Stardom Seems to Be Beyond Daly’s Range

Rats!

You all know me as a man who takes a great proprietary interest in golf. I mean to say, and I have said, I do not spend much time dwelling on the misfortunes of other sports.

Boxing, I just tote up the encephalograms.

Baseball, I deplore the designated hitter, but pretty much leave the sport otherwise to its own devices.

Football, I just wish the tournament could produce a better Super Bowl.

But golf, I worry about.

That’s why I groaned and hung my head the other day during the final round of the Kemper Open at Potomac, Md. The game wound up in the deep rough with a sidehill lie and no chance to make the green, as usual. Every time I look lately, the game seems to have driven itself into an unplayable lie.

You see, we’re always hoping for another Hogan, Snead, Palmer, Nicklaus, Trevino. And we thought we might have one in John Daly.

Here was the situation at Potomac: For the first time since he electrified the links world with four brilliant sub-par rounds to win the PGA at Crooked Stick in Carmel, Ind., Daly was in a position to win a golf tournament.

He stood on the 18th tee, needing a birdie to win, a par to tie. It was Daly’s kind of hole--a long par four. It didn’t require finesse, guile, experience. It was right in John Daly’s wheelhouse. It required power.

What it didn’t require was the smother hook off the tee that John Daly threw at it. What it didn’t require was the half-topped second shot that barely got within sight of the green. It didn’t require the popup that not only didn’t get in birdie range, it didn’t even get on the green. Alas, it required a shot right out of Lourdes, a chip from the fringe of 50-70 feet simply to save par and make a playoff. Daly couldn’t make it. He had to settle for a bogey. So, once again, did golf.

He should have been there in two. Holes of 440 yards are built for John Daly. He usually has a little cut wedge to the green on these holes.

It wouldn’t be entirely correct to say golf needs Daly. But it could sure use him. I’m always reminded of the time, years ago, when some of us were discussing Arnold Palmer in the presence of Terrible Tommy Bolt and someone said to Tommy, “Don’t you think Palmer has been good for golf?” Tommy shot his Bolt: “Don’t you think golf has been good for Arnold Palmer?”

Still, when young John Daly won at Crooked Stick in 1991, it was the golf story of the decade. He wasn’t even eligible for the tournament. He drew into the field when the South African, Nick Price, withdrew. He drove all night to the venue, literally jumped out of his car and onto the golf course--and proceeded to dismantle it.

The public loved John Daly. The public loves knockout punchers, home run hitters, service acers, three-point shooters. No one dreams as a kid of out-jabbing, or out-putting, or out-bunting or out-lobbing your opponent. You dream of blowing him out of there.

That is what Daly did. He became an instant hero. When you went to a tournament and saw a large gallery, it was never for the leader. It was for Daly. Sometimes, he was struggling to make the cut. It didn’t matter. He had the crowd. Imploring him to “Let ‘er rip, John!” the way they used to yell, “Go for it, Arnie!” never wanting to see Palmer with an iron in his hand on a par five. Daly went for it. To the point where a lot of us thought this quest for pure power would destroy a fine, young golfer. One of the hoariest sayings in the game holds that “You drive for show--you putt for dough.” English translation: those nice 300-yard drives are great for the ego--but it’s those 30-foot (or even three-foot) putts that win tournaments.

There is precedence for the notion that big hitters never become big winners. Like knockout punchers, homer-or-strike out hitters, cannonball servers and schoolyard basketball flashes, golfers have had in their ranks guys who drive for show--Jimmy Thomson, in antiquity, George Bayer, Marty Fleckman of more recent times. They could almost drive the par-fours in some instances--and then make six on the hole.

Many feared that Daly would drift into this mold. Become a sideshow, not a factor. That’s why a lot of hats were thrown in the air when, after three rounds of the Kemper, Long John was in the lead, looking like a winner.

Credibility was at the end of the long par-four. John had his opponent on the ropes and bleeding.

Daly couldn’t land the knockout punch. He let his opponent off the ropes. Swinging at the teed ball, he looked like a drunk at a midnight driving range. It was so bad, his right hand came clear off the club. The ball shot left like a dying duck. He didn’t even hit it well enough to knock it out of bounds.

He might as well have. His next two shots were vintage hacker. He made a creditable chip on 18, but the game was up. Someone named Bill Glasson wound up with the championship by one shot.

Glasson is a nice enough young man. He’s probably good to his mother, obeys the law, has a nice short game and a long drive and goes to church on Sundays.

But the game doesn’t need Bill Glassons. It’s up to its hips in them already. Golf needs Long Johns. They sell tickets, gain ratings, get on “Good Morning, America” and, in fact, sell golf clubs and balls, golf shirts and visors. Golf needs him on a green, not in a rough.

So, last weekend, we hoped that Daly would be in the hunt again, dared to expect he had found, as a lot of one-punch fighters learn, that you need more than a big right.

Alas! Daly went out at the Memorial last week and threw a little 78 at the course. He followed this up with a 75. He only missed the cut by eight shots.

I guess golf will have to go it alone.