My Life in and out of the Rough

by John Daly

  We had some drinks at Celebrities, a nice bar that me and some friends own down on Beale Street. (Good music, good food, good prices—be sure to drop in whenever you’re in Memphis. Tell them The Lion sent you.) And then we had us some fine Memphis barbecue, after which we had some beers at a couple of other places, and then we headed back to Celebrities, and…ell, you get the picture. We were having us a fine old night on the town, and by one o’clock or so, none of us was feeling any pain.

  Except me, that is. I was feeling pain in my chest. I thought I was having a heart attack. Fortunately, we were only about 10 minutes from Methodist Hospital in Memphis, and the limo driver made a beeline for it. Next thing I know, they’ve got me on a bed in this room with an IV in me and all I’m sure of is one thing: I ain’t having no heart attack.

  (It was gas or something, I guess—I never did find out.)

  Matter of fact, I felt fine—a little drunk, but fine. Only I knew they weren’t going to let me out until they ran a bunch of tests and shit, so I was going to be stuck there for a while.

  That being the case, I call Sisinni in and ask him to do me a couple of favors. I ask him to bring me a cup of water, please, and he does. What he thinks I’m going to do, he told me later, is take some pills or something. What I do instead is fire up a Marlboro Light, using my cup of water as an ashtray.

  The next thing I ask him to do is go out and bring back a Whopper with cheese and a double order of fries. There’s a Burger King right close to the hospital, and it’s been a while since the barbecue, and I don’t know how long they’re going to keep me tied down there.

  So I’m covered until somebody comes around and tells me what I already know, namely, that I ain’t having a heart attack. And pretty soon, the doctor does come in, only the first thing he tells me is to put out my cigarette at once. Don’t I know this is a hospital?

  Yes, I do know it, thank you very much.

  And I also know that I’ve never ever before been ushered out of a hospital so fast—and without even having to get my stomach pumped.

  Story number two took place last year, when I was down in Tunica investing some cash in the slots at the Horseshoe. A little after midnight, me and some friends went next door to the Sheraton to hear a little music and chill before heading home. We had a few beers and listened to this little C&W band play for a while, and we were just getting into the music when the waiter comes by and says the band stops playing at one o’clock. One o’clock? Shit, the evening’s just getting off the ground, so I go up to the band and tell them I’ll give them a thousand dollars an hour if they’ll keep on playing. We finally left at 6 A.M., went and got us a sack of sausage biscuits at McDonald’s, and headed on back home.

  So back to the Q. Am I ever going to stop partying?

  A: Not until they turn out the lights for good.

  How’s Your Musical Career Going?

  Well, I’ve got a CD called My Life. I wrote some of the lyrics on the album, and some of my friends in the music business—Johnny Lee and Hootie & the Blowfish—helped me produce it. But the first time I ever got up and sang in public, at least when I was sober, was at the PGA Championship at Winged Foot in New York in 1997. I sang “Mustang Sally” with Hootie & the Blowfish in front of thousands of people. I was nervous, but everybody went crazy. Since then, I’ve sung and played a little guitar (always with real musicians covering my back) at my charity golf events in Arkansas and Memphis and other places. I usually do “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” which is also on my CD, because it’s such a great song.

  But as much as I love getting up in front of people and making an ass out of myself, I’ve got a family to feed, so I think I’d better stick with golf.

  What Are You Going to Do Next?

  Hell, I don’t know. But I’ll keep on keeping on. I don’t like to live in the past, and I’m a little leery of predicting the future. I’ve done that too many times. By the time it finally gets here, all the future does is turn into the present and bite me on the ass.

  ELEVEN

  STAND BY YOUR WOMAN

  I always look on the bright side of things. I always think I’m going to hit a perfect shot. I always think I’m going to hit the next jackpot. And I always think that this time it’s going to be love forever and evermore.

