THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, July 9, 1996 TAG: 9607090399
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY STEVE CARLSON, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: CROMWELL, CONN. LENGTH: 413 lines
Carl and Heather Paulson are a couple of modern-day Gypsies. Moving from town to town, living out of suitcases, never sure when the next paycheck will come.
Theirs is a steady diet of restaurant food, economy hotels and airports. Most everything they own is in storage. The Paulsons have no permanent address, and no inkling of when they will get one. Their mail goes to Carl's parents in Virginia Beach.
``This is our home,'' says Carl, lounging on the hotel bed.
Welcome to the life of a 25-year-old pro trying to make it on the PGA Tour.
It's a happy home for the honeymooners. But golf can interrupt the bliss, as Carl well knows.
He has made one cut in five tries since getting married May 18, and is struggling as he prepares for this week's Michelob Championship at Kingsmill in Williamsburg.
If he does not make the top 125 money winners by season's end, he will have to return to Qualifying School - a meat-grinder of a process in which roughly 1,000 golfers compete for 40 Tour spots. Paulson won the Q School tournament last fall.
A recent week at the Greater Hartford Open only put him farther from 125 - he's 206th on the money list. As he leaves the course, Paulson contemplates the bad play and bad breaks that add up to his fourth-consecutive missed cut.
``I don't know what I did to make God mad,'' he says.
It is Sunday, four days before the Greater Hartford Open begins on June 27. Carl had another unwanted weekend off, missing the cut in Memphis, so the Paulsons caught a flight here early this morning.
Too early. They awoke at 5:15 a.m. to make the flight, arriving in Hartford in time for Carl to hit balls and play nine holes at the TPC at River Highlands. While Carl practices, Heather spends four hours at the hotel ironing.
Pack and unpack twice weekly, scramble to catch a plane, do the laundry and spend hours ironing out wrinkles in your game and your clothes. It's all part of the lifestyle.
They are exhausted as they sit down to dinner at a steakhouse.
``It doesn't feel like Sunday,'' Heather says.
``It feels like some day I never felt before,'' Carl laughs.
The waitress mentions a seafood special. Carl, trying to figure out if the seafood would be fresh, looks blankly at his wife and says: ``Where are we?''
Later, while slouched over his salad, he says, ``I don't think you ever get this tired when you're playing well.''
A buoyant, fun-loving personality off the course, lately Paulson is not having a great time on the course. He is in the bottom 15 percent in most Tour statistics and is in the bottom 1 percent in scoring average.
That explains why Paulson has made the cut just four times in 18 events, earning $17,269 in official winnings this year on Tour. He made almost that much in one week on the Nike Tour - $15,550 for a second-place tie at the Dominion Open in Richmond. He has earned $24,550 in three Nike events.
``The top one-half of 1 percent of the people who play golf are on the PGA Tour,'' Paulson says. ``If I'm in the top one-half of 1 percent of insurance salesmen, I'd be a multimillionaire.
``It's pure capitalism. If you play well, you make money; if you don't, you don't. I don't get $1.6 million for batting .206 and riding the pine.''
But he will get $750 Monday for playing in the sponsor's pro-am. That will barely cover the cost of hiring a caddie for the week.
Finding a caddie is Paulson's first priority on Monday. His regular caddie is out a couple of weeks with a foot injury.
The Paulsons arrive at the course at 9:15 a.m. and check in. Heather receives a wives' gift packet containing soaps, chocolates, a Tiffany bowl and costume jewelry. Shortly after sitting down for breakfast in the clubhouse, Carl excuses himself to scour the parking lot for a caddie.
He returns moments later empty-handed.
After breakfast, Paulson heads to the locker room to put on his spikes while an attendant loads up his locker with three dozen balls and four gloves, courtesy of Titleist.
Paulson grabs his golf bag and heads to the semi-trailers where club companies set up shop each week. He gets new grips on his driver and 9-iron, all the while looking for a caddie. Finally, about an hour before his 11 a.m. tee time, Paulson says to a fellow near the putting green, ``Timmy, you wanna go today?''
Tim Boardman wears a Hooters hat, and a cigarette dangles from his lips. He's a veteran caddie who lives 100 miles away in Massachusetts and decided to drive down to find a job for the week.
``Hopefully it will be with Carl; we'll see what happens here,'' Boardman says.
