by John Daly
I did something wrong, getting my picture taken with half-naked women. But it’s not like I’m getting in their pants or anything. We were all just having fun. And there was a couple of hundred witnesses who stated that Tiffany said she would never put this on her website or use them publicly in any way. And that’s what won the lawsuit for me.
But the damned thing almost cost me a divorce.
So I made a pact with myself: never again do anything at any kind of party in front of a camera.
After all, I’ve got kids who surf the ’Net.
Do You Watch Much Golf on TV When You’re at Home?
Golf on TV puts me to sleep. If I want to take a nap, all I have to do is lie down on the couch with a golf tournament on the TV—10 minutes later, I’m out like a light.
When I’m in Europe, it’s a little different, because they show what seems like 100 times more shots than we do. In the U.S. they’ll beam you into a tournament and show two or three shots, and go to commercials for two minutes. When they come back, they’ll often talk about a single player, and not show a shot, then go back in to commercial.
I know commercials pay the bills, but there’s got to be a way to show more golf. Too bad every tournament can’t be like the Masters, with only four minutes an hour of commercials.
One other thing: they show every shot Tiger hits—good, bad, indifferent. I love Tiger to death, I really do. But the way the technology is today, there’s no reason why, on Saturday and Sundays at least, they can’t show everybody who’s out there playing. But everything’s Tiger, Tiger, Tiger, even on those super-rare occasions when he’s not playing good.
Unless you’re a good golfer yourself, it’s not easy to see on TV what kind of shot a guy made. They show you a swing, a tight shot of the golfer’s face, and then some kind of aerial shot with the ball barely visible against the sky, and then the ball landing. But do you know how or why it got there? Usually not, because the announcers don’t always tell you, and you probably don’t know how to figure it out yourself.
Last year, I was watching Tiger play the Tour Championship in East Lake. I wish I’d been there, but I was sitting in the clubhouse at Bay Ridge with some buddies, watching it on TV. One time, Tiger hits this shot and before he completes his swing, I said, that ball’s going right. And the guys looked at me, and they’re like, how did you know it was going right? I said because you guys were watching a golf ball flying through the air. I was watching Tiger’s legs at impact. His legs got a little ahead of the ball, and so he hit it right. But only a professional golfer can tell at impact, maybe 90 percent of the time, what’s going to happen.
What’s really helped golf on TV is the power swing analysis that they do to show why a guy missed a shot. Peter Alliss and Gary McCord use it well. Zinger and Faldo are great with it. Johnny Miller’s awesome. I think it’s a great tool.
To me that’s why a lot of people watch golf, to see what happens when your legs get ahead of the ball a little bit, or you don’t rotate your hips, or whatever. You hit it right. What happens when you lag? People don’t know what lag means, you know? What they should say is, what happens when your right side is behind? You’re going to hook it.
Make it simple for the viewer, but teach him something, too.
You Have Four Kids. Any Golfers Among Them?
Little John. When I’m home, all he wants to do is go outside with me and hit golf balls. If I practiced as much as he does, I’d have four majors.
What About the Others?
Right now, Shynah wants to sing and play guitar. It’s too early to tell about the guitar, but she has a real pretty voice. Austin wants to be a movie star. He’s a natural. Sierra is great playing with, taking care of younger kids. I see her being a teacher. Wouldn’t that be something? A child of mine becoming a teacher?
Why Do You Prefer Traveling in Your Tour Bus When You Could Fly First Class Everywhere?
Because my bus is a lot more comfortable, it’s more private, and it doesn’t fly.
See, I don’t like flying. Don’t throw a bunch of statistics at me about how much safer air travel is than driving. I know that. I don’t care. Obviously, a lot of times I can’t avoid flying. But if I have a choice, I’ll always take my bus and leave flying to the birds.
My bus is 45 feet long. It’s got a Prevost engine that’s strong enough to tow a car if I need a second one besides the courtesy car at the tournament. Outside, there’s a a small refrigerator, a freezer, and full-size barbecue grill that folds out, along with a small TV I can watch while grilling steaks. There’s also storage space for a picnic table and chairs, as well as for luggage. Some guys I know keep a motorcycle in there; another stashes a golf cart.
