by Terry Fallis
I never really thought about the money. I never really saw it, either. It went directly to Lisa Griffiths for safekeeping, or rather safe investing. But without a doubt, I was quite suddenly rich beyond any mortal’s wildest dreams.
OCTOBER 2018
With Bobbie on the bag, we seemed to be almost unbeatable. On some holes, particularly sharp doglegs, my inability to shape the ball was sometimes a disadvantage. My competitors could often draw or fade their balls around the dogleg and be much further up the fairway than my ball. I would have to hit an iron straight out to the turn, and then make a very long second shot into the green. Still, I often birdied those holes anyway. We cooled off a bit in the summer. It just felt weird to keep winning, and you could feel the resentment building among some of the other players. So I happily took a few weeks off here and there, and “putted badly” at key points in other tournaments to ensure I wasn’t always hoisting the trophy. This kindled a little flicker of hope in the hearts of the rest of the field and kept them coming back, week after week. But by the end of August, I’d notched another five tournament wins, and two seconds. I missed five tournaments, including the Open Championship at Carnoustie in Scotland. I could tell Bobbie was disappointed not to be there, but I just didn’t want to deal with all the hype around the vaunted Grand Slam—winning all four majors in the same year. Skipping the Open Championship took the pressure off. It also made it a little easier when we won the PGA Championship in St. Louis, in August.
I probably missed a few more tournaments than I needed to, but given the choice of playing or not playing, I preferred quiet weekends that left me time to write. Many people think the life of a top-ranked professional golfer is pampered and privileged. And to a very great extent, I guess it is. But even for me, the great anomaly who didn’t spend hours on the practice range each week, my days were still packed. Thursdays through Sundays were of course consumed with tournaments. There were travel days, depending on the location of the next Tour stop. Then we had appearances to make at sponsor events, commercials to shoot for the products we endorsed, photo sessions, and media interviews. The price of ascending to the top rung of golf’s ladder was virtually no downtime. So skipping the occasional tournament gave me at least four clear days in a row to recharge. I know it doesn’t sound like boredom would be a problem, given the wave we were riding, but the days on the course during the tournaments felt nearly interminable. Tedious, mind-numbing, stultifying, monotonous, tiresome, and exhausting are other words that capture my experience on the course. Bobbie, the creative conversationalist, was my saving grace. Still, each four-hour tournament round felt like eight hours.
It was just after we’d finished the opening round of the BMW Championship in Pennsylvania. I had additional responsibilities during this tournament in light of my sponsorship deal with BMW. But I still found a moment to make the call from the front seat of the BMW 750Li assigned to us for the duration of the tournament.
“Lisa Griffiths,” she answered.
“Lisa, it’s Adam Coryell.”
“Adam, I thought you’d be on the course right about now.”
“We just finished for the day,” I replied.
“How did it go?”
“Not bad, I guess. It was kind of slow out there, and it was really hot and humid.”
“Actually, Adam, I meant how did you play. Are you in the hunt, as usual?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t really watch the leaderboard when I’m out there, but Bobbie said we were clear of the field when we finished. There are still some threesomes out on the course, but I think we’re doing okay.”
“Carry on. You’re making my life much easier,” she said. “So what’s up?”
“Well, I wondered if you could help me spend a little of my money. I’d like to do something nice for my parents.”
“Happy to help. We have some of your assets in relatively liquid holdings so we can easily free up some money. What did you have in mind?”
“I was just thinking of buying my parents a new house, just to make sure they’re set for retirement.”
“What a nice son,” she said.
“Well, I hope I am a nice son, but this was Bobbie’s idea to give me something else to distract me from the tedium of…um, I mean, well, she just thought it would feel good to do something for them.”
“Got it. Just let me know the details when you figure them out, and we can transfer the money electronically wherever and whenever you need it.”
“That would be great. I’ll keep you posted. And thanks.”
I waited until after Bobbie and I had dinner to call. I figured they’d both be home then.
“Mom, it’s Adam.”
“Adam! How’s my little golfing sensation?”
“Just fine, Mom. I’m in Pennsylvania for the BMW Championship. Because they’re one of my sponsors, I had dinner on Tuesday with all the BMW dealers in the region. My face still hurts from smiling so much. Then I had to sign swag for all of them and do individual photos. So it’s been a busy week, even before the tournament started today.”
“That sounds tough, honey. Are you holding up?”
“Mom, given what BMW pays me, I’d have been happy to give each dealer a foot rub, too. They’ve been very nice and very generous.”
“Your father’s here, so I’m going to put you on the speaker.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Adam. I just caught some of today’s highlights on the Golf Channel. Beautiful approach on fourteen. You really stuck that one tight.”
“I don’t actually remember that one, but I’ll take your word for it,” I replied. “Hey, I was wondering how you would feel if I bought you a new house? I seem to have a great deal of money, and I’d like to do something for you just in case the wheels fall off this golfing thing.”
There was a pause on the end of the phone, but I could visualize them mouthing messages to one another in the silence.