What happens on pro-am days is Tour players grit their teeth a lot. To get an idea what this is like, imagine Michael Jordan playing on an industrial league basketball team.'
Paulson's team consists of a 5-handicapper, a 15 and two 21s, the highest number allowed in the pro-ams.
Paulson uses this day to work out what he calls ``airplane swings,'' because a long day of travel can gum up a golf swing. In addition to earning a few bucks, the pros' reward for playing is use of a courtesy car for the week.
Still, it's an endurance test. Today's round will last almost 5 1/2 hours. That, coupled with lingering fatigue from a day of travel, can make the pro-ams painful.
``We earn our money, don't we?'' Paulson says after a tee shot. ``Sometimes after nine holes you just want to quit and say, `Keep it.' ''
After 18 holes, Paulson decides to keep Boardman around for the week. Boardman pumps his fist with delight.
For the next 90 minutes, Paulson works at the putting green. Three balls. Set 'em up. Step back. Read the green. Address the ball. Stroke it.
``My back is starting to hurt,'' Paulson says as he wraps it up.
He changes shoes in the locker room and cashes his $750 check in a trailer near the clubhouse. By 6:30 he's headed to the hotel after a nine-hour work day. Heather is waiting to go to dinner and Mission Impossible. PRACTICE, PRACTICE, PRACTICE
Tuesday is Paulson's heaviest practice day. By the time the tournament starts Thursday, he will have spent about 25 hours working on his game. That's 25 hours for Heather to find something to do.
Tournament organizers help with that on Tuesday. Heather and nine other wives get pampered at a swanky health spa outside town. They get the works - full-body massage, facial, hand massage and luncheon - all gratis. ``I'm going next time,'' Carl says.
The Tour wife's life is not all spas and chocolates. But Heather is enjoying her inaugural season on the Tour - partly because it's the most time she's spent with Carl since they were students at South Carolina.
``Whether you've been traveling a month or 15 years,'' Heather says, ``every wife says the same thing: This is what you have to do if you want to spend quality time with the person you're married to.''
Heather has an undergraduate degree in public relations and a master's in human resources. To join her husband on Tour, she left a $35,000-a-year job as human resources manager for a South Carolina textile company.
Heather gave it up - without regrets - to become laundress, travel coordinator, entertainment director and cleaning lady. Her biggest gripes are they can't have a dog and can't lug around their extensive CD collection.
In the long term, Heather figures projects or small side jobs will be necessary to keep her stimulated. And once children come along, the dynamics of life on the road change dramatically.
``I've wondered what's going to happen when the novelty wears off,'' she says. ``But I doubt if on my death bed I'll look back and say, `I wish I'd worked more.' ''
It's Tuesday night, and the Paulsons are at another restaurant. During a trip to the bathroom, Carl hears someone walk in behind him. Paulson turns around, and a large man is blocking the entrance. Paulson's mind races: Oh no, this guy is a big dude. The man stares, then removes his hat and pulls a pen out of his pocket.
``Can I have your autograph?''
Paulson bellows his hearty, infectious laugh while retelling the incident. They are in their courtesy car now, heading to a lavish casino on an Indian reservation about an hour outside Hartford. The casino is owned by the family of one of the amateurs Paulson played with Monday. He offered to set the Paulsons up with a free room for the night, but they will just try their luck for a while and return to Hartford.
Offers like that are among the perks of Paulson's job. Last year in Memphis, he played with the owner of a renowned rib joint. The owner sent a limousine to Paulson's hotel to transport him and a couple of friends to the restaurant for a meal on the house.
``Pretty sweet,'' Carl says.
The gaming industry, however, usually takes more than it gives. Paulson pulls out a $100 bill and sits down at a $10 minimum blackjack table, while Heather pumps quarters into one-armed bandits.
``This is so ridiculous,'' she says.
Carl switches to roulette, and isn't doing too badly. They are about ready to leave, so he puts down a $50 bet. The little ball bounces where he doesn't want it to go, and he hangs his head.
Carl walks away with $18 in winnings, but Heather drops $20 in quarters. Not bad, $2 for 90 minutes of entertainment. RUBBING ELBOWS WITH BIG BOYS
Wednesday is Paulson's kick-back day. He is not playing in the celebrity pro-am, so he practices a few hours.
