Friday at the WMPO with a Bunch of English Dudes

This post originally appeared in Club TFE in February 2023. I’m bumping it up this week to hopefully get some new stories from folks about their visits to TPC Scottsdale. And if you haven’t been and are still in your 20s, make sure you get there before it’s too late. – Will Knights

“Blondie! Blondie, blondie! Blondie, blondie! Blondie, take our picture!”

Everyone who has been to the Phoenix Open at TPC Scottsdale has a story. Mine involves a group of English blokes who adopted me as one of their own.

In February 2017, my college roommate, a man who had never previously set foot on a golf course, moved to Arizona for an internship. We were less than a year out of school, not responsible for anyone but ourselves, and in possession of a little disposable income for the first time. So yeah, I had a plane ticket and grounds passes for the Waste Management Phoenix Open less than an hour after my ex-roommate told me about the move.

Even on Friday, the line to get into the 16th hole at TPC Scottsdale was pretty ridiculous. Granted, we didn’t show up at 5 a.m. to do the mile sprint to the stadium. We opted to wait until after sunrise, lollygagged along the front nine first to get in some steps, and finally joined a line at the north side of the 16th hole around 9 a.m. We spent the next 90 minutes sandwiched between a pack of guys in teletubby costumes and two older gentlemen who would not shut up about the Robert Trent Jones Trail.

Welcome to TPC Scottsdale.

The forecasted high for the day was 65 degrees. It was a tricky temperature: when we arrived on site, it was in the mid-40s, but it would certainly be hotter amid 20,000 fans around 16. I went with a 2012 Ryder Cup pullover. That decision ended up coloring our whole experience. No more than 30 seconds after we found seats in the bleachers, I heard, “Ay boys, how’d the 2012 Ryder Cup finish up?” Seated directly in front of us were eight Englishman fresh off a plane from Heathrow. Half of them were draped in the Union Jack. They weren’t interested in the fact that the U.S. had just drubbed the Euros at Hazeltine. My choice to wear anything from the Medinah Ryder Cup was hysterical to them. They bought us our next round of Michelob Ultras as a thank-you for the laugh. And we were off.

I’m sure I would have enjoyed the WMPO regardless of the company, but there’s no way I would have had as much fun without these guys.

The first chant was the aforementioned “blondie” chorus. It was directed at a PGA Tour Live reporter on the ground whom the lads figured could get them on the broadcast. It worked.

Rahhhhmboooo, Rahhhhhmmmboooo, Rahhhhhhhhmmmmmmbooooo.

On and on.

We took turns running in pairs to the entrance of the stadium to grab rounds of beers for the crew. We learned early in the day that you had to reach the vendors as soon as they walked in because they weren’t getting far without having to go back and reload. My buddy and I did our best to use our own money, but the Englishmen wouldn’t hear of it. They had exchanged their pounds for way too many Benjamins and were happy to use them.

Then came the tunnels—the human tunnels, that is. As a group, we lined both sides of a walkway at the base of the bleachers and touched fingertips to the person directly across from us, creating a path that people could duck under to get to their seats. Those who ran through our man-made tunnel were greeted with cheers; boos and groans for those who just walked or, worse, hid in embarrassment. Soon enough we had a runway of about 40 people and a tunnel that stretched for much of the bleacher.

We tried to keep up with the blokes throughout the day, but they just didn’t have an off switch. Hours and hours spent running to vendors, slamming light beer, and cheering at the top of their lungs appeared to have no effect on them. By 4 p.m. they were just as pumped as they were at 10 a.m. It was as impressive a performance as I’ve seen at a sporting event. My buddy and I, on the other hand, were gassed. In spite of some harassment and encouragement to stay, we said our goodbyes and made our way to the exit.

People always talk about the rush to get into TPC Scottsdale, but the long departure from the venue was the real show. The grassy hills along the sides of Nos. 17 and 18 were populated by people sitting or laying down, taking a quick break or nap because they couldn’t get all the way out. I have no doubt, however, that our English friends marched all the way home. No way would they let a mile walk intimidate them.

We never learned their names and they never learned ours, but they gave me one of the most entertaining days I’ve had on a golf course.

And the chants still ring in my ears.

The only photo I took from inside the stadium captured one of my English friends and the Union Jack