  That’s what I thought when I first laid eyes on Sherrie Miller. She was standing by the green on the 10th hole of the TPC at Southwind course during the first round of the FedEx–St. Jude Classic on June 7, 2001. She just flat blew me away. Man, she was beautiful. I said to myself—honest to God, I did, right then and there—I said, “I’m gonna marry that girl.”

  First, though, I had to meet her. Turns out that wasn’t so hard. I walked up to her, introduced myself, and asked her if she would meet me in the parking lot after I finished my round. She said, sure, I’d like that.

  I’ll never forget what she said later when we got together: “I don’t like blonds, and I don’t particularly like golfers, but I do like fat boys.”

  Shit, I was a third of the way home.

  Fifty-three days later, on July 29, 2001, we got married.

  You know, there must be something about me and 10th holes, because the first time I laid eyes on Paulette was on a 10th hole—at Bermuda Dunes during the 1992 Bob Hope Chrysler Classic. Funny, don’t you think? Of course, that one didn’t end up so funny.

  Anyway, this time it was the first round at the FedEx, and I was coming up to the 10th green. The 10th at Southwind is 465-yard par 4, nothing tricky—a driver, sand wedge for me—nothing special. But this woman I saw standing next to the green, she was definitely special. I don’t remember what I made on 10 that day, but I sure remember seeing Sherrie for the first time, and I remember asking her to meet me in the parking lot after the round.

  Meanwhile, Leslie finally managed to show up near the end of the round—we only lived in a big house right there on the golf course—and she started crying because we’d been fighting. Just what I needed—here I am, trying to win a golf tournament, and my woman is standing around crying. Talk about a distraction. Hell, give me someone clicking a camera any day.

  Guess I wasn’t too bothered, though, because I almost won the tournament that week. It was me and Bob Estes, right down to the wire, Razorbacks versus Longhorns, the fans going nuts. People screaming “Ooooo, Pig! Soooie!” Hell, even a few hollering “Hook ’em, Horns!” But I made three bogeys on the back nine, and Bob hung tough. He won, and I finished T-5.

  As I said, me and Sherrie met in the parking lot after the first round, and the minute we started talking, I fell absolutely in love with her, and I knew right then I had to break it off with Leslie. That next week, I went down to a casino in Philadelphia, Mississippi. I had Leslie meet me there, and that’s where I ended it with her. And I told her I was in love with Sherrie.

  So that was it between me and Leslie. No marriage this time, so no divorce and no alimony. Just a shitload of gifts and stuff I’d given her, including the apartment and the car and the big-ass ring. And, naturally, the Rolex.

  At the end, I don’t even think there was much in the way of hard feelings between us. We’d had a real good time together, but we’d been fighting a lot recently, and we were probably both happy it was over.

  At the time Sherrie and me met, she was working selling cars at her dad’s automobile company. She was 25. I don’t think any two people ever fell in love as quickly. Fifty-three days from how-do-you-do’s to I-do’s. That had to be some kind of record.

  Just about all my friends were against us getting married. I don’t know why for sure, but I think they were worried that somewhere down the road we would get a divorce or something. They thought it happened so fast, which it did. But you know what? I’ve been married to Sherrie longer than to any of my other wives.

  Sherrie’s very outgoing. She’s got the same attitude towards the world that I do—namely, it is what it is. That means you just call it straight, don’t be dancing around, just say what’
s on your mind. One night we were at a basketball game in Memphis, and these two kids sat in front of us in the box, only they were mostly standing up instead of sitting down. And Sherrie goes, “I can’t see. Would you sit down? I don’t want to look at your butts, I want to see the game.”

  That’s Sherrie in a nutshell.

  We got married in Vegas at the wedding chapel in Bally’s Hotel & Casino, where we were staying. Her mom came, and a couple of my friends were there, but it wasn’t a big, splashy wedding. Sherrie was like 20 minutes late for us getting married because she wanted her dress just right. I’ve come to expect her to be late for everything.

