There is morbid fascination to watch something die from its own weight. Similar to the way you turn your neck as you pass a car wreck. It’s tough to resist the gore. Well, it appears that the great game of golf is slowly dying from its own success and it’s impossible to resist comment.
Early signs of its passing were seen in this week’s PGA Championship at Southern Hills Country Club. Simply by gazing at the leaderboard. Who are these guys who are vying for the prize? The names did not include Rory McIlroy, Jon Rahm, Brooks Koepka or Dustin Johnson. Rather we got to know Will Zalatoris, Mito Pereiro and Seamus Power.
What’s that you say? You have not heard of these guys. Well, you’re not alone. All the heroes are gone, gone, gone. The parade of departing heroes have been led by Tiger Woods, who withdrew after three rounds. But lord knows, he’s carried the heroes’ load for far too long as it is and certainly deserves a brief vacation. But where have all the others gone to?
In the tune “Mrs. Robinson” Paul Simon woefully wrote:
“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?
A nation turns it’s lonely eyes to you.
Woo, woo, woo.
What’s that you say, Mrs. Robinson?
’Joltin Joe has left and gone away.
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.”
And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where our golfing heroes have disappeared to.
Let’s make a list of the more obvious things that killed them off. First, we have the growing horror of the new Saudi Arabian-funded LIV Tour, which is throwing big money at the leading stars in an effort to tempt them away from the PGA season. It is said that they offered Jack Nicklaus $100 million to be their spokesman. Now that’s what I would call serious temptation.
But the new LIV Tour is merely one of many distractions that are producing defocus, deficient performance and a death-like flatness in our former golfing heroes. Financially driven equipment changes are part of the problem. “Hey, bud, put our new driver in your bag and we’ll put $1 million in your pocket to do so.”
And then we have the insane number of serious injuries that plague the over-trained stars that seek extra yards by working out extra hours in the gym. The sweat shops of the new and improved super trainers are cashing in and so are orthopedic surgeons. It’s all good.
“Whoops, there goes my ACL, my lower back, my ankle, my wrist tendon, etcetera!”
Our golfing hero’s careers are cut short by all these distractions. The LIV Tour, increased rate of injuries, inappropriate and unnecessary equipment changes are all driven by the almighty dollar. It’s just like the endless trades in baseball, which prevents the home team fan from identifying with their local hero. If Mickey Mantle played today, he would have played for a variety of teams around the nation.
“What’s that you say, you’re offering me a $350 million, ten-year contract? Just a minute while I pack my bags.”
The evaporation of the heroes is a big deal for golf. And if you doubt this, just take a gander at the thoroughbred racing industry to see what money and greed can do to an industry. The racing fan no longer has the opportunity to get to know great horses because any of the thoroughbreds lucky enough to win the Derby, the Preakness or the Belmont, are immediately put out to stud and make small fortunes in stud fees. The owners really have no choice because on one in their right mind is going to risk a serious racing injury to a potentially lucrative stud.
The result is the fan no longer gets the chance to fall in love with the horse and so each year a new crop of strangers are raced and the fan is left scratching his head. This ends up with fans turning away from the sport. The fan needs time to fall in love with the hero and love takes time as we all know.
If you have gone to Belmont Racetrack recently, you know you will be greeted by many empty seats and lots of silence. The sport of racing is in its death throws. And this is what the PGA is beginning to face.
When a leaderboard is filled with unknowns, that means that the greats in golf are either thinking about Saudi money, thinking about changing equipment or are still in rehab following yet another injury.
he PGA is like a morbidly obese person slowly eating itself to death because it can’t stop eating. The food all these star golfers are eating is called MONEY and the chefs are guys in nice blue suits carrying briefcases filled with dollars. The golf fan will soon grow tired of watching people they do not know and care even less about. If Paul Simon liked golf, he might coin a tune called: “Where have you gone, Mr. Mickelson?”
