Commander in Cheat

by Rick Reilly

  Most people want to grow the game. Double Down wants to shrink it. “It shouldn’t be a game for all strata of society,” he once said. “It should be aspirational. By getting away from it, it actually hurt golf.”

  No, what’s hurting golf is Trump.

  You might be thinking, “What does golf have to do with being president? What does it matter that he cheats at it? What’s it got to do with leading the country?”

  Everything.

  If you’ll cheat to win at golf, is it that much further to cheat to win an election? To turn a Congressional vote? To stop an investigation?

  If you’ll lie about every aspect of the game, is it that much further to lie about your taxes, your relationship with Russians, your groping of women?

  If you’re adamant that that the poor don’t deserve golf, is it that much further to think they don’t deserve health care, clean air, safe schools?

  I’m glad my dad didn’t live to see a Commander in Cheat like Trump. It would’ve turned his stomach. Somebody who wins club championships from the next state is not a gentleman. Somebody who makes his caddies cheat for him to earn their tip is not a gentleman. Somebody who bullies and manipulates and yells that his courses are the best in the world when that world absolutely knows otherwise is not a gentleman.

  I feel sorry for Donald Trump. I feel sorry for someone who has to juggle that many spinning lies, who has to fight that many endless feuds, who has to cheat and lie and insult so many good people just to stand on a rickety first-place podium that never stops needing rebuilding. How exhausting must that be?

  The truth is, the person in golf Donald Trump cheats the most is himself. He’s cheating himself of the joy, the endless challenge, golf brings. Every golfer who loves the game loves it for the battle it brings within himself—Can I rise up to be as good as I want to be today? In life, we’re defined by the obstacles we overcome. That’s the stuff we hang on our inner wall. But if you cheat to get around those obstacles, you never know the thrill of actually beating them.

  It’s like buying a trophy in a pawn shop. You can shine it up and show it off and pretend you won it, but when you get close to it, it only reflects the face of a loser.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m deeply grateful to Mauro DiPreta, who believed in this from the get-go and took it 93% of the way, through no fault of his own. Non posso aspettare i tesori tu trovare prossimo, amico.

  Thanks, also, to my terrific researcher and tiny-shoulder-to-lean-on, Marianne (Moose) Moore, who was always there for me, no matter what giant cyclops she was having to slay at the same time. You are the strongest little person I’ve ever met.

  A large debt of gratitude goes to some terrific friends and reporters in the golf-writing dodge, most especially John Huggan, Jeff Babineau, Michael Bamberger, Jaime Diaz, Alan Shipnuck, Stephanie Wei, Geoff Shackleford, Eamon Lynch, et al. If you’d ever stop working and come to the bar, I owe you each a cold beer.

  Thanks to Gwenda Blair, Trump’s biographer, who kept taking my endless calls with kindness. If you were grinding your teeth, I never heard it.

  Thanks very much to my fabulous pit-bull agent and life-long friend, Janet Pawson. (Good luck to us!) And thanks to the whole squadron of terrific and smart people who pushed this thing over the finish line: Sarah Falter, David Lamb (sorry about my damn laptop), Michael Barrs, and Odette Fleming.

  Mostly, though, thanks and all my love to TLC, The Lovely Cynthia, who put up with a book that consumed me like a raging wildfire. She kept bringing me coffee and killer homemade pizza to fuel that fire. You are the double eagle of wives.

  Lastly, thank you to every reporter out there who keeps pursuing the truth head-first into the worst hurricane of lies, insults, and constitution-trampling I’ve seen in my 40 years in this business. You inspire me.

  In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.

  —UNKNOWN

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