  She has a son by a previous relationship. That’s one of the first things she told me when we met: “I have a one-year-old son. His name is Austin.” I thought to myself, “Shit, I need a son.” The first time I put him in my car, I had this big old McDonald’s Diet Coke, and he stood up right there and reached over and started sucking on the straw, and I said to him, “Me and you are going to get along just fine.”

  And we do. Austin’s seven now, and I love him like one of my own. Hell, he is one of my own. And now he has a little brother to play with, John Patrick Daly II, who was born on July 23, 2003.

  Austin’s a great kid. He loves Little John, and vice versa.

  When I close my eyes and just listen to them playing together, I can see them growing up as a 21st-century version of me and Jamie, in terms of the strength of the ties that bind them.

  On July 28, 2003, five days after Little John was born, my father-in-law, Alvis Miller, my mother-in-law, Billie Miller, and my wife, Sherrie Miller Daly, were indicted by federal authorities on charges of laundering more than $1.2 million for an illegal drug and gambling operation. Over a year later, in October 2004, Alvis pled guilty to conspiracy to launder money and structuring of financial transactions to avoid federal reporting requirements; he was sentenced to two and a half years in prison. He’s still in jail. Billie pled guilty to one count of structuring; she was sentenced to five months in prison. She served her time. Two months later, Sherrie pled guilty to one count of structuring; she was sentenced to five months in prison. She appealed the conviction, but her appeal was denied. This past January, while I was in California getting ready to play in the Buick Invitational, which I won in 2004, Sherrie went to jail to serve her five-month sentence.

  This is the nightmare I’ve been living with for the past three years.

  Sad thing is, with all this shit and confusion and stress, I don’t really know a lot about this case. I just know that when the FBI comes down on somebody, it’s never good news.

  Evidently, all this came down as a result of a sting operation that had been going on for a while called Operation Dirty Pool. They ended up with about three dozen convictions. To me, only three of them mattered.

  The FBI and the prosecutor said Alvis laundered money through his car dealership for a drug and gambling ring. Evidently, some of his so-called friends played let’s-make-a-deal with the Feds.

  The big drug dealer guy in this mess, I’ve known him for 15 years. I’ve played golf with him, and I for damned sure never knew he was running drugs from Mexico or wherever the hell it was coming from. I knew him probably just as well as Alvis did, and I never even so much as suspected he was running drugs and all that shit.

  Knowing Alvis, who I call “Dad,” I can’t believe he knew these guys were involved with drugs. Alvis may have broken the law, but I know in my heart he wasn’t messed up with drugs or drug dealing.

  Billie Miller, Sherrie’s mother—I call her “Mom”—spent five months in jail, though how you can put someone like her behind bars is beyond me. She’s only one of the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. I’m proud to be her son-in-law.

  Looking back, I wish Sherrie hadn’t appealed her conviction and had just done her time when her mother went away. It would all be over and done with, completely behind us, by now.

  To tell the truth, I just want this shit to end.

  After four shots at it, I think I’ve finally learned a couple of things about marriage. I know it’s about sharing, but I also know—and so does my wife—that golf is a selfish, demanding profession. I’d like for my marriage to be a 50–50 proposition in terms of responsibilities, but I know it’s not. I know it’s more like 40–60—sometimes even worse than that—with Sherrie toting the heaviest load.

  I just want Sherrie to understand that I’m doing what I’m doing for her and me and our kids. And she does understand but she doesn’t understand, if you know what I mean. She understands that I have to be away from home a lot, in my case at least 35 weeks a year. But then when I’m home she’ll say, Honey, when are we going on vacation? And I’ll go, Baby, I am on vacation—I’ve been on the road, working my ass off, and now I’m not and I can relax and it’s vacation to me.

  Sherrie’ll say, you’ve got to think of our family, and I do, honest I do. But she’s got to understand just how big my family is. I’ve got my sponsors, and I owe them time. I’ve got my charities, and I owe them time. And I’ve got my fans, and I sure owe them time, because they’re the ones who’ve always been there for me, who make everything else in my life possible.

