My brother Mike is such a devout hacker, he literally lives on a golf course. So when I came back from covering the 1992 U.S. Open golf championship, at famed Pebble Beach, no less, he surmised that I probably didn’t realize how many people would have killed for an assignment that I’d otherwise considered with an almost off-putting nonchalance.

And he was right. To me, that U.S. Open was walking 72 holes in four, grueling days, stalking my former Beacon Hill neighbor, Freddy Couples, who was coming off a Masters championship and at the height of his pro-golf powers. While I remember once thinking it was cool to peer through the fog and see seals ringing the majestic Bay Area course, most of my memories are of early mornings, sweaty afternoons, throbbing calves and once waiting nearly two hours for Couples outside the golfers-only practice area.

That event, which would have chilled the spine of my brother and so many others, simply was work for me.
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