The Daly Show (Again)

It looks like we’re in for another round of John Daly stories. In the aftermath of his most recent domestic troubles, the Golf Channel has aired yet another “up close and personal” style profile of Daly in the form of a “hard-hitting” interview from Rich Lerner. But while most of us probably want to either yawn or vomit at the prospect of more exposure of big John, something is rapidly fading from the landscape surrounding the controversial razorback: his place in golf history.

When John Daly won the PGA Championship in 1991, it was easy to see that the victory was destined to be something more significant than that of, say, the defending champion Wayne Grady. In case you forgot, Daly annihilated Crooked Stick with 320-yard drives, 150-yard pitching wedges, and a deft putting touch that left many people speechless. Jack Nicklaus, not among the speechless ones, referred on air to Daly’s performance and golf swing as (paraphrasing here) an “awesome unleashing of raw power.”

On-course analysts ran out of descriptors for his drives, and Daly quickly began building an almost Paul Bunyan-like persona. In an era where the average PGA Tour driving distance is now nearly 300 yards, Daly’s performance may not seem so impressive today, but make no mistake, everything about his performance those four days – from the impossibly long swing, the space-age, Kevlar-headed driver, and the distinctly non-tour-like appearance and fist pumping demeanor – was nothing short of astounding to everyone lucky enough to have seen it.

A week before Crooked Stick, no one could have predicted such an outcome. Major championships are supposed to be won by a combination of controlled power, accurate iron play, good putting, and intelligent course management. This approach – the Nicklaus/Hogan model – views the major championship as a battle of attrition, where the goal is to play well enough, avoid mistakes, and wait for the competition to wilt. Yes, power has always been a valuable asset, but I think it’s safe to say that Daly’s strategy in the 1991 PGA – symbolized by his caddy Jeff Medlin’s mantra of “kill” – was decidedly unconventional. To my knowledge, there has never been another major championship contested, with the possible exception of Woods’ 1997 Masters, where the winning strategy was predicated so dominantly on raw power.

The manner in which Daly won the PGA must have had a profound ripple effect throughout golf, from his peers on the PGA Tour down to the up-and-coming players in the college and scholastic levels, as well as with prominent teachers in the game. All of these factors, supported by favorable media coverage of Daly’s power (at least initially) and a burgeoning technological research enterprise in the golf equipment industry, ushered in a decade of profound changes in the brand of golf played on the professional level today.

I think Daly’s shocking victory and the changes that followed are similar to the the events surrounding Babe Ruth’s emergence as baseball’s shining star in the 1920s. In case you didn’t already know, the Babe entered the major leagues in 1914 as a pitcher, in an era when hitting homeruns was highly uncommon, and, more importantly, was thought to be poor strategy. Perhaps liberated by the relative lack of expectations on hitting by a pitcher, or maybe more because of Ruth’s general rebellious nature, he ignored convention and swung for the fences. Within a couple of years of Ruth’s incredible, 54-homer season in 1920, several major leaguers were hitting 40 and 50 homers per year. The gate was crashed, the deadball era ended, and the homerun became king, as it remains today.

There are some almost eerie similarities between Daly and Ruth, both in sport and in life. Beyond the obvious fact that both brought power to the forefront of their respective sports, both are people who seem to have lived, to some degree, as if the rules do not apply to them. One of my favorite John Daly quotes involves his reaction to being told, I believe by a high school or college golf coach, that he could never hope to make it on tour with his overlong, pretzel swing. “I just ignored them,” was Daly’s reply. Ruth must have had to ignore legions of coaches who told him not to waste at-bats by swinging for the fences. Both have reputations as incredible fan favorites, are known for a remarkably generous nature, and for their fond appreciation for a drink, a smoke, and a lady’s company now and then. Although Daly’s career record pales in comparison to Ruth’s, there is no mistaking, in my mind anyway, that they had remarkably similar effects on their respective sports.

So isn’t it surprising that, only 16 years removed from Daly’s debut, when every story about professional golf seems to mention something about a “distance problem,” and when golf courses around the world are lengthening holes and pushing back bunkers to “stay current,” we don’t hear more about big John? Everyone keeps talking about equipment technology, but the man who first dared to actually play “bomb and gouge” did it before anyone had heard of a Pro V1, titanium drivers, CoR, or launch monitors. Amid all of the rancor about USGA abdicating its responsibility in controlling the equipment arms race, the man who first dared to play this way is hardly ever mentioned. In fact, John is almost a golf side show today, a man we hear about only in tabloid stories about his domestic problems.

Be that as it may, his remarkable place in golf history cannot be erased. And it’s a great story, when you think of it: in the backdrop of a game steeped in tradition and privilege, a lower middle class kid from Arkansas, sporting a mullet, had the guts to do things his own way, and in a style that, at the time, was generally considered a formula for ultimate failure, especially in the toughest championships. Today, it is the dominant philosophy on tour.

Certainly equipment technology has encouraged and supported the modern power game. I’m not trying to argue it hasn’t. But as I alluded to in last week’s column, do we really know that the equipment is the root cause of the change in the game? There is a legitimate chicken-egg question here. Equipment manufacturers have always tried to sell us clubs by promising more distance, but the fact is that one of the dominant forces shaping product development is the wishes and demands of touring professionals, and it is unlikely that any company was going to pursue distance technology on a grand scale without knowing that there were touring pros ready to embrace that style of play. Maybe Daly gave them the nod.

Many people don’t like John Daly, or the NASCAR flavor of his galleries, or the modern power game he helped create. And while I certainly have had my problems with his often deplorable on- and off-course behavior, I happen to like the modern game. While I can appreciate the beauty of Hoganesque shotmaking or the strategic, clinical way Nicklaus won major championships, the modern power game, and its stars, are as good as or better than anything we’ve ever seen in golf. One way to look at Tiger Woods’s remarkable career is that he was able to fuse the modern power game first demonstrated by Daly, with the proficiency in iron play, course management, mental toughness, and tremendous pressure putting of Nicklaus.

When I first became interested in golf in the 1980s, a popular topic for golf writers was to ponder why there was no superstar, no “next Nicklaus.” I have often wondered if one reason for this was a stagnation in the style of play at that time. What we had in the 80s was a generation of players who were all trying to be Jack, trying to grind, trying to achieve greatness by reining in their natural talents and waiting for the competition to wilt. These were the Curtis Stranges and the Tom Kites, among others. Many were very, very good at it, but none was really able to dominate in this environment. What better stage, then, for someone to come along with a slightly different approach and catch everyone by surprise?

Recent events suggest that John Daly will always be remembered more for his off-course problems than his on-course brilliance, however fleeting it may have been. It is a shame, though, because he is a once-in-a-generation talent, and the shock waves he sent through our golf universe will likely be felt for many years to come.

Photo Credits: © SI, © NNDB.