  Back in January, for example, a couple of days before I left for Abu Dhabi in the Middle East, I flew to Los Angeles to be on The Tony Danza Show to talk about The Daly Planet; then I flew to New York to be on Conan O’Brien to talk some more about The Daly Planet and do an interview for The New York Times food section; then flew to Orlando, where that night I autographed 1,250 8-×-10 photos for 84 Lumber, which was having a huge sales show the next day, where I sat and autographed stuff and gripped and grinned for seven straight hours; and then I flew to Pittsburgh, took a deep breath, and flew off to Abu Dhabi.

  All this in less than 48 hours.

  But I’m finally getting my shit together, and then this thing with Sherrie and her family knocks everything loose. Three of Sherrie’s court appearances coincided with two Masters and a PGA Championship. Imagine trying to play a major while all that is going on?

  On these court appearances, they want you there. Period. I’ve got to try and get ready to play this major, and I’ve also got to get the kids to day care. I’ve got to do this, do that, do some other thing. It’s been tough on both of us.

  But so many people have quit on me, so many have given up on me—including, sometimes, myself—that I know what it feels like, so I’m not quitting on her, I’m not giving up.

  Me and Sherrie have been through hell in this marriage, but she guards me, she protects me. And I get pissed off at her, because she says what’s on her mind, whether it’s the CEO of a big company or anybody. She’ll tell them just the way she feels. And that’s fine if the other person is in the wrong. But sometimes she’ll also get up in somebody’s face when she’s the one who’s wrong, and she won’t let it go. But as I said, she guards me, she protects me.

  I’ve never loved a woman the way I love Sherrie. With Paulette, it was infatuation. With Bettye and Leslie, it was sex. With Dale, it was loneliness. With Sherrie, though, it’s true love. Granted, we’re always at each other’s throats. I think me and Sherrie fight more than any couple in the world.

  But it doesn’t get in the way of the fact that I love Sherrie with all my heart and I always will.

  So I’m hanging in there.

  I’m not giving up on this family.

  I love them too much.

  Sherrie’s the love of my life. I hope we’ll stay together forever. We’ll fight about stuff—we always have, so I guess we always will—but I think we’ll stay together. I think this time it’s love forever and evermore.

  After all, me and Sherrie have a motto we’ve been living by: We love each other just a little bit more than we hate each other.

  TWELVE

  “WHERE I AM NOW”

  That’s the title of another song I wrote the lyrics for, and it seems like a good way to close out my front nine.

  I turned 4
0 years old on April 28, and I’ll be the first to admit it’s been a hard 40. Fuzzy Zoeller, my best pal on the PGA Tour—actually, he plays on the Champions Tour now, which is fitting, because he’s a true champion—used to joke that I wouldn’t reach 50. At least I think he was joking.

  No question about it, I’ve come close to the edge a lot of times. I’ve been my own worst enemy. But I think I’ve got a better handle on things now. I think I’m better off dealing with what’s here, what’s now, so that I’ll be ready to deal with whatever tomorrow brings. After all, I’ve made it through the front side, but I know there are some pretty nasty hazards on the back side as well, and I better bring my A game.

  The first of those hazards came into play this past January, of course, when Sherrie went off to jail.

  The second hazard caught us in February when Austin’s biological father, who’d never taken much of a role in his son’s life, took advantage of Sherrie’s felony conviction and incarceration to go to court and get temporary custody of Austin.

  This like to broke my heart. I love Austin. I think of him as my son. He’s part of my family. The fact that he’s not being allowed to come out and stay with me on the bus from time to time, the way he’s done over the past five years with his mom, is a real body blow. Based on my own feelings about being a dad, I can understand how a biological father might make a move like this. I just hope and pray that me and Sherrie will be able to do something about this situation. All I want is what’s best for Austin.

  What I know for sure is I can’t let anger get control of me. I just have to accept this as something I have to deal with. I can’t pretend I’m not deeply hurt and disappointed, but I know that letting anger boil over won’t help matters at all.