Daly-Woods Rivalry May Quench a Thirst

The annals of sport are rich in the tales of great confrontations. Dempsey-Tunney. Notre Dame-Army. Koufax against the New York Yankees, or Ruth against Charlie Root. Manolete and the bull. The gladiator and the lion. David and Goliath. Seabiscuit-War Admiral. Affirmed-Alydar. Borg- Connors. Unser and Foyt. Hogan-Snead.

So, how about Daly-Woods? The Tiger against the Bad Boy?

Can any other mortal bang that ball out where Tiger Woods orbits it better than Long John Daly?

Not hardly. Daly might be the only guy out there whom Woods would not be turning to all day and murmuring, “I believe you’re away.” Tiger might have to hit first for a change.

Daly is on his way otherwise to being an American Tragedy. Not so long ago, he was the Cinderella man of the links, the kid who opened his career winning a major--and closed it (apparently) in a rehab clinic.

Daly is the first guy in a long time to need a “comeback” when he was barely 30 years old.

It was easy to tell what he was doing wrong. He had too strong a right-hand grip--on a bottle. The vees were pointing toward a bar, not the right shoulder. He was bending his elbow too much at impact.

Daly is also the only guy who won two majors--the PGA and British Open--between drinks.

Lots of golfers have identifying symbols, something to put on their bags and head covers. Craig Stadler has the walrus. Greg Norman has the shark. Ben Hogan’s was the hawk. Jack Nicklaus’ was a golden bear.

Daly’s was a crushed beer can. Against a background of shot glasses.

He didn’t ask the yardage to the green, he wanted to know how far to the nearest liquor store.

At the end of a round, other guys would tot up their eagles, pars and birdies and say, “I had 11 pars, six birdies and a bogey.” Daly could say, “I had 18 beers.”

He bogeyed the 19th hole regularly. Life was an unplayable lie. John Daly spent life in the rough. He had no shot. Except the one in the glass.

Of course, everyone laughed. When you’re the British Open champion, you make the rules, not the USGA. That John was a card, all right. You could tell by the trashed hotel rooms, the late-night barroom encounters, the crushed beer cans on the lawn, the broken bottles, the broken marriages.

The commissioner of golf ordered him to seek treatment but that was just another easy par-five to a big hitter like Daly. He was soon back on his game. Not his golf game, his night game. He didn’t make the cut at the clinic.

Pretty soon, he was having trouble making the cut anywhere. In the PGA championship, which he had won in 1991, he missed the cut three years in a row. The other year, he finished 82nd.

Daly finally hit the wall. He got tired of waking up in the morning not knowing where he was or who he was. He checked into the Betty Ford Clinic and, this time, played the full four rounds. Graduated, so to speak. Stuck it out. Sobered up.

Meanwhile, over in this corner, we have the heavyweight champion of the golf world, Tiger Woods himself! Wearing purple pants, weighing 155. America’s sweetheart. The savior of the game.

His only foe was the golf course itself, the occasional sand trap, the water on the right, the side-hill lies, the two-break putts.

Life was in the leather. A drive, an eight-iron and one putt.

There was nothing wrong with his grip. Life was a short par-four with the pin in the middle and the wind behind. He could drive it, make a two on it. His life was a course record, not a soap opera.

Every place he looked, there was a credit card company, a shoe manufacturer, a watchmaker or a hotel chain begging him to let them give him trucks full of money. He was busy trying to birdie the world, winning his fourth major--if you count his three U.S. Amateur titles. And why not? They counted Bobby Jones’.

While this was going on, John Daly was under-clubbing himself in life. His sponsors were going the other way. His golf manufacturer sponsor finally cut him too.

But Ely Callaway, of the golf company that bears his name, gave him another chance. Callaway signed Daly to a contract--provided he never again plays hangover golf.

So, John tees it up this week with Tiger at Nicklaus’ prestigious Memorial tournament here, an event that has been won by the likes of Norman, Tom Watson, Nicklaus and Raymond Floyd over a challenging course where Fuzzy Zoeller, no less, managed to card five 6s Thursday and where 9s are possible on some holes.

So, a slimmed and sober John Daly took on this course and the man-eating Tiger.

Is it the start of another major confrontation in the games we play?

Well, it looked for a while as if it would be a truck-driver final at full handicap.

Daly was cruising along, three-putting his way to a 76. And the Tiger was steaming along at three over when he came to the par-five 15th--and turned into Tiger Woods again.

He drove his tee shot right but it took a favorable bounce left onto the fairway fringe. There, Tiger was able to ram a mid-iron on the green. He ran down the 20-foot putt for an eagle-three. On a roll, he birdied the next hole.

He had typically crept back into the tournament. He had turned a 75 into a 72. In two holes.

Lots of guys are ahead of him. Most at six under. But most of them may be trying to look over both shoulders at once by the weekend.

Can they hold that Tiger? Can Long John Daly draw alongside?

Golf hopes so. Otherwise, the guys who run it don’t have a sport, they have a parade.