Style Points

It’s recently come to Style Points attention that the modern day golfer has turned to that old Hollywood standby, the entourage, to combat loneliness and project their self-importance.  We asked old pal John Daly his thoughts about today’s ‘modern’ golfer and their personal kickstands, le entourage.

Style Points: John, we wanted to get your take on this GolfWorld.com story.  Have you read it?

John Daly:  Read it?  The only thing I’ve read today was a Hooter’s menu and a letter from my ex-wife’s lawyer.

SP: Well, we’ll try to give you the rundown.  It says the modern golfer has a team that travels with him that includes an agent, caddie, financial adviser and a swing instructor.  Do you have any of those on your payroll?

JD:  Agent?  No.  I used to have one.  That lasted about 2 weeks.  He wouldn’t let me pay him in Titleist balls and XXL Izod shirts.  I usually pick up a caddie in the parking lot or find a putt-putt course in the town I’m in and hire the kid that gets the balls out of the shark’s mouth.  Financial adviser?  Last I checked, I had two.  They’re hanging between my legs and their names are Lefty and Hairy.  Once you’ve been divorced once or twelve times  you learn to trust no one with your skins, man.  What was the last one?

SP:  Swing coach.

JD:  As soon as I find someone that can hit a 350 yard left to right fade while they have a lit cigarette behind their ear I’ll hire him.  Until then, I’ll play it loose and fast like Eddie Felson.

SP:  Actually, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  The article also mentions sports psychologists, fitness coach, nutritionists, and spiritual advisers.  I can’t imagine you partaking in any of that.

JD:  Uh, well it depends on the situation.  You can get one person to fill all of those roles simultaneously.  Most of the time, they’re a waitress in a hotel bar, or a customer service rep from Hooters.

SP:  Really?

JD:  Son, you don’t understand.  There’s nothing that’ll calm your nerves faster than the touch of a supple, naked breast in your hand.  I don’t need some dipshit in a sweater vest and bad slacks whispering a bunch of new age horseshit in my ear before an approach shot.  I just harken back to 3:23am the night before and think of doing a body shot of ranch dressing off a 19 year old swimsuit model’s tummy and it’s like I just crushed and snorted a Vicodin.

SP:  I never thought of it that way.

JD:  That’s probably because you don’t have an active sex life.

SP:  Fair enough.

JD:  Same goes for fitness coach.  There ain’t nothin’ that gets my blood pumpin’ faster than a lap dance or doing the wheelbarrel position.  You can keep them damn lunges and situps.  It’s a different kind of burn –  and I ain’t talking about the clap, jackass - you get from unprotected sex with a gal that’s got a tattoo on the small of her back.  As for spiritual adviser, I once did some whippets with these kids that was skateboarding in the parking lot that I had my RV set up in and I saw God wearing a leather jacket and riding a purple alligator.  Wrap your mind around that shit, son.

SP:  Jesus.

JD:  Naw, I said God. Get it straight.

SP:  Moving on, the thinking around golf is that valets are going to be the newest and latest edition to the entourage.  Does that appeal to you?

JD: Shit, I’m ahead of the curve on that one.  I hired Taco Terry back in ‘99 when I bought my first RV.  He had just got out of the slammer for setting livestock on fire and identity theft.

SP:  Burning livestock and identity theft.  That’s a weird combination.

JD:  Yeah, he had split personality.  He thought he was Hershel Walker and the Burger King.  He’s a good guy though.  As long as he’s got his medication, it’s the cat’s pajamas.

SP:  The last thing I wanted to ask you about was family members.  The article says many players employ a brother or their dad as swing coaches or business managers.  Is that something you’d ever consider?

JD:  (stifled laughter)  Ooooh, shit boy, you’re gonna kill me.  (More laughter)  My old man died trying to dive out of a married woman’s bedroom window when her husband came home early.  Impaled himself on a lawn gnome.  That’s why I hate midgets.  My brothers can’t cross state lines without pissing in a cup and written permission from a judge and my sisters can’t stop shittin’ out little tricycle motors long enough to answer the phone much less go out on the Tour.

SP:  So, it’s just you and Taco Terry out there on the road?

JD:  Yep.  Occasionally we’ll pick up a few lot lizards at truck stop and let them ride and party with us for a few hundred miles and then ditch them when they have to make an emergency stop at a Texaco because the hot wings and cocaine gave ‘em the bubble guts.

SP:  John, we appreciate your time and for speaking candidly.  Anything you want to plug here in the pages of Style Points?

JD:  Sure.  I’ll be at Cerritos Toyota next Wednesday making a little public appearance.  You know, smack a few balls over the freeway, hold a few babies, sign a few titties.  The usual.

SP:  Sounds like the life.

JD:  Fuckin’ right buddy.

SP:  Thanks again, JD.

JD:  No problem.