You might see her at a shop opening in West L.A., and she could look like the Southern California Vons checkout girl she once was.
And that Phil, in the heat of Kiawah and loving the hunt, didn’t look like Phil on Thursday, in the first round of the U.S.
Then, finally, play began, Phil in a threesome with two other sons of Southern California, Max Homa and Xander Schauffele.
There were spectators practically on top of him, cellphones chiming as he played his second shot from the juicy stuff.
Now his parents were following him, Mary Mickelson and Phil Sr., who was wearing a lightweight quilted U.S.
He says he likes to listen to what the fans say about his sons, plural.
People are calling out his name and he’s raising his thumb, as he does.
Phil goes off by himself, standing on a little hill beside the green, yardage book in his right hand, golf glove in his back-left pocket, his bespoke trousers clinging to his socks.
Walking to the 9th green, he sees a tanned skinny kid with braces on his teeth and a hoodie inked with the distinctive logo of Goat Hill Park, a beloved muni a half-hour to the north, in Oceanside.
They’re looking for the exit off the left side of the 11th hole.
Probably the last thing Phil wants to do is an interview, after that day, after signing for 75, four over par.
I don’t understand why you just can’t turn that little button on the side into silent.
He has written a variety books about golf and other subjects, the most recent of which is The Second Life of Tiger Woods.