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When I arrived at the Annandale Country Club, the sun wasn’t yet up on this brisk, foggy morning in Madison, Mississippi. I was playing in my first PGA Pro-Am event, the Viking Classic. Terrifying thought.

Earlier that morning in the hotel lobby, one of the guys also playing in the event had admitted, “I haven’t slept well for the past two weeks just thinking about it.” I found his candor refreshing.

Sure, big guns like Tiger and Mickelson were in other places but there were enough headliners like Duval, Appleby and Daly to strike fear in any double-digit handicapper’s heart.

At the draw party the night before, our team had shouted out “Appleby”, when our number was pulled, our pre-agreed pro choice.

Now here I was in the chilly fog-heavy morning, rolling putts on the practice green alongside Daly. a mere whisper of his former bulk colorfully attired in Loud Mouth slacks — black with quarter-sized brightly colored polka dots. Chewing on a cigarette, he hit putts casually with one hand toward the hole while chatting it up with three buddies.

Will Mackenzie, last year’s winner, was taking his putting practice seriously, drilling a dozen or so balls toward a hole. I was trying to stay warm.

Heading to our assigned tee for the 7:30 shotgun start, I tried to think of anything but hitting that first drive as one of only three women in a field of more than 200 men. Where was that Bloody when I needed it?

Appleby, dressed smartly in blue-gray slacks and a black sweater joined us with his caddy from New Jersey, Joe. After introductions and a team picture, he quickly teed off into the fog, his ball landing somewhere way out there on the dew-kissed fairway.

I was the last to tee off and hurried to the not-so-forward tee to do the job. My ball looked like it went in the right direction but I lost it. The fog was just too thick.

Appleby walked with his caddy, but our team used carts and were confined to the cart paths because of an over-abundance of rain the past two weeks. (The Viking Classic would sadly be cancelled on Saturday due to the soggy conditions, the first time a tournament has been scrapped outright because of weather since the 1996 AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am).

Slogging through the drenched turf. I was pretty much in my own little world. Annandale is a long course for women at 5,888 yards while the Ladies Locker Room is a joke, more like a fancy closet with one lavatory. So O.K. it wasn’t women-friendly. So what. I was liking the whole thing. Just being here was a thrill.

I also liked the “par is your partner” rule allowing you to pick up if your net ball was over par.

I caught Appleby’s attention when I shanked a couple of balls off the toe, drilling them almost horizontally across the fairway, narrowly missing him and causing him to jump aside. A few holes later as I was struggling with where to hit the ball, he laughed, “I’ll walk up a bit then just aim at me.”

So far through the first nine, I had contributed nothing. Nada. Zilch. Then I had a three foot putt for a birdie and Appleby stepped in. “Hit it over that grain of sand,” he suggested. I did and made it. Now I could relax.

The round went by like lightening. We came in somewhere in the middle.

“If I’d known this was how it worked, I wouldn’t have lost all those zzzzz’s,” said my sleepless-in-Madison teammate.

For my part, I learned there was absolutely no need to panic. No one cares what you’re doing, especially if you’re a woman playing from a far off tee on your own. Most just care about what they’re doing.

If I luck out and get this kind of opportunity again, I’m going to enjoy the ride — walking inside the ropes, strolling casually by cameramen and a few spectators and sharing the same turf as some of the best known golfers in the world on a superbly conditioned course. And picking up

And asking Appleby how he would play my ball sitting atop the first cut one inch from the green.

“That can be a tough shot,” he said. “I try to just get it in the air and let it run.” Spoken like a pro.

Maybe I’ll even slug down that Bloody with that limp string bean hanging over the top of the glass, a Mississippi twist on an old classic. (from the bartender at Fallen Oak course; www.fallenoak.com)