San Antonio: Home of the Alamo, stage of champions  PGATOUR.com Contributor San Antonio has always been a city of great mystery to me. It doesn't fit into an East Coaster's view of Texas. From the River walk that knifes through downtown to the hills and quarries at La Cantera, there is something special about the old city. There is an eerie intangible that you can almost see lurking in the shadows of dusk. Since I was a child, I have always felt at home there, so far from my home.  The sun sets over a water hazard on the ninth tee at La Cantera Country Club. (Grayson/WireImage)
My family was moving back East from Tucson, and we stopped in San Antonio along the way. Mom and Dad, my two older brothers and older sister, a dog and a cat crammed into a station wagon. I will spare you the more fragrant details of the trip. Suffice to say that when we stopped in San Antonio, everyone was thrilled to have elbow room and fresh air. Our destination, like that of many visitors, was the Alamo. I feel certain that my parents felt like this would be an educational trip. But my closest brother and I were more concerned with the details than with the story. By this, I mean we wanted to know the exact spot where Santa Anna had shot our posthumous hero Davie Crockett. We didn't care about histories or ideologies. We had our coon-skin caps and pop guns and knew every word to the song. "Davie, Davie Crockett. King of the wild frontier." We probably drove the tour guide and the other visitors crazy. We were a stir-crazy 6 and 8 running amuck in one of the West's great historical landmarks. And, we never found the exact spot where Davie lost that final battle, standing heroically ar-in-arm with Sam Houston and a ragtag band of militia. They were outgunned and overmatched, eventually overrun by the superior Mexican force. It would be more than 20 years before I returned to San Antonio. I played the old Texas Open my first two years on the PGA TOUR. After losing my card in 1997, I went back to the Nationwide Tour. By summer's end, I was secure in my position on the money list and knew that I would be returning to the PGA TOUR for the 1999 season. A few tournament directors had given me sponsor's exemptions on the PGA TOUR, and I had played quite well. The way that I was playing, I felt that I would only need a few more starts to finish in the top 125 on the PGA TOUR money list. Up to that point, no player had ever finished in the top 125 on the PGA TOUR money list and the top 10 on the Nationwide Tour money list in the same year. When Tony Piazzi called and offered me the exemption, I jumped at the chance. The two years that I had played previously, I had loved the La Cantera layout. Furthermore, I felt like I was playing well enough to have a chance. There are certain times in a player's career when things are easy. I had been riding a wave like that since winning earlier that summer in South Dakota on the Nationwide Tour. I didn't have to think. Nothing was a struggle. I had accepted my fate and busted my hump to get back to the TOUR. With that accomplished, I was freewheeling it and earning big chunks of money every time I teed it up.  Eric Axley tees off the 8th hole during the final round of the 2006 Valero Texas Open. (Feldman/WireImage) On Saturday, I found myself in the last group with a young stud from Texas. I had played a little with Justin Leonard before this tromp through the hills at La Cantera. I had always admired his game and his sense of humor. I still do. But, I had never played with Justin in Texas. Looking back, I realized that I had never played with any Longhorn in Texas. When we walked up on the first tee, we were greeted by several thousand fans all screaming, "Hook 'em horns." While the opening tee shot can be the most nerve-wracking part of a day, I managed OK. If memory serves, I even birdied the opening hole. But I made a string of bogeys after that. It was not like I shot the average August temperature in Midland, Texas, but the wave finally hit the shore. The effortless good play that lasted for several weeks abandoned me that day. Not because I was trying to do anything special -- it's just the nature of the game. For some, it lasts longer than others. I shot myself out of contention that day. I don't remember exactly what the scorecard read, but it was neither glorious nor embarrassing. I can't recall the exact spot where the game became hard again, either. There was no bloody mess in the fourth fairway marking the spot where my mind and my limbs became out of synch. What I remember is the gradual erosion of confidence that plagues even the greatest players in the game. It is a common tale of mediocrity where the unknown falters when up against a more famous foe. Like my childhood hero before me, I was outgunned and out-numbered in San Antonio. But unlike poor Davie, I would live to fight another day. My game was not martyred. It is barely remembered. Children probably won't be singing songs about me centuries beyond my demise. But then again, I didn't kill a bear when I was only 3. |