The GHO attracts a big-name field, well-known celebrities and huge galleries. Television journalist Maury Povich mingles in the clubhouse while Paulson has lunch with fellow golfers Robert Wrenn from Richmond and Ron Whittaker. Paulson chats in the bathroom with New York Giants coach Dan Reeves, whose nephews Paulson played against in college and on the mini-tours.
Later, while Paulson is putting, Fuzzy Zoeller and Paul Azinger are nearby signing autographs along the gallery ropes. John Daly goes past with a small army on his heels.
Paulson heads to the driving range and sets up near ESPN SportsCenter's Chris Berman, who is holding court with some pros between taking ugly hacks at the ball. Paulson joined Berman and a group of players for lunch here last year.
``That's kind of cool to be able to rub elbows with people like that,'' Paulson says. ``Here's the guy who's on the show I watch every day.''
Paulson says he is less awe-struck by it all than he used to be. The first tournament he played in last year as a rookie, just a few years removed from First Colonial High School, Paulson was hitting balls on the range right next to Jack Nicklaus.
``It was kind of overwhelming,'' he says.
Now it's just business as usual. On this day, he's done working early and is back in his hotel room by 4:30 and gets comfortable, changing into a T-shirt, shorts and South Carolina Gamecocks hat.
Midway through his second year on Tour, Paulson is getting more comfortable with his career. But if he needs to one day put his marketing degree to use, Paulson says the contacts he has made would be invaluable.
``If I were to break my arm in 15 places tomorrow, it would be real easy for me to find another job,'' he says.
Job One now is avoid a return to Q School. He wants to make this his career, not just a short-term fling in the big leagues.
``The first half of last year, I don't know how many times I told myself, `At least I have my degree to fall back on,' '' he says. ``You miss seven or eight cuts in a row, you're not making any money and not having any fun, it's easy to start thinking that way.''
It took a colossal failure to convince Paulson he could succeed. Last year at the Deposit Guaranty Classic - the Tour event played opposite the British Open - Paulson found himself three shots off the lead with two holes to play.
He got overly aggressive, going for the win. He made a quadruple-bogey and a bogey, and ended up 10 shots behind the winner.
His check was $3,162. Had he just parred out, he would have tied for eighth and made about $20,000.
``The next week, Morris Hatalsky walked up to me and said, `Welcome to the club. We've all done it. Your time will come. You'll be there again,' '' Paulson says. ``That made me feel I belonged out here, to have a veteran like that pay a compliment to my game.''
The sense of belonging was reinforced late in the year when he shot a 62 to lead the first round of the Walt Disney. Paulson was co-leader after two rounds and finished the rain-shortened event tied for seventh, good for a career-high $31,275 payday.
That was almost half of his rookie-year winnings of $64,501 in 21 events. Not bad for someone in his mid-20s, until you consider the cost.
The Paulsons will spend about $75,000 on expenses this season, an average of between $2,000-$2,500 a week. A caddie costs $500, more if Paulson makes the cut. Hotel and a rental car can approach $700. Air fare for two averages about $500. Tournament entry fee is usually $100. Meals, entertainment and other incidentals come to about $400.
Paulson would not go broke if he didn't make a cut, however. He has endorsement and sponsorship deals that will bring in a minimum of $70,000 this year, with incentives that up the ante if he plays well.
His golf bag and hat bear the logo of Snake Eyes, a brand of wedges. He wears Izod Club shirts, and beginning this week the Sharpie office-supplies logo will be on his shirt sleeves. All three companies pay Paulson handsomely.
He's on retainer to use Titleist balls, gloves and shoes. He plays Mizuno irons, and that company pays its Tour players based on performance.
Paulson also can make upwards of $20,000 in pro-ams, depending on how many he plays. And he will make some money off a book being written about him by Old Dominion University psychology professor Louis Janda.
Janda sold a publisher on a book about Paulson's development as a golfer and what it's like for a newcomer on Tour. Paulson makes tape recordings and periodically sends them to Janda, who says the book is due out in 1998.
All this supplemental income for a relatively obscure second-year player. Imagine what's in store should Paulson become a name player.
``What would happen next year if I make $400,000 or $500,000?'' Paulson says. ``I don't think I'd be any different than I am. That would really bother me if I won and someone came up to me and said, `You're really being an ass.' ''
He doesn't have to worry about the foibles of instant success, because he's struggling. Paulson can be hard on himself on the course, creating self-inflicted pressure. As the top 125 on the money list gets farther and farther away, that pressure mounts.
