogey and I could still make the cut by a shot.

I have contended for years that during the argument I dropped my ball in a divot. The truth is, I had a perfect lie but I still managed to chunk the next one in the water again. The end result was an 8 and another missed cut. I call this a bonehead mistake but that would have been the nicest thing that I was called that day.

Another first happened that afternoon. My caddy fired me.

The truth is that the lessons learned that day were far more valuable to me than the money would have been if I had made the cut. In the end, my rookie year was one of the best years of my life. But on that particular day, in that moment, I truly learned what it means to be a bonehead.

Ironically, the fates placed me in the exact same spot in the 18th fairway on Friday the next year. This time I needed a birdie to make the cut. I ripped my 1-iron to 2 feet and tapped in for eagle. I even managed to sign a correct score card.