A Dangerous Swing Sure Stirs Up Excitement at a Celebrity Match

Once again, I was invited to play in a nine-hole charity golf match with three pros a few days before the start of the Kemper Open. I became the “celebrity” when Jim “What’s in It for Me?” Jeffords’ Labrador retriever, Strom, turned them down.

There were about 25 golf pros on the range, and I wanted to get as far away from them as possible. I’m a 20 handicap, which means if you’re standing near me when I swing, you’ve got a 50-50 shot of needing CPR. Unfortunately, the only open spot was next to two-time U.S. Open champion Lee Janzen, who had no clue they’d let civilians onto the range. I nodded to him and started spraying 4-irons. No two of them went in the same direction.

When I finished, Lee was gone. Later a marshal told me: “Lee Janzen came to me and said, ‘I need security.’ When I asked what he needed security for, he said, ‘There’s a guy next to me on the range, and he must be a 20!’ ”

Janzen was afraid of me! He takes one look at my swing, and he calls security. Maybe he was scared it was catching--like foot fungus. But give Lee credit for knowing a 20 when he sees one. That’s why he’s a professional.

*

I took a few more swings, unearthing a couple of divots the size of dinner plates, then walked to the first tee to meet the pros. (The range balls--which are usually so beat up they look like they tried to hold out on Paulie Walnuts--were brand new Titleist Pro V1s. Pro Vs rule! They go 20 yards farther than most balls. Guys where I play call them “Viagra balls.” They cost $7 apiece. I stuffed three in my pocket.)

I made some changes to my game this year. Most important, I wore darker clothing so it was harder to see the water stains from my flop sweat. Believe me, I was sweating, especially when I found out one of the pros I was playing with was John Daly. So much water collected at the base of my spine, you could have held the 10-meter springboard competition on my behind.

It turned out Daly was great fun. When he found out a gathering thunderstorm would reduce the match to six holes, Daly said, “Let’s just play one and go eat.”

The other pros were Bradley Hughes and my partner from last year, Grant Waite, whom I really like. Grant saw me top a shot badly, and remarked to the gallery, “I recognize that shot. Then again, I played with Tony last year.” My proudest moment this year was when I teed off on the first hole and hit it in the fairway. I thought I heard somebody yell, “You da man!” Though looking at my legs it’s possible he said, “Get a tan!” Last year, I yanked my tee shot 60 yards dead left into a rough so thick you could lose your Senate majority in it.

*

Sadly, I hit my second shot into sand and couldn’t get out. Same thing happened to me on the next hole. I spent more time in sand than the Kuwaiti National Guard. But let me tell you about Daly. The pros play No. 2 at 615 yards. Without even taking a practice swing, Daly blasted his tee shot 310. If Mir had a trajectory like this, it would still be up there. Meanwhile, I’m in the sand. I ask Daly what I should do. Daly pulls out his cell phone and calls, “Security!”

I top a 5-wood and barely get out of the trap. I hit it again. And again. I’m laying 4, and I haven’t even seen Daly’s ball yet.

We finally got to Daly’s ball. He didn’t even set his feet--he just hit it 300 yards while he was moving! Like he was playing polo. Next time maybe he’ll hit it from a horse. The course was wet, so Daly got no roll, and he was five yards from the green in two. Then, Daly nonchalantly chipped to within a foot of the hole. If the rain hadn’t come then, I have no doubt he’d have birdied No. 3 while walking on his hands and eating a meatloaf sandwich.

I felt so cowed and insignificant beside him. But then I thought, “Sure, but can he write quality airline poop jokes?”