I am, at best, an indifferent follower of professional golf.  I know who Tiger Woods is.  There's Vijay Singh, who sounds like he should be from India, is actually from the Fiji Islands (there's more than one?), and doesn't want to play with girls.  There's Greg Norman, who makes $15 a bottle wine, and so is way out of my price range.

For me, golf's handicap--to coin a phrase--is that it's a game for grown-ups, an oxymoron.  During this year's Accenture Match Play Championship, my mother-in-law, who has a more than passing interest in the game, asked me what "Accenture" was.  I had to break the news to her gently.  "It's a consulting firm that was spun off from an accounting firm."  "Oh," she said with a disappointed tone, as if I had told her that the thrilling action on TV was brought to her by the IRS.

Granted, a consulting firm that's spun off from an accounting firm is more exciting that just a plain old accounting firm.  It's still a comedown from beer, razors and tires, the customary sponsors of other sports.  It's not as if two guys watching Tiger Woods beat Stewart Cink are going to jump up after they turn off the TV and say "That was great--I could really go for a report on increasing shareholder value by focusing on our core competencies in a changing marketplace."

Z-z-z-z.

"Yeah, me too!  Make mine vello bound, clear front cover, black back!"

But then there's John Daly.  In an age when so many professional athletes have bent, broken or ignored the rules, using performance-enhancing controlled substances to gain that extra competitive edge, Daly has stuggled against and overcome self-imposed obstacles, playing at the highest level of the game using nothing but performance-impairing drugs such as beer, Diet Cokes and cigarettes.  God bless him.

My thoughts turn to Daly today not because he won a tournament recently--as far as I know he has not--but because of a story in the news yesterday that Butch Harmon, Daly's swing coach, has terminated his relationship with the man known for his "Grip it and rip it" long-distance drives.  Other golfers have swing coaches who have swing coaches, personal trainers, impersonal trainers, etc.  Daly's swing coach quit on him.  Then again, Daly seems like the kind of guy who, if he was sitting in a golf cart with you having a beer and saw his swing coach approaching, would say "Beat it--here's comes my damn swing coach."

The coach quit because of Daly's conduct at a recent golf tournament, where Daly spent a 2 1/2 hour rain delay in the Hooters "Owl's Nest"  tent.  A pro golf tournament where Hooters, the "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" restaurant chain whose waitresses wear revealing tank tops, sells beer is what Anglo-American law refers to as an "attractive nuisance".  You can't put an alcohol-fueled dining experience that involves large mammary glands on the 17th hole o####olf course and not expect people to misbehave. 

"Sign where?"

Daly's offense?  It will surprise you.  In an era when millionaire athletes routinely stiff autograph-seekers and refuse to hit home runs for sick kids in hospitals, Daly drank beer, mingled with fans and signed autographs, "including one on the back of a woman's pants" according to a wire service report.  Is that so terribly wrong?  Have we as a nation strayed so far from our first principles that a man can't--in good faith--autograph a woman's butt?  I would hope not, but I'm beginning to have my doubts.

George Graham Vest

Daly, like me, is from central Missouri, a part of the country whose most famous residents are dogs: Old Drum and Jim the Wonder Dog.  The man who said (more or less) "A dog is man's best friend", George Graham Vest, is from the region as well.  The nation's only magazine devoted exclusively to tree hound hunting, "Full Cry", was published there.  With so much canine achievement to admire, some local humans tend to slack off when it comes to their own personal ambitions. 

Old Drum:  Famous for getting shot.

Not Daly.  This is a man who, besides being a top-notch athlete--I mean golfer--recorded an autobiographical album of songs, "My Life", featuring Willie Nelson.  With a sideman like that, you can be pretty sure there was some recreational drug use involved in the production of the final master tapes.

Daly doesn't fly to golf tournaments.  He travels in an RV--that's a "recreational vehicle"--one of those tacky, humble, humongous houseboats on wheels you see on the interstate in flyover country.  I worked on an RV assembly line one summer, and am required by federal blogging regulations to disclose that there is an inordinate amount of glue and staples used in their construction.  Do not try to vault the Grand Canyon in an RV.

Crusaders:  "We're also looking for a copy of 'Lickin' Stick' by George Torrance and the Naturals."

