Heaven or hell? At Q-school, depends on why you're there
WINTER GARDEN, Fla. -- The paradox is comically clear, though the laugh track will dissipate as the week wears on.
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| Matt Every says it's 'cool' trying to take his college success to the next level. (Getty Images) |
They are rookies, wannabes, long shots and hopefuls -- any number of terms might fit. Mostly younger players who are so close to the big leagues they can feel it in their every fiber, reaching the final stage of PGA Tour Qualifying School, which began Wednesday, represents a major accomplishment in itself.
Then there's the other end of spectrum featuring the more established players, who find a trip through Q-school to be equal parts demoralizing, debilitating and depressing.
"Some guys are pissed at the way they played last year and don't want to be here," said mini-tour player Patrick Damron as he grabbed a bucket of range balls. "Some guys are excited as hell just to be here, because of what the future might hold. I guess it's kind of the beautiful thing about Q-school."
It might be the lone wondrous element, really. Simply put, the players participating in perhaps the cruelest week in golf can best be lumped into two broad groups: Those who are starting out and those who are starting over.
This week marks the third time in five years that the finals have been held at Orange County National Golf Center, located on the outskirts of Orlando. In 2005, noted sports author John Feinstein spent the week at OCN detailing the triumphs and train wrecks for a tome released this spring entitled Tales from Q School: Golf's Fifth Major.
Had it been accidentally stocked in the Barnes & Noble fiction section, it would have been all too apropos, since unless you happen to be Stephen King, some of the horrific Q-school fare catalogued over the years has defied the written word. Unpredictable, capricious, unfair and pitiless stand as the descriptive Grand Slam of Q-school lore.
From a field of 166 players, the top 25 and ties this week will earn a spot on the world's richest tour in 2008, while the rest will toil in virtual anonymity on the developmental Nationwide Tour. It's the difference between playing for roughly $5 million weekly vs. $500,000.
While the happy minority is giddy merely to be here and trading punches, the majority of the players have already sampled the comparative wares of the Nationwide or PGA Tour. Being demoted for failing to earn your keep is like eating humble pie. Let a Stanford grad explain it.
"It's almost as if you are working in a law firm, and if you don't bill enough hours, they make you go take the bar exam again," former tour regular Casey Martin told Feinstein. "And if you don't pass, you spend the next year working in the law firm -- as a janitor.
"It is like a final exam, because you can't rationalize or fool yourself or anyone else. If you aren't good enough, you can't say, 'But I'm getting better,' or 'I'll do better next week or the week after.'"
That's because there is no next week. For a player with big-league experience, a year on the Nationwide means a season with none of the accoutrements of stardom -- the free courtesy cars, six-figure endorsement deals, top-shelf courses, effusive galleries and five-star amenities common at even the most obscure PGA Tour stops. It's the difference between Boston and Boise.
