A Place for Slacks, Not Sacks

Probably the most intimidating silhouette in sports--next to Mike Tyson with his man on the ropes or Magic Johnson at the top of the key with the ball--stood on the tee and glared down the fairway.

Lawrence Taylor looked at the hole as if it were Joe Montana trying to scramble out of the pocket or a halfback trying to bootleg around his zone. He glared, his jaw set, his palms twitched. If the hole were a quarterback, it would have called time out.

The clubhead smacked into the ball. Lawrence Taylor hits a ball the way he hits Jim Kelly. The ball took off in a high parabola like something shot off a Cape launch. Its trajectory was perfect. Unfortunately, its direction was eccentric. It chattered off the high rock to the right but rebounded into the fairway. His playing partners consoled him.

They were an ex-President of the United States, the world’s most famous comedian and the defending champion in the tournament they were playing.

On the football field, Lawrence Taylor is considered a cross between Jack the Ripper and Saddam Hussein. He plays with the abandon of a serial killer. He comes off as cocky, sneering, the epitome of the intimidator, the take-no-prisoners leader.

But a tale of two professional football players in the Bob Hope Chrysler Classic being contested down here this week gives you a measure of the man out of the uniform--Lawrence Taylor after the (Super) Bowl is over.

It is the custom to invite reigning star players to the Hope, and a couple of years ago, invitations to play were sent to Jim McMahon, then the star quarterback with the Chicago Bears’ Super Bowl team, and Taylor, the star linebacker of the Giants.

Lawrence Taylor showed up in tailored slacks, muted shirt, cleats and a visored hat, as well turned out as any tour pro.

Jim McMahon showed up in shorts, barefoot, mirrored sunglasses and carrying an open can of beer in one hand. It was like eating with your fingers at a state dinner.

Jim McMahon specializes in the bad-boy image. He wore headbands in contravention of direct orders from the commissioner of football. He feuded his way right off the Chicago Bears. He’s doing sideline semaphores for the starting quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles these days. And there are a lot of dry eyes in the house. Brigham Young has never been particularly proud of Jim McMahon.

All Lawrence Taylor knew was there was a time to play kill-the-quarterback and do sack dances--and there was a time to put your party manners on. Lawrence Taylor may not respect quarterbacks or pass-blockers, but he has enormous respect for the game of golf.

Sometimes, great athletes get the notion ordinary rules of behavior don’t apply to them. The world needs them, not vice versa, is their attitude. Or they feel called upon to preserve an arrogant image. An airline company that sponsored an annual outing for key athletes from its landing sites and selected businessmen once found an athlete-invitee not only charging his board, room and airfare for himself and guest but also a thousand dollars worth of sweaters, slacks and assorted golfwear. It never occurred to him it was a heist. People had been picking up his tabs since he first won a high school championship. He just thought that was the way it was supposed to be.

The Hope is not high Mass. Golf is a game, not a ceremony. But it has a higher code than most games people play. You police yourself in golf. No chorus of guys in striped shirts monitor the cheating. If you short-hop a ball, you don’t pretend you didn’t. You don’t tee it up in the rough if nobody’s looking.

A certain amount of club-throwing is allowable. After all, the game is frustrating. That’s its charm.

But you never abuse a gallery, a fairway, a green, your host or the game itself. You keep your shirt on in golf. Also your shoes.

Jim McMahon doesn’t get invited to the Hope any more. It’s not because of the waning of his career. Dozens of former athletes, from Johnny Bench to George Blanda to Don Drysdale and Don Meredith, have competed annually.

To be invited to the Hope is a signal honor. To be singled out to play in the prestigious foursome that includes the host and founder, the former Chief Executive and the defending champion is the equivalent of being knighted by the Queen.

Former Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill used to anchor this distinguished foursome. Casting around for a successor, Hope selected a man he knew would do honor to the tournament. A partner in golf is as important as a partner in business. Lawrence Taylor may come off as Attila the Hun on a football field, but he is as decorous as a duke on a golf course. He treats it like Buckingham Palace, not a cockfight.

Lawrence Taylor is honored but not awed to be, in effect, the No. 1 amateur-celebrity in the tournament. He holds the game in the highest respect. “My shots are long, but they don’t always go where you’re aiming,” he admits. “It’s like being able to throw long passes. It don’t matter if you don’t hit the receiver.”

He was appreciative of his position, a rarefied place for the son of a North Carolina tobacco farmer. “But I’m more thrilled because they’re nice guys.”

It will surprise anybody who ever carried a football in the NFL, but so is Lawrence Taylor. His monster-wearing-No. 56 image disappears when he takes a nine-iron in his hand. Don’t look for Lawrence Taylor to remove his shirt, his shoes or show up in shorts and beer cans. You don’t get to play with Presidents that way. You get to play with busboys. Or not at all. As to the quarterback who never got asked back, Taylor says: “He don’t know how to behave on a golf course.”

Lawrence Taylor does. Of course, a Lawrence Taylor never did have the respect for a quarterback that he has for a par-five over water.