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John Daly's doing it again. He's teasing you, playing you for a fool, setting you up like the card shark he thinks he is.
Daly had a good weekend, finishing in a tie for 23rd at the Italian Open. At his best, 23rd place is nothing for John Daly. Not in that field. Of the 154 players at Milan, only Daly has a major championship. And he has two.
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| With all the smoking and drinking, how does John Daly find time to swing the clubs? (Getty Images) |
Think about that: From two majors to the No. 609 ranking.
And there, in all its metaphorical fury, is John Daly's life. What has become of it -- and what is yet to come.
It's going to end badly for Daly. You know that, right? It doesn't mean you're rooting for it. Nobody wishes ill will on John Daly. That would be like wishing ill will on a puppy. A sweet puppy. A sweet puppy in the dog pound, going weeks, then months, without being saved. Sooner or later, if nobody rescues it, that sweet puppy ... well. You know.
Just like you know with John Daly.
It's going to end badly, and I'm not talking about his career. That's already over. No. 609 in the world, this guy? Despicable. Daly is a world-class talent, one of the most naturally gifted golfers this game has ever seen. He has a long, violent swing that shouldn't work once -- yet he can repeat it over and over, generating ferocious club-head speed and surprising accuracy. And around the green, shockingly, he has hands of cashmere.
At his best, John Daly torques like Tiger and finesses like Phil.
Problem is, he drinks like a fish.
And smokes like a silly schoolboy.
And values both vices more than the insane golf talent he was inanely given.
And so it will end badly for John Daly, because it can end no other way. He has thrown everything in his life -- three marriages, millions of dollars, Hall of Fame talent -- into the bottom of a beer can. A man who thinks so little of himself is a man careening toward an end that, when it comes, will be sudden and ugly.
And I'm OK with that. Not rooting for it. Not hoping. But I'm OK with it, because John Daly is an adult, which means he can live and die the way he chooses. Makes no difference to me, in the micro-sense.
Bigger picture, though, Daly really does tick me off. He ticks me off because he's so damn likeable that even as he screws up everything around him, like a cockroach that ruins whatever it walks across, he keeps his old fans and he gains new ones.
And those are the people who are going to be hurt when Daly finally has his grand finale.
Earlier in this story I compared Daly to a pound puppy. Maybe a better animal analogy would be to Barbaro, the tragic racehorse with legions of fans. Daly is the biggest draw in golf behind Tiger Woods, and unlike America's fascination with Barbaro -- a horse, for God's sake -- I understand the allure of Daly. He's a horse's ass, sure, but he's an Everyman in a sport of senators, the guy with the mullet and beer gut and cigarette butt. Most everyone else in golf grew up in the same cul-de-sac at the same posh golf club. Daly grew up in a trailer park.
And never moved out.
During a first-round rain delay at the PODS Championship earlier this year in Florida, Daly didn't head for the clubhouse and whatever massages and sushi awaited the players. He hit the Hooters hospitality tent.
Daly missed the cut by a million shots but was back at the course Saturday. Not to work on his game, obviously. He was back for more of the Hooters hospitality tent. When a nosy newspaper photographer showed up, Daly flipped the camera off. Swing coach Butch Harmon fired him, saying Daly was more interested in drinking than golfing.
Daly has taken ownership of his addictions in a strange way, admitting to drinking and gambling but saying he won't try to stop. Even within those unusual parameters, though, Daly is in denial. He told reporters in Spain that reports of his partying in the Hooters hospitality tent were "a bunch of lies." He also said Harmon had apologized to him for making such harsh public statements -- an apology Harmon says never happened.
Daly is unraveling, even by his frazzled standards. Already this year he has withdrawn from the Bob Hope Classic after reportedly drinking so heavily at a tournament party that he had to be helped out the door. There was the PODS debacle. And his missed his tee time at the Arnold Palmer Invitational. And the video showing him at the Branson, Mo., course bearing his name, playing with a local TV anchor. Daly was wearing jeans. Only jeans. No shirt, no shoes, no socks.
No class. No pride.
No hope. No escape.
John Daly turned 42 two weeks ago. How many birthdays can he possibly have left?