``It creeps into everyone's mind, but it's definitely something you don't want to be thinking about on the golf course,'' Paulson says. ``I'm guilty of it from time to time.
``This is a long process. The average age of guys out here is 30 to 35, and there are guys in their 40s winning tournaments. Sometimes I lose sight of the fact it's a long process and this is a stepping stone.'' AND THE LAST SHALL BE LAST
The Tour has a caste system, and the less-established players get the least-desirable tee times. Paulson's group on Thursday is last, which means the greens will be hard and spiked up.
Paulson arrives at the course at 12:30 p.m. for his 1:58 tee time. He grabs a bite in the clubhouse and is on the putting green by 1 p.m., reaching for a pinch of his ever-present Kodiak chewing tobacco.
He hits six putts, then heads to the range for 25 minutes. He starts with a wedge, and progresses to 9-iron, 7, 4, 2, 3-wood and driver.
He heads back to the putting green and hits 33 more putts. He calls to caddie Boardman for his two wedges and hits chips for three minutes. The clubs go back in the bag, Boardman picks it up and follows Paulson to the first tee.
``It's post time,'' Boardman says.
While waiting on the first tee, Paulson hears a whisper from the gallery: ``Hey Carl.'' It's his grandparents, George and Evangeline Paulson. Carl greets them with a hug and a kiss.
George and Evangeline drove 10 hours from Virginia Beach to watch Carl and to attend the 50th wedding anniversary of relatives nearby. George is the priest of St. Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in Virginia Beach. He married Carl and Heather.
At the first tee, Paulson's caddie picks up a pin sheet showing where the flag sticks have been placed. Paulson checks his yardage book and chats with playing partners Greg Lesher and Sean Murphy.
Paulson hammers his first drive down the left side of the fairway, a good 50 to 75 yards past Lesher and Murphy. That will be the norm for the next two days. The 5-foot-9, 180-pound Paulson ranks 10th on Tour in driving distance at 279.2 yards.
``He's one of the stronger players out here,'' says Scott McCarron, Paulson's best friend on Tour. They were fellow rookies last year, and McCarron was the only player to attend the Paulsons' wedding, withdrawing from a tournament to be there. ``A lot of these courses play right into his hands, because he's so long.''
Paulson hits his driver so far that Heather has trouble following the ball. Instead, she focuses on Carl after he hits. She says he ``poses'' when he's hit it well, holding the club up high on his follow-through and then pointing it toward the target.
And when he hits it badly?
``He curses or smacks something,'' she says.
There are not many outbursts today. Paulson plays solid golf - three bogeys and three birdies for a fairly uneventful, well-played round of even-par 70.
Uneventful except for the 14th green, where playing partner Murphy gets in a shouting match with a worker riding in a cart. As the last group, they have endured noise from trash collectors and people working in television towers all day, as well as rowdy fans who have imbibed for hours.
They finish at 6:51 p.m. Paulson is in the top 56 after one round. The field will be cut after Friday to the top 70 plus ties.
After checking his scorecard, Paulson signs an autograph and heads straight to the range for 20 minutes. He delights in telling other players about Murphy's tirade - not that it was unjustified.
``There's just no respect for guys playing in the last group,'' he says. FROOT LOOPS DON'T MAKE THE CUT
Friday's tee time is 9:03 a.m., the last of the morning.
``I hope I get finished today before all the drunks come out,'' Paulson says as he pulls up to the clubhouse.
Paulson is chirpy and cocksure this morning. He eats four bowls of Froot Loops in the clubhouse, and seems to enjoy annoying Heather with his table manners. When he picks up his cereal bowl and slurps milk from the side with a smirk, Heather tells him she's buying him etiquette lessons.
``I could eat two more of those,'' he says. ``That's scary, I'm a bottomless pit this morning.''
After breakfast it's off to the range, where Paulson's parents, Ned and Susan, and uncle Lou show up. They drove from Virginia Beach last night, arriving at 2:30 a.m., and will join Heather to form the Paulson gallery today.
``Hey,'' Carl says in passing to his parents and uncle as he scoots from the range to the putting green.
Moments before Paulson begins his round on the 10th tee, Heather slips under the gallery ropes to deliver a can of Kodiak. He had forgotten it and had sent her back to the hotel for his chew.
The wind is whipping at 20 mph this morning, and it isn't long before Paulson's scorecard is taking a beating. And he is giving a beating to his golf bag, cart paths, unsuspecting sand traps - anything he can take a whack at with his club after a bad shot.