One of the thrice-married Daly's songs is "All of My Exes Wear Rolexes", a song that is not available on iTunes, and which I've tried to find for years.  In the Middle Ages, the quest for an item of such cultural significance would have turned into a Crusade, with thousands of lives lost.

Daly showed up at a tournament in 2007 with cuts on his face, saying his wife had attacked him with a steak knife, although she said he had scratched himself after an argument with her.  Not pretty, but then again more interesting than the sort of unpleasantness you go through when your wife says "I can't believe you wore that tie!" just as you're about to walk into a Christmas party.  The man lives large.

Babe Ruth at the piano:  "Does this thing float?"

Daly may be the last of the Ruthian giants of sport, a throwback to a bygone era.  Babe Ruth loved beer, hot dogs, cigars and women, and indulged in them to excess.  When he played for the Red Sox, Ruth lived on a farm in Sudbury, Mass. where, according to legend, there is a piano at the bottom of a pond.  The story is told that Ruth rolled the piano out onto its frozen surface one night to accommodate a large crowd for a sing-along, then--as often happens after this sort of affair--forgot to bring it back indoors, and it sank when the ice thawed.

Sounds like a party Daly would have enjoyed.

Copyright 2008, Con Chapman

LEXINGTON, Mass.  Tom Sholes is a certified public accountant and a certifiable golf nut for whom the first week of April is a holy season.  "During the Masters, I don't want to be bothered by anything," he says.  "Including sex."

"Why don't you just go to bed, honey?  I'm re-watching a Cinderella story unfold for the second time."

Tom likes to watch the fabled tournament live, then turn to the Golf Channel for highlights, then revisit each day's play by watching again on the digital recording he makes on his Tivo.  "Sometimes you don't get a sense of the rhythm of a round until you watch it the second time," he says. 

"I don't care if it is the best damn sports show, period!"

In the past Tom's obsession has interfered with the promise he and his wife made as part of marriage counseling a few years back that they would have sex "once a week, whether we need it or not, unless I'm having my period," says his wife Theresa.  "You need intimacy in a marriage, not just a sharing of expenses and appreciation in the value of jointly-held real estate," Tom admits.

Potassium nitrate, or saltpeter:  Ineffective unless you're making toothpaste for sensitive teeth.

Still, he considers it unfair that his wife gets a free weekend a month, while he must perform on command the remaining Saturday nights, "with no time off for good behavior" he notes.

"And with the high-performance speakers, you can drown out your wife's whining."

Past efforts to curb the male sexual drive have depended on natural remedies such as potassium nitrate or "saltpeter", which folklore credits with anaphrodisiac, or lust-depressing powers.  "That's an old wive's tale, which didn't do much to help wives regardless of their age," says Dr. Phillip LoPresti, founder of Anaphro Pharmaceuticals.  "If we can put a man on the moon and teach sign language to ####, we should be able to invent a pill that will give a man a 'free space'--like Bingo--on a Saturday night."

"The prototype is ready--we've compressed thirteen sports events into this weekend sampler."

So LoPresti and his product development team developed the first over-the-counter male disenhancement drug, MyWeekend, which renders a man incapable of sexual activity for forty-eight hours.  "If taken on a Friday evening, MyWeekend kills all sexual desire until Sunday night, when a guy's wife will be too tired from chauffering children around, doing laundry and cooking to stay awake for sex," LoPresti claims.

"No, I'm not coming to bed--why do you ask?"

Clinical trials this spring were successful, incapacitating a number of male Ohio State fans who wanted to savor their team's first trip to the Final Four since 1960 following a Saturday victory over Georgetown.  "I wanted to spend Saturday night thinking about Florida," the eventual champion, "without having to pay attention to my wife until the final was over on Monday," said Chad Everett, an insurance broker in Columbus, Ohio.  "Is that too much to ask?"

"What's a nice girl like you doing at a golf tournament like this?"

The drug worked for Sholes as well, as the golfer said thoughts of sex didn't enter his mind until the traditional green blazer was slipped on first-time winner Zach Johnson's shoulders Sunday afternoon.  "I'd see my wife standing there in a see-through negligee," he says, "and all I could think of was 'ball washer'."

Copyright 2007, Con Chapman