The “journalist” in me briefly thought about trying to dig up breaking news on her comeback from serious neck and back injuries, but when I inquired about how she was feeling, she simply said, “Good.” So much for that.

At this point, I still hadn’t offered Annika any advice pertaining to club selection or putt-reading. I figured if a legendary player had anything to ask of a lanky goofball who shot 97 in his last round, she’d ask it.

No. 9 (par-4, 444 yards)
This is where I was done with Sign Boy, who had been cracking up the old-timers in the crowd with hacky schtick such as Bill Murray from “Caddyshack,” late Cubs announcer Harry Caray and golf announcer Steve Melnyk. Yuck.

Fortunately, Annika’s startlingly effortless game and our now-friendly vibe kept me more than entertained, and, for the first time all day, she asked for my opinion.

Her drive, into a stiff wind, had left her about 200 yards to the green, and I pulled out the 7-wood, thinking the 4-iron wouldn’t quite be enough. She looked at me and said, “You think?” I said, “Yeah, why not?” She said, “OK,” grabbed the club, and hit it into the bunker to the right of the green. Oops. I apologized immediately for the bad advice, but she shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “It was a bad swing.” Um, OK. Whatever you say, Ms. 59.

Nos. 10-18
The final nine was a blur, forgettable for the most part from a golf perspective because Annika made a ho-hum par on every hole, all with putts of less than five feet and most of them tap-ins, save a bogey on the impossible 17th, which nobody parred. She just couldn’t seem to roll in a birdie, and I wasn’t really helping her much.

I’ll always remember the par-4, 412-yard 13th, though.

Sorenstam had 156 yards to the green into the wind, and I pulled out the 7-iron. She said, “Maybe the 8-iron?” I said, “I think you might need the 7.” She went with my suggestion, hit her usual perfect shot, and we watched as the ball hopped on the rock-hard green and appeared to roll off the back.

Initial panic set in, followed by pure fear, as we walked up, but luckily the hole location was in the back of a large green and she ended up pin-high. I sighed in relief.

By the time Annika had parred the 18th for a round of 1-over 73, I was having the time of my life. For the last seven or eight holes, she had been referring to us as “We,” as in, “What should we do here?” and “We needed a bit more club there, huh?”

She didn’t have to do it, and many great golfers surely wouldn’t have. In fact, a lot of those PGA Tour prima donnas probably would have acted in the opposite way, throwing their clubs in my direction and never lowering themselves to say a word to me.

It was beyond classy and proves that Sorenstam is an even better person than a golfer. And after watching her up close for 18 holes, that’s saying a lot.

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