Byron Nelson Final Round: “No Weather for Skanky Women!”

It was an exciting finish to the EDS Byron Nelson Championship. Citizen journalist Anthony Pulido was there for us and files his final report, after the jump. As always: watch out for adult language!

No Weather for Skanky Women!

Yesterday morning’s cold and dreary weather did very little to dissuade the usual suspects from wearing their barely-there outfits and trampling their 5-inch wedged heels over the newly renovated TPC Four Seasons golf course. These women must have been thinking: “Hmm, the weatherman says it will be overcast with a high of 60 degrees, and bone-chilling winds will prevail throughout the day. But I’ll be damned if this outfit from the Electrique Boutique doesn’t look killer on me. If I am going to land that twice-divorced dentist in the Pavilion, I better go with my slut instinct.”

To make Josh proud [see comments], I passed up the Pavilion and headed for the 1st tee box to track Adam Scott on his long journey to a $1.1 million dollar payday. But to be a good citizen journalist, I had to do a quick walk-through of the grand white tent. The place reeked of spilt beer and wet mulch that had been recently laid to compensate for the muddy ground of prior day’s rains. To no one’s surprise, it was packed with freezing people still guzzling beer from shiny aluminum bottles. After four days, the place had the look of a strip mall sports bar in Grand Prairie, with everyone watching the tournament on flat-screen TVs, as if the damn event weren’t taking place less than a few hundred yards from where they sat. The only thing missing was a faded green pool table and a juke box blaring “Dr. Feelgood” by Mötley Crüe.

I quickly moved through the team of police officers and tournament officials who guarded the brink of where the Pavilion scene ended and the golf began. These brave men and women had been repeating the same phrase over and over again for the last four days to smartass boozers: “Uh, sir, you are going to have to finish that beer before you can go any farther.” So, to impress their silicone girlfriends and buddies, dudes with pink shirts, A/X sunglasses, and sideways baseball caps proceed to chug the three Mich Ultras they had intended to take onto the course. Then, after nearly puking, they proclaimed with pride, “Oh yeah, bro. Now I’m ready! Let’s go find where Tiger is playing and get his autograph.” (FYI: Tiger Woods has not played in the EDS Byron Nelson since 2005.) What was so hilarious about all of this was that no more than 30 yards away from this point of no return, you could purchase more aluminum bottles filled with your favorite domestic brew. The explanation given by the authorities as to why you couldn’t take your drink past this certain point: “Different vendors.” I was so proud to see a booze turf war at this beloved charity golf event. I was just waiting for Al Capone’s 1930 Cadillac to come plowing through the course, taking out rival vendors with Tommy guns.

By noon, everyone and his mother was following that “Aussie hunk” Adam Scott around the 7,166-yard course. Fifteen-year-old cheerleaders and drill team dancers from all over North Texas were shoving their way through the gallery, trying to catch an up-close look at the 27-year-old GQ millionaire. He was playing quite well, trying to maintain his fluctuating lead over the other contenders. The only things separating him from the win were his nerves and the idiotic crowd of drunks on the now-infamous 17th green.

To get ready for his fantastic finish, I set up shop again on top of the hill of 17, where dollar bills were being exchanged in human caddy races. Yesterday, instead of betting on who would make and miss his putts, the red-faced tools where trying to see which player’s caddy would reach the green first as they [the caddies] all walked at the same pace, oblivious to the gambling around them. Each caddy wears a certain color, so the idiots began to start shouting: “Come on, blue!” “Go, yellow!” like they were at a dog track in Alabama.

Finally, the sun broke through, and the plot began to thicken when Scott was met with a tied score on the 18th by another young fellow, this one named Ryan Moore. The two battled it out in a three-hole playoff that had the gallery running between the 17th and 18th greens with the fervor of junior high kids trying to catch a schoolyard fist fight. When all was said and done, Scott sank a 48-foot putt to add a cool $1.1 million to his bankroll. As Josh and I will tell you, sinking a 48-foot putt is the equivalent to kicking an 80-yard field goal in football.

As I left the championship grounds, I could see a disappointed pride of cougars in the Pavilion still looking to make that perfect pounce on that right someone. Oh, well, ladies, there is always next year! Don’t be too sad. There are only 12 more months to wait until we can all get our hands on those refreshing canned mojitos again! – Anthony Pulido