Some folks think I should change my name to either The Real John Daly or No Not That John Daly.

 

No way.  I’ll take the good with the bad.  Sure, some non-sports fans have been leery of me when they see me taking a drink.  Others have left celebrity golf events to see me, and not Big John, teeing off for an event.  (I’d leave, too.)  But these confused folks seem to be a small percentage.

 

Actually, it’s led to some decent tee times and some good conversation-starting moments.  Plus, Big John’s been great to me over the years.  He always greets me warmly and then jokingly says, “I thought my name was a good one ‘til I met you.”

 

That’s why it’s so disturbing and sad to hear reports about Big John.  And I’m not talking about the recent news reports of his wife allegedly attacking him with a steak knife or the most recent YouTube videos of Big John topless.

 

No, I’m talking of reports from celebrity friends who have been at events with Big John recently.  It goes beyond the usual statements that he’s wasting that incredible golf talent.  They now think he’s killing himself.  Buckets of beer every hour for six hours are then followed by shots of Crown Royal.  One friend thought that Big John has been poisoning his body for so long “he could die if you stopped him from drinking.”

 

One person who had influence over Big John was Fuzzy Zoeller.  The majority of times I ran into Big John were at Fuzzy’s celebrity events.  Fuzz put the fear of God in him, because Big John was always on his best behavior.  But now friends close to Fuzzy tell me that even Fuzzy has thrown in the towel on Big John.

 

Now Big John’s influences, I hear, are low-life fans who only feed Big John’s excesses.  Apparently there are plenty of good old boys who join Big John in his traveling mobile home or wherever he goes.  As one friend said, “What kind of people are they?”

 

I don’t claim to know these addictions or their causes.  Maybe it’s just something within him?  Or possibly it was the sudden fame of winning the 1991 PGA Championship as a fill-in?  We see it with a lot of young athletes and performers who have little education as stardom is thrust upon them.  It’s the price of our now-described American Idol world.

 

Although maybe it’s the background Big John and I share?  In his book, Black Rednecks, Thomas Sowell tells how today’s black gangster ghetto culture is not unique to blacks, but is really derived from the 19^th Century Scotch-Irish-English immigrants who lived in the South.  Sowell writes, “Within this segment of the population, education, hard work, and entrepreneurship were disparaged, while physical exploits, bragging, and indulgences of all kinds were normative.”

 

I don’t know.  To overcome the sadness of the situation, I try to dwell on the fun times I’ve either had with him or as a result of his exploits.

 

Big John jokingly thinks our family roots run much closer.  While we were signing memorabilia at an event, he yelled over to me, “One of our mommas was fooling around.”  He pointed to our signatures that were side by side.  Our penmanship was eerily similar.  My wife witnessed it and gave me a look that seemed to say, “That’s freaky.”

 

Sometimes I take advantage of the name’s infamy.  For instance, I make my usual trek to Martin’s Golf Shop in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  Last year, a pallet stacked with cheap golf balls awaited me.  The balls were John Daly balls.  Each ball had his (and technically my) signature perfectly scripted. 

 

And the balls were selling for pennies it seemed.  Big John had apparently lost an endorsement deal with the ball maker (I forget which one) so Martin’s was discounting them to clear them out.  I bought my fair share.

 

Here’s the real reason.  Invariably at a celebrity event, someone asks for an autographed ball.  If I’ve just played a decent round with a good ball I’m reluctant to give it away.  But with these John Daly balls, my signature is already on them.  (A word of warning to autograph seekers: whose signature is it really?)

 

Granted, when I hit an errant drive into one of our nice Las Vegas neighborhoods, the last thing I want is my name smashing through someone’s kitchen window.  It’s tough for me to blame him.  Or, your playing partner finds your ball in the desert bushes – from one of your previous rounds.  Yikes, it’s hard to defend a 7 handicap that way.

 

Eventually those John Daly balls made me pay.  They must have sat in my golf bag too long.  One day at Red Rock Arroyo, I whacked one with my driver.  The ball’s flight reminded me of three things: a Tim Wakefield knuckleball; a space vehicle from Area 51; and the mark of Zorro.  I’ve not played with them since.

 

I also never played golf with Celine Dion, it appears, because of my name.  I tried to contact Celine about playing a round of golf with me for a pilot TV show I was trying to sell.  The letter from her people was clear: there is no way she would ever play golf with John Daly.  The person who connected me with Celine realized she was confused.  Another letter was delivered, still declining, but in a much nicer tone.

 

Despite all this, I enjoy the mistaken identity.  But more importantly, I hope Big John finds the peace and happiness he can’t seem to find.  You should pull for him – in that way – too.

 

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