At 15, a 296-yard par-4 he's capable of reaching with his drive, Paulson is right of the green, chips up and 3-putts.
``Bonehead bogey,'' Ned snorts.
At the par-4 17th, the toughest hole on the course, Paulson hits a 3-wood into the left rough. He has a downhill lie to a green protected by water.
Paulson laces a 6-iron that looks good, but ends up bad. There is no splash, and Paulson shoots an inquisitive look at his caddie, who shrugs. Finally, a marshal ambles across the fairway and peers over the water bank. He points to the ball in the hazard.
Whack whack. Paulson pounds his club sharply on the cart path.
Another foot and he would have been dry and putting or chipping for birdie. Instead, the ball hit the bank and trickled in. He double-bogeys the hole, putting him at plus-3.
``Gotta make some birdies now, boy,'' Ned says.
Instead, Paulson is scrambling to make pars. He bogeys No. 3, but has birdie chances at Nos. 4, 5, 6 and 7. He doesn't convert any.
At the par-3 No. 8, Paulson hangs his tee shot out to the right and kicks his club. The frustration is mounting. His chip almost hits the flag and rolls 12 feet by, and Paulson snaps his head back. When his par putt lips out - his fifth putt to do so today - Paulson looks heavenward, smiles and throws up his hands.
``What have I gotta do?'' he cries.
He's plus-5. He's out of it. He knows it.
Paulson pars the final hole. He hurries to the clubhouse, checks a scoring computer to verify he has no chance of making the cut and strokes his caddie a $500 check.
``He was a little hot out there,'' Boardman says. ``I tried to calm him down.''
The cut would be plus-3. Paulson did not play well enough to make a paycheck.
Pure capitalism.
``Ah damn,'' Paulson says, rubbing his hand through his hair as he drives away from the clubhouse. ``That's four straight tournaments without a good break. I can't take this (crap).''
Before he makes it to the main road, he's talking about getting an airline ticket home to Virginia Beach ``right now.'' One problem: He's agreed to play in a charity pro-am Monday in Buffalo, N.Y., for a children's hospital. He decides he can't pull out.
``I'm not having any fun right now on the golf course,'' he says.
He left without cleaning out his locker, which he will do Sunday. For the next two days, Paulson will not pick up a club - a rarity when he misses a cut. He needs a break, and with family around it's a perfect time to take one.
By the time they drive 15 minutes to the hotel, Paulson has calmed down. Soon he's laughing and smiling despite the disappointment. He rarely brings his work home with him.
``He's very resilient,'' Heather says. ``I don't have to do anything. There are some wives out here who can barely stand to live with their spouses if they've had a bad day. It totally consumes them. Carl's not like that.''
Heather gives him a tender kiss on the cheek while they wait for the hotel elevator.
It's good to be home after a rough day at the office. ILLUSTRATION: HUY NGUYEN/The Virginian-Pilot color photos
Heather Paulson gave up a $35,000-a-year job to be with husband Carl
on the PGA Tour. Her duties include keeping the family journal.
Carl's job is to play golf. And like any job, it has its share of
pressure and frustration.
At times, Paulson feels the pressure of making the grade. Although
he is a PGA Tour regular for the second year in a row, he needs a
strong finish this season to avoid returning to Qualifying School.
For now, Paulson is just one of the crowd on the PGA Tour. This year
he has won more on the Nike Tour ($24,550) than on the PGA Tour
($17,269).
Carl Paulson lounges and Heather clowns Thursday morning before the
first round of the Greater Hartford Open. The couple does not have a
permanent mailing address, and they call hotels their ``home.''
The reality of the PGA Tour is simple, says Paulson: ``It's pure
capitalism. If you play well, you make money; if you don't, you
don't. I don't get $1.6 million for batting .206 and riding the
pine.
Paulson's uncle Lou, wife Heather and mother Susan intently watch
the action. Several family members made the 10-hour drive from
Virginia Beach to Hartford to watch Carl play last month.
Back at the hotel after missing yet another cut, Carl is consoled by
Heather. Paulson has made just four cuts in 18 Tour events this year
- and just one cut since their marriage in mid-May. He'll try again
this week at the Michelob Championship in Williamsburg.
KEYWORDS: PROFILE BIOGRAPHY PROFESSIONAL GOLF
TOUR by CNB