Pro golfer John Daly’s long-standing battle with the bottle isn’t showing any sign of resolving itself. Recently, his night ended with a police escort out of a NC Hooters after he had passed out at the bar.
Regardless, you’ve got to admire the guy; he, a man who treats his body more like a urinal than temple, who is able—sometimes—to be competitive with the best golfers in the world. Allen Iverson, with his weed and TGI Fridays regimen, and Maradona, with his enough-to-kill-a-horse penchant for blow, are characters who deserve similar respect.
The most pithy way I can express my sentiments toward John Daly are by quickly describing a fantasy of mine, which, for myriad good reasons, will never come true: enter a majorly competitive athletic event; don’t train; gain a bunch of weight; and show up drunk, smoking a cigarette, then, here’s the hard part, WIN!
Think about the looks on the faces of self-serious suckers who spent months gearing up for the contest. It would be stellar.
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You see? Never try. Never work hard. It’s for suckers and it gets you nowhere. Gravitate to an area where you are naturally dominant, and then just act however the hell you please. I love it.
He worked throughout his entire childhood to be the golfer that is was (is?) today. He is the f’n man. He gave more of his money to charity (percentage-wise) than any golfer EVER. That’s a hero, regardless of his personal problems/battles.
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