Bryson DeChambeau makes his way to a tee box on Sunday at the Masters.
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AUGUSTA, Ga. — I’m not saying this is professional, because it’s not. And I’m not saying this odd act reveals my rooting interest, because it doesn’t. But as Bryson DeChambeau made his uphill way from the ninth green to the tenth tee, I stuck my hand out for some skin from the reigning U.S. Open champion, just like everybody else who lined the parade route that leads the players to Augusta National’s back nine and the celebrated start of the tournament.
Two hours earlier, DeChambeau was on the driving range. He was the only player on it. It was 2:21 p.m. and he was bombing drivers with his caddie behind him and his swing coach beside him, a cellphone on a stand pointed at this beef-made man.
It was an unnerving experience, watching him. His tee time was in the day’s final twosome. He was paired with the only guy ahead of him, Rory McIlroy, who slept on a two-stroke, 54-hole lead. That tee time was set to start in nine — now eight! — minutes. DeChambeau was about 300 yards away from the first tee, a journey he would make on foot, through a crowd. There was an odd, U-shaped gold horseshoe above the heel of his golf shoes. He hit a final drive, followed by a final 3-wood.
Whew. As Elvis left music halls, Bryson was leaving this range. It appeared he would make it to the tee on time. What a relief.
And then he stopped and signed autographs. A dozen or more. He high-fived, low-fived, bumped fists with fans young and otherwise.
NO!
There was a manic energy coming off the man. That has been the case for years now. Remember the Saturday-night driving-range session at Winged Foot, on the eve of his 2020 U.S. Open win? Like that. But there’s no clock on an evening range session. Here the clock was ticking loudly.
The last kid DeChambeau encountered as he left the range was an eighth grader from Mobile, Ala., named Peter Muller. They low-fived.
“What does that tell you about Bryson?” I asked young Peter, that he was taking in the fans before this date with destiny.
“It tells me Bryson’s going to win today,” the kid said with an unexpected, almost world-weary tone.
Before long, the boy sounded more prescient than Johnny Miller in his broadcasting prime. DeChambeau took a one-shot lead in the tournament after a par-birdie start, while McIlroy opened with a double bogey followed by a par. DeChambeau was 11 under par. If he could have played from there to the house in even par, he would have been in the Justin Rose-Rory McIlroy playoff. That, of course, did not happen.
When the two European Ryder Cuppers were going off to play in their two-man playoff, DeChambeau was talking to reporters about his Sunday 75. His annoyance with McIlroy was (if you can trust my reading of his tone) obvious. Asked about McIlroy’s mood in the scorer’s room at the end of their Sunday round, DeChambeau said: “No idea. He didn’t talk to me once all day.”
Asked what their on-course rapport was like, DeChambeau said, “He wouldn’t talk to me.”
There’s lots going on here. McIlroy has become a symbol of the East Coast Golf Establishment and a defender of the PGA Tour in its ongoing war-for-eyeballs dispute with LIV Golf. Both men are plus-four talkers, or can be. It was not the height of grace for McIlroy to fail to congratulate DeChambeau on his win over McIlroy last year on the Sunday of the U.S. Open. (He finally did a month later at the Open Championship.) McIlroy has been gently dismissive of YouTube golf. (He says he is happy for people who like it but he’d rather read a book or watch a movie.) DeChambeau has 1.8 million followers on his YouTube channel.
Here’s DeChambeau describing the 7 McIlroy made on par-5 13th, with particular emphasis on his third shot, which finished in the creek: “I wanted to cry for him. I mean, as a professional, you just know to hit it in the middle of the green, and I can’t believe he went for [the pin]. Or he must have just flared it.
“But I’ve hit bad shots in my career, too. It happens. When you’re trying to win a major championship, especially out here, Sunday of Augusta, the Masters, you have to just do it and get the job done and do it right. There were times where it looked like he had full control and at times where it was like, ‘What’s going on?’ Kind of looked like one of my rounds, actually.”
It was funny because it was true.
There is no one in golf remotely like DeChambeau. The arm swing, the marathon range sessions, the physique changes, the child-like enthusiasm for his self-made YouTube challenges, the size of his grips and his forearms. At the end of 72 holes, he looked sunburned, and his blue eyes were practically on fire.
I asked him about cutting his first-tee arrival so close. “I’m not going to miss my tee time,” he said playfully. “I’ve done it a lot in my career.”
I didn’t tell him I was on the rope line as he made his was from nine to ten. I put out my open left hand and he tapped it softly with his left fist. I felt ridiculous.
But to my left and right, I saw all manner of golf fans — kids, frat boys, men in their 30s — who seemed thrilled to connect with the reigning U.S. Open champion. DeChambeau was ten paces ahead of McIlroy, and four shots behind him. He was bounding up the hill, as if something good awaited him there, fiving and bumping all the way.
Michael Bamberger welcomes your comments at Michael.Bamberger@Golf.com.
Michael Bamberger writes for GOLF Magazine and GOLF.com. Before that, he spent nearly 23 years as senior writer for Sports Illustrated. After college, he worked as a newspaper reporter, first for the (Martha’s) Vineyard Gazette, later for The Philadelphia Inquirer. He has written a variety of books about golf and other subjects, the most recent of which is The Second Life of Tiger Woods. His magazine work has been featured in multiple editions of The Best American Sports Writing. He holds a U.S. patent on The E-Club, a utility golf club. In 2016, he was given the Donald Ross Award by the American Society of Golf Course Architects, the organization’s highest honor.