Inside, it’s about 900 or 950 square feet, divided into two rooms. The bedroom has a California king-size bed, which is larger than your standard king. Two of the three couches in the living room make down into beds. There’s a chair-recliner for me to sit in to watch one of the two 42-inch plasma TVs (and a satellite dish on the roof to make sure the picture’s good and clear). Leopard-print walls, granite countertops. Full kitchen, with plenty of cabinet space. Washer-dryer. Dishwasher. Bathroom with full shower.
And no fucking workout room.
On my bus, I get to leave when I want to, come home when I want to, stop when I want to. It’s cheaper (or at least no more expensive) in the long run than hotel rooms and airplane tickets and meals at restaurants (which I hate anyway). No security checks, no flight delays, no waiting forever for your luggage, no ticket screwups, no hassles if, God forbid, you should want to change your departure plans—and no “clear air turbulence” to scare the living shit out of you.
Plus, on my bus, I can smoke.
You sure you want to make a case for the 747?
What’s the Skinny on Tiger?
Skinny? Have you seen the arms and shoulders on him this year? I hear he went the whole month of December without touching a club, but you can damned well bet he spent some time pumping iron.
I’d love to hang out with Tiger. We get along real good when we see each other. But that’s almost always the week of a tournament, and we’re both crazy busy. As busy as I am, I got to believe he’s even busier.
The rap against Tiger is that he’s always so prim and proper and programmed and shit like that. And it’s a bad rap. The guy is drop-dead hilarious. And he’s sure as hell not a prima donna. He’s the Tour’s leader in the clubhouse in fines for dropping the F-bomb on live TV. Of course, it figures he’d top that list, because the TV camera’s in his face just about every minute he’s on the course. He can’t get away with shit.
But I guess that long layoff didn’t leave him all too rusty. All he did this year was start off with back-to-back wins.
What About Vijay? Don’t Tell Me He’s Funny?
Damned straight he is. Maybe I bring it out in him a little because I’m so loose, but we have a helluva good time riding each other, and we genuinely like each other.
Last year, when me and Veej were going head-to-head in the Shell Houston Open, I felt bad because everybody cheered when he missed a putt to send it into a playoff. (He won the tournament, of course, because I couldn’t make a putt.) Afterwards, in the pressroom, somebody asked him, if he had finished ahead of me and seen the possibility of a playoff, how much time would he have needed to warm up. And he goes, I know what you’re getting at, but JD never needs to warm up—he’s always ready to play. Then somebody else asked if it bothered him that the fans were rooting for me so hard. And he says, “Hell, no, I root for John, too.”
But the best time me and Veej had it going together was in 2004 at the Buick Classic in Flint. We’re both playing lights-out golf, and we’re paired on Sunday in the last group, and he’s got a three-shot lead. Anyway, on the range before we tee off, I kind of chip a ball at him, and he goes, “I am going to kick your ass today.” And he says it loud to make sure that everybody hears him. And I go, “Bring it on, Veej. Just bring it on.”
So then we tee off, and after four holes, I’ve got a one-shot lead after going birdie, eagle, birdie, birdie. And he’s laughing, and I’m laughing, because I’m birdieing every hole. We go at it like that all day long, me one up, then him one up, then me again. Finally, I need par at 18 to force a playoff but I make bogey, and he wins. He shakes my hand and says he’s sorry anybody had to lose. You play that good, you almost don’t care who wins. (Key word: almost.)
After we’re done signing our cards and start heading over to the media center, Vijay says, “John, you make it all look so easy.”
And I go, “Veej, I’m so used to going through divorces, losing wads of money at casinos, trying to pay bills, trying to pay taxes, trying to pay alimony, trying to keep my weight down, and taking care of kids, do you really think I’ve got time to worry about my golf game? Shit, golf’s way the easiest part of my life.”
How Much Do You Practice?