“Um, Adam, well, that’s quite an offer,” Mom started. “But really, our house is paid off. We love it and we love the neighbourhood and the neighbours who come with it. I don’t think we’d ever want to move. You should just keep your money and let it grow. You’ll need it in retirement.”
“I’ve earned quite a bit, you know,” I replied.
“I know, and we’re very proud of you, but we’re just fine. We love this house. It has so many great memories.”
“Okay, so not a house. How about that Tesla you’ve always wanted, Mom?”
She paused just a little too long. Within the week, a stunning blue Tesla Model S 100D with all-wheel drive was sitting in their driveway. She feigned anger until she slid behind the wheel. Perhaps I should have bought one for Dad, too. I didn’t tell BMW about my purchase.
Not long after, Bobbie and I were flying via private jet back to San Francisco. It was Ryder Cup weekend, but since that pits American players against European players, we had a respite from the weekly PGA grind.
“For someone who is now a multimillionaire many times over, living in a nice condo, with a very nice BMW in the underground parking lot, you don’t seem very happy,” Bobbie said.
“I’m just fine. I’m just a little tired of playing golf every weekend.”
“You did hear what just came out of your mouth, didn’t you?”
“I know, I know. But the rest of the week is taken up with sponsor obligations and media opps. It never stops. I just want to spend some time on my writing,” I whined.
“There’ll be time for writing after this initial flurry. You’re the flavour of the month right now.”
“If only it lasted just a month,” I replied. “I guess it would help if I lost a few tournaments.”
“Your sponsors who are paying you a whack-load of dough wouldn’t be very happy, though, now would they?”
I sighed.
“I know it seems bizarre to complain,” I conceded.
“Hang on, let’s get to the bottom of this. Most people with several million
dollars in the bank and the virtual certainty of many more millions just for playing golf on the weekends would think it’s a pretty good deal. I taught for thirty-five years, and those last two tourneys you won made you more money than I earned in my entire teaching career. Plus, I actually made more money on my cut of your winnings—thank you very much—in those two tournaments than I did in my last three years of teaching. We both seem to be scraping by,” she said. “What’s not to like?”
“But I’m doing nothing to earn this money.”
“Wait a second. You’re winning almost every tournament you play. It’s customary to pay the purse to the player who wins.”
“I get that. I’m just saying, I haven’t really won those tournaments, my one-in-a-billion physical shell won them. I am not responsible. I have no agency, no control. I’m just along for the ride. There’s no personal satisfaction when I’m putting out no effort to contribute to my success.”
“Well, you’ve turned yourself into quite a competent putter.”
“Whatever. I just find it kind of boring following my golf ball around, thinking about anything but golf, and just swinging the club over and over again all weekend long.”
“Yes, but the point is you’re swinging your club less often than every other golfer out there. So you win!”
“But I have no agency.”
“But you have a Beemer, a condo, the full range of Montblanc fine writing instruments, and me. Isn’t that a fair trade-off?”
“I guess it seems more than fair. But…”
Chapter 10
JULY 2020
I‘D BEEN THE number-one-ranked professional golfer in the world for nearly two years. And I wasn’t very happy. (Yes, I know, how ungrateful can one guy be? But happiness and fulfillment are delicate flowers.) I was famous. I was wealthy. I was healthy, at least physically. I was loved by my parents, by legions of fans, and in a comradely way, I suppose, by Bobbie. Was I content? Was I fulfilled? Not so much. Was I barely able to gather myself each week to play in yet another four-day golf tournament, even if I won, which I usually did? Able? Yes. Barely? Absolutely. But I tried to disguise it from the players and fans on the Tour, and even from Bobbie, too, and put on the face one might expect to see on someone blessed beyond all reason.
I actually didn’t mind most of the appearances and promotions my publicist arranged for me. I got to meet semi-normal and generally very nice people, and I usually wasn’t holding a golf club at the time. It did require me to smile and be nice and humble, but I like to think the latter two came naturally, and I became quite adept at faking the first.
I was holding it together pretty well and still trying to write in whatever time I could squeeze from a very crammed schedule. It was difficult. But who in their right mind could complain about my life? Who would listen? Bobbie was still having the time of her life. She was doing what she’d always dreamed of doing, except I was taking the shots out on the course.
Then I faltered. It never would have happened had Charlotte Sampson, the senior ESPN documentary producer, not fallen ill that day. Susan Maddocks and I had finally agreed to an in-depth, two-hour-long, one-on-one interview with Charlotte for an ESPN special presentation. I’d studiously avoided serious interviews while doing enough on-the-course scrums and banal talk show appearances to satisfy Susan, my sponsors, and golf fans. But it seemed ESPN would not relent. Susan negotiated long and hard with Charlotte to keep some topics, like my love life (non-existent), family (private), and how I really felt about golf (grateful, bored, ambivalent at best, and resentful at worst), off the table. Susan believed we could avoid any more substantive media interviews if I did this one ESPN piece, so I agreed.
We had three hours booked late on a Tuesday afternoon just before Bobbie and I were to fly to Dubai for a promotional appearance. This little three-hour window was the only possible time we could slot in the ESPN interview for the next few months. The Summer Olympic Games were quickly approaching and there just wasn’t another time.
