Suddenly, He’s Not So High and Mighty

I just dealt with one of the nicest, most easy-going athletes you could ever hope to meet in sports, so you know I’m not talking about a pro tennis player or anyone who plays for the Dodgers or Lakers.

This guy was not only willing to embarrass himself in front of a crowd, but it was like running a race while trying to poke fun at him, because he was usually one step ahead doing it to himself. Just a terrific, down-to-earth guy.

In fact I almost felt bad giving golfer Fuzzy Zoeller the Page 2 treatment, forcing the choker to crumble into a hapless incompetent blob in front of admirers and peers, but business is business.

Fuzzy told me to have a $500 check made out to Mattel Children’s Hospital at UCLA, the former Masters and U.S. Open champ predicting he’d hit a better shot than I would from atop the 16-story Newport Beach Marriott to the second hole on the Newport Beach Country Club.

That’s another reason I like the guy -- he’s such a dreamer.

I arrived early for the event -- staged to hype this week’s Toshiba Classic, seeking advice from seniors Gary McCord and Peter Jacobsen on how to take Fuzzy out of his comfort zone.

“No one can shake Fuzzy,” McCord said.

Jacobsen put an arm on my shoulder. “Listen, you can’t take Fuzzy out of his comfort zone; no one can. No way. Never been done.”

Page 2 always marvels at such innocence and ignorance.

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FUZZY ARRIVED with his caddie, and the swagger of the defending champ -- hitting the same shot a year ago within four feet of the pin.

“You bring your check?” he cracked, and I was trying not to look down because of my fear of heights, so it was it hard to make eye contact with the little guy.

It wasn’t enough we were perched close to heaven, but they had us standing on a platform at the edge of the roof, making a good follow-through possibly the last follow-through. I got cold and clammy just writing that sentence.

As you might imagine, in my position as a Page 2 columnist and wearing a Los Angeles Angel baseball cap in Orange County, I also had to keep an eye on who was standing behind me all day.

It was windy too, and I kept thinking about that scene on “Las Vegas” with Lara Flynn Boyle on top of the Montecito, raising her arms and then a big gust of wind blowing her away. For just once I wished I weighed as much as Dwyre.

Overhead a helicopter circled, off in the distance a siren sounded, and all together the noise was deafening. If Brad Faxon had been here, he would’ve been screaming for silence. Of course, no one knows who Faxon is, so they probably would’ve ignored him.

When it came time for Fuzzy to step on the platform, a large crowd of adoring fans moved forward in anticipation. It reminded me of Dodger Stadium, and the fans’ reaction every time Hee-Seop Choi comes to the plate -- and you know how that goes.

That’s when I offered Hee-Seop -- sorry, Fuzzy -- my seven-iron. At the same time his caddie extended a sand wedge -- the same club Fuzzy used to win a year ago.

I pushed the seven-iron into his hands, though, telling him, “If you’re any good, Mr. Pro Golfer, you can beat a sportswriter with the same seven-iron he’s going to use.”

Fuzzy took the club, looked at it as if he had never seen such a cheap seven-iron, and then barely hit the ball off the roof, a monumental collapse prompting Jacobsen to yell, “I don’t believe it, you got him. You took him out of his comfort zone.”

It’s what I do for a living, of course, but then most athletes would’ve politely declined the offer of a different club or anything else with the potential of embarrassing themselves in a competitive situation. The fun-loving Fuzzy played along, though, and to think I can’t even get Garret Anderson to play along and say, “Hello.”

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WHEN IT came time for my shot, Fuzzy kept right on talking -- all the way through my backswing. There was $500 on the line for Mattel’s, another $100,000 to charity for a hole in one, and it’s good thing I’m married and have learned how to not listen. (I read where Faxon got “remarried” in 2000; maybe this time he’ll learn how to not listen.)

Now I don’t like to brag, but the ball I hit was heading directly for the pin, and I’ll just leave it at that.

Some people might tell you they had a better view of the shot than I did, although ducking as they did, I don’t know how. Some might even dispute who finished closer to the hole, but after consulting with the rules committee, I ruled I won.

I can only imagine the argument I’d get out of Deacon Jones with $500 on the line, but right away Fuzzy agreed he was the loser -- winning big, as far I was concerned.

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THE GOOD news is San Diego didn’t keep Drew Brees. I know, he’s a great guy, and he looked good so long as LaDainian Tomlinson was running well, but he failed to win when the game had to rest on his arm. I have no idea if Philip Rivers will be better, and in the short term probably not, which is fine by me if it upsets the Spanos Goofs. I just don’t believe Brees is a big-time quarterback.

The bad news is New Orleans signed him, and the Saints and Brees probably will be moving here a year from now.

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TODAY’S LAST word comes in e-mail from Roger Berg:

There’s a new movie out starring Salma Hayek. “It got a bad review, but it’s the only time you’ll ever see Salma in the buff.”

I’d like to take your word for it, but I better see for myself

T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com. To read previous columns by Simers, go to latimes.com/simers.