Nowhere near as much as I’d like to. When I’m on the road, playing and doing appearances and stuff, I don’t have the time. At a tournament, the most I’ll do is hit a few drivers to loosen up, then hit some L-wedges to get my timing tuned. But that’s not practice; that’s warming up.
I’ve never been a ball-beater. I’ve always been a guy who gets bored on the driving range. It doesn’t mean anything; you’re just hitting them out there. I’ve always liked working on my short game a whole lot better. I mean, I’ll sometimes hit 10 or 15 drives, then spend an hour or more chipping and pitching and putting. Sometimes I’ll work a couple of hours going through my wedges, hitting one-handed, a hundred balls or so with each wedge.
One thing besides driving that I don’t spend a lot of time on is putting. That’s a personal thing, but for me, putting is mainly about feel, not mechanics. I can practice my stroke all day long and it won’t make a damned bit of difference if I don’t have a feel for it. It’s hard to describe. When you’ve got it going, when you see the breaks and when you bring the putter head back and through without thinking consciously about how hard, it’s a magical feeling. But feel’s not something you can practice.
What I like best is to practice on the golf course. I’ll find a hole and spend an hour hitting balls from all over. You can’t do that at a tournament, obviously, and even in Dardanelle I have to wait until real late in the afternoon when the course is pretty much empty. But it’s the best way by far to practice your game. You’re not just hitting the ball out into a field, the way you do at a practice range. You’re hitting to positions on the fairway that set up your next shot, and you’re hitting at greens, and you’re hitting different kinds of shots—flops, bump-and-runs, fades, draws.
When I’m home in Memphis, even though I live right on TPC Southwind, I don’t want to play golf or practice golf or think about golf. I just want to play with Little John and Austin and be with Sherrie and catch my breath before I have to go back out on the road.
My best practice time is when I’m in Dardanelle. I can just walk outside to the practice range behind my house, beat wedges, putt some one-handed, practice chipping. It’s real quiet. In the summertime, I can take my shirt off, something I’m damned sure not going to do if there’s people around. I’ve even got lights up there so I can hit balls at night.
Some of my buddies will come up, and hang around and hit with me. And some days they’ll let me practice on my own so I can concentrate. They say I got to win next week.
Problem is, I don’t get to Dardanelle near enough anymore.
McDonald’s or Burger King?
I think Burger King’s got the best burgers. Wendy’s burgers ain’t bad. And I love McDonald’s fries and their sausage biscuits. And their Quarter Pounders are good, too. But my favorite burger is the Double-Double, Animal Style, at the In-N-Out chain in California. That’s two meat patties, with ketchup and mustard and pickles and onions cooked into the meat. I pitch the top half of the bun to cut down my carbs. Trust me, it’s worth a trip to California.
What Else Do You Like to Eat?
I eat salad. I eat an orange or a banana every now and then. I’m not big on apples or pears or any of that shit. I love anything chocolate. I consider spaghetti and meatballs my lucky food ever since I won the British Open and ate that every night all week. Pizza. Mexican food. Mainly, I’m a meat-and-potatoes guy. Steak, well done. Baked potato with sour cream. Barbecue. I don’t mind turkey. Fried chicken, but I try not to eat too many fried foods.
What About Vegetables?
I hate vegetables. I never eat them. When I was a kid, my father used to make me sit at the table until I ate the vegetables on my plate. But when I did, I puked, so he finally stopped.
Fish?
I hate fish. The last time I ate fish was a piece of fried catfish when I was seven years old. Even though I’m from Arkansas, I never learned how to fish because I absolutely, positively hate fish.
How Much Are You Weighing These Days?
Depends on which days you’re talking about. Back in the middle of 2005, I stepped on the scales one day and—holy shit!—I was at 278. I don’t know how in the hell I got there, because I didn’t feel like I was eating that much, but there it was, and the scale wasn’t lying. So I just started watching what I ate, and by Thanksgiving I was at 235. I had a six-week layoff from golf in November and December after breaking my hand in an accident, and then there was Christmas, so I gained back about 10, but by the time the U.S. Open rolls around I’ll be back somewhere between 220 and 235.