As luck would have it, Charlotte ate shellfish of questionable provenance at a restaurant for lunch, and was down for the count by four p.m. Curt Hammersmith, another, less seasoned host, was whisked into makeup and soon sat in the chair in front of me as his mic cord was fed down the back of his shirt. With so many other interviews behind me, I wasn’t exactly nervous. But this was not your standard four-minute post-victory scrum.
Curt held a clipboard with Charlotte’s questions written on it. All might have been well had he stuck to the questions. But he loosened up, and about twenty minutes in, as so often happens when you start to get comfortable and relaxed, he went off-script.
“I got to say, it’s been interesting hearing you tell the story of Bobbie Davenport and her measuring tape and Professor Gunnarsson’s theory, but it really is extraordinary just how good a golfer you are. How does it feel to be the undisputed number-one golfer on the planet?”
Uh oh. It felt like he was poised to go down the flattery path. I hated the flattery path. I wanted to look for Susan Maddocks or Bobbie. I knew they were there on the set, but the lights were so blinding it was as if a dark curtain had descended, enclosing Curt and me in this little cocoon so bright I could almost see the bones in my hands. So I just kept my focus on Curt.
“I mean, you must wake up every day and do a little dance of joy,” he said.
“Well, I’m very, very lucky to have been introduced to Professor Gunnarsson and his theory by my high school phys ed teacher, Bobbie Davenport, who is now my caddie. Obviously, I’m very fortunate.”
“Fortunate? That sounds like the understatement of the millennium. What’s it like to know with considerable certainty that on nearly every Sunday afternoon, you’re going to collect another win, another trophy, and another cheque for one or two million dollars?”
Then I did look off towards where Bobbie and Susan had been standing before the interview started, though of course I could see nothing. I feared I might lose it. I wasn’t sure I could keep up the false front if he continued in this vein.
“It doesn’t happen quite like that. There are a lot of good golfers out there. Anyone can win each week. But I’m certainly lucky.”
It was time for him to stop with the praise. I could feel myself approaching the edge.
“And you’re humble, too. You are the very best at something that is very difficult. You’ve broken almost every course scoring record on the Tour. You’ve won every major at least once. The only time you don’t win is when you don’t play. It is astonishing and miraculous. It must be just so satisfying.”
I felt my resolve buckle beneath the weight of his platitudes. This was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid, but it was too late, he’d gone too far. I couldn’t restrain myself. I tried, but I couldn’t stop.
“Satisfying?” I said, in a far too disdainful voice. “You think it’s satisfying. I’m sorry to burst the idyllic bubble you’ve conjured up, but there are many words I’d use to describe my relationship with golf, and satisfying is not one of them, nor is fulfilling, rewarding, fun, exciting, interesting, exhilarating, or even happy. Am I fortunate? Lucky? Blessed? Well compensated? Set for life? Absolutely. But is it satisfying? No. Not by a long shot.”
Curt actually pulled back in his chair as if I’d taken a swing at him. “What? I don’t understand, and I’m not sure our viewers and golf fans around the world will either. You’ve been given a gift that has made you rich and famous. Shouldn’t you be grateful?”
I sighed. “Of course I should be grateful, and I am grateful. But that’s not the same as being fulfilled or happy. I know it’s hard to fathom, but let me turn it around and try to make my point in a different way,” I started, searching for a way to make myself clear. “Okay, I’m making up a story here to explain this better. Let’s just say when you were born, you had a birthmark on your lower back. Yeah, that’ll work. And for whatever quirk of fate, whatever against-all-odds luck, your birthmark was a perfect portrait of, um, hmmm, let’
s say Elvis. So you’re born with this beautiful Elvis birthmark on your back.”
Curt furrowed his brow in concentration.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he said.
“Stay with me, Curt,” I said. “And I don’t mean this birthmark has a passing and crude resemblance to a face that might kind of look like Elvis in a certain light, from a certain angle. No. Your birthmark looks like a brilliant, crisp, clear, pristine portrait of Elvis.”
I could feel myself getting into the story and picking up speed. Now that I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.
“As you grow older, it grows even bigger and clearer and more inexplicable. Now, as the years pass, you decide you want to fulfill your dream and become, um, let’s see, maybe an opera singer. Yes, you want to be an opera singer. You’re no Pavarotti, but you’re quite good and it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do with your life. Instead, your birthmark is discovered and before long, you’re on talk shows and TV specials, you’re doing public appearances and getting an agent, you get an audience with the Pope, you appear at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and the money is rolling in. Then you open an exhibition hall in Memphis, and Elvis fans line up around the block day in and day out to pay homage to the image of the King on your lower back. You’re rich beyond your wildest dreams, and a big celebrity. But there’s no time for opera singing. Do you understand what I’m saying, Curt?”
“Well, I understand that I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need and some fame, too. I’m not sure I’d be complaining,” he replied with a chuckle.
Time for round two. I could feel anger and relief coursing through me at the same time.
“Then you really don’t understand,” I said. “Do you know how the story ends?”