No big deal. My weight can go up and down like a yo-yo. That’s why I have racks of pants in my closet running from 36 inches at the waist to 44 inches. All I have to do to lose weight is to decide to lose it.
Funny, when people see me now, in person, they go, “Damn, you’ve lost a lot of weight.” Sometimes it just looks like I have, ’cause when you see me on TV, I look 30, 40 pounds heavier. (And I look about 6 foot 7, when I’m only about 5 foot 11.)
My problem in terms of keeping the pounds off is that all I drink is beer now. Beer puts weight on me faster than whiskey.
Early to Bed, Early to Rise?
If I’m playing in a tournament, I get up really, really early. And the night before a round, I’m always in bed by eight or nine o’clock. This past winter, though, being home a lot and letting a broken hand mend, there were a few days I didn’t get out of bed until two o’clock. Since I wasn’t able to swing a golf club for about six weeks, I figured it would be a good time to get a little rest.
Now, if I’m partying or at a casino, my hours will be a little different.
What’s Your Favorite 1995 British Open Story That Nobody’s Heard?
That’s tough, because I spent a solid year after winning there when it seemed like I didn’t talk about anything else. But there’s one very special story that began before the Open even started and ended with a celebration party that I wasn’t invited to.
A couple of weeks before I left for Scotland, I called up a good friend, John Sisinni, and asked him and his family to come over for a cookout. I was taking some time off before the British, partly because I’d been playing shitty golf and partly because I was tired and felt like taking a break. I was on Prozac at the time, and that shit was just turning my system inside out. I did spend some good time practicing, which I hadn’t been doing enough of, but mostly I was just kicking back, which I hadn’t been doing hardly any of.
“We’d like to come over,” John said, “but my dad’s in town for the weekend.” “So bring him along,” I told John. “We’ll cook some steaks and we’ll hit the pool.” I wasn’t drinking at the time, so I wasn’t going to offer any booze or beer, but I figured we could still have ourselves a good time.
Well, John brought his family, including his dad—and he brought his movie camera and filmed the whole thing. Us cooking and eating, me and his dad fooling around in the pool, a chipping contest, the works.
John’s dad was a retired steelworker from Youngstown, Ohio. He took up golf late in life and had really c
ome to love it. He and some buddies had a regular Monday golf group called the Over 80 Club. They weren’t over 80 age-wise—John’s dad was in his 60s—but I gather they sure as hell were over 80 golf-wise. Anyway, John told me his dad got a huge kick from hanging out with a real, live golf pro, even one who’d been playing like shit for most of the year.
But the story doesn’t end there. When John sent the film to his dad back in Youngstown, he did a strange thing—he told him not to watch it, not just yet. “I don’t know why,” John told me later, “but I had this strange feeling, what if…?”
His dad was a little disappointed, but he said, “Okay, I’ll hang on to it.”
Flash forward to the Monday after the British Open. The Over 80 Club has just finished playing, and everybody’s talking about the tournament, and how exciting it was, and John’s dad says, “Boys, let’s go over to my house. I have something I want to show you, something special…”
I wish I could have been there.
You Got to Keep the Claret Jug for a Year. How Cool Was That?
Way cool, especially because it came as a total surprise to me. The real thing, too, not a replica—the R&A lets the winner hang on to it until the next Open championship.
Only problem is, the thing damned near gave me a heart attack.
That fall, when I finally got back to Memphis, I parked the Claret Jug next to my PGA (replica) trophy on the mantle in the office of my new house. The Jug came in this heavy, wooden, steel-banded storage box, with a lock for safekeeping, but I only put it in there when we were going to be away a few days or when I took it somewhere to show somebody.
I treated it like a beloved member of the family.
One day, my old friend Don Cline drove over from Dardanelle to visit me and Paulette. We had a nice dinner, and we spent some time admiring the Jug. The next morning, Don and I picked up the CEO of Wilson, my top sponsor, at the airport and drove up to Jackson, Tennessee, where Wilson manufactured their golf balls. We toured the plant, and then went up to the executive offices, where the top guys were going to have their pictures taken with me and the Jug.
