There’s nothing quite like the smell of fresh mowed grass in the early morning. The blue dew that sprouts from the unmowed grass stands pompous to its inevitable evaporation. Willard Marx was late. If it hadn’t been for the late night boozing and the early morning tee-time, he would have been alright. It also doesn’t help to have your alarm set if you don’t sleep at your hotel. That was alright though, the stripper made great company. Will, as his friends called him, all two of them hated the smell of that early morning grass. It meant he wasn’t going to make the cut or if he did, he probably wouldn’t be making it on Television. He hated being a golfer but it was the only thing he was ever good at. Besides drinking Jack Daniels or course.

Two course officials looked quite relieved when they saw him; their job was done. They were announcing Willard’s name at the first tee in front of about twenty-five early bird fans. They weren’t his. He was playing with a foreign player who had a devoted following. Great. Five hours with a guy who didn’t speak English. He found his caddy who looked about as bad off as he did and said, "Jimmy, let’s go, we’re late," and began jogging to the first tee, golf shoes in hand.

"You’re late," Jimmy said to his invisible gallery and picked up the heavy golf bag. He swore that sometimes Willard kept bottles of Jack Daniels in there.

Willard Marx got to the first tee and Ching-La Xiou was hitting his tee shot. He sat in the wet grass to put his shoes on, making the seat of his khaki’s brown. He was not clean shaven and he looked visibly unkempt. Jimmy handed him his unsponsored visor without Willard asking for it. At least Jimmy was a good caddy.

He grabbed his driver and without asking for yardage teed up his ball and smacked it. Even Willard was surprised. Not bad for guy with no practice swings and a hangover, he thought. He tucked in his shirt and walked down the first fairway.

By the sixth hole he was two under par and he was containing his amazement. A small gallery started and he could feel the cameras beginning to zoom in on him. At the turn, he was three under and over a chili dog and Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, he laughed as he pictured the television announcers scrambling to find any information or pictures of a Willard Marx. Jimmy the caddy was in shock. He hadn’t ever seen him play this well and he began to thinkg that maybe Willard had kicked the sauce. That was until Willard walked over with his empty glass and said, "Jimmy, get me another J.D. on the rocks, would ya?"

"Sure," he said, and played out the charade for the hundredth time.

On the thirteenth hole, he had a thirty-five foot double-breaking eagle putt. Jimmy stood behind him and Willard said, "Jimmy, back off. You can tell I have this one."

Jimmy backed away and shrugged his shoulders when the other caddy looked at him. Willard drained the putt and danced around the green amidst a growing applause of spectators. He was in the zone, something he hadn’t felt in the longest time.

On eighteen, Willard Marx made a three-footer for par and a sixty-six, the tournament low thus far. He got a standing ovation and he threw his ball into the crowd. Willard was in heaven. Walking off the green he was greeted and interviewed by golf analyst Jim McCarden.

"Wow, Willard, you smoked this course today, what was the key for you?" he asked, holding the microphone.

Willard had never been interviewed before and acted accordingly. "It was probably that second Jack Daniels I had at the turn," and he smiled into the camera.

Jim McCarden wasn’t sure what to think and forged ahead. "On thirteen, you shrugged off your caddy’s help on that tough double breaker. How come?"

"Jimmy? Shit, he ain’t ever helped me on a putt before," Willard said dryly and looked at Jimmy who was within earshot.

"Uh," Jim fumbled, not sure how to proceed. "Uh yeah, you’re kidding, right?"

"What?" asked Willard, taking a Jack Daniels from a pretty waitress. "Hell no I’m not kidding, I like Jimmy to be a silent caddy. Carry my bag, give me my club, wash my ball. Anything more and he’s in the way."

"I see," the interviewer said.

"Great mustache by the way," Willard Marx said sarcastically.

"Yeah thanks," he said and touched his ear as he was taking direction from the director somewhere else. "Ok well, great Willard, great round today, you’re the leader by two with the half the field still out there. Good luck on the weekend," Jim McCarden said and began walking away before Willard could say anything. "What an asshole," some people could hear Jim McCarden say as he walked back to the television booth.

Willard was so elated by his new fame that he went right to the bar without even taking his golf shoes off first.

"Willard! Willard!" Jimmy called after him.

"What?" he asked, annoyed at having been interrupted on his way to the bar.

"Great round today," he said, smiling. He was truly impressed by Willard’s performance but he was immediately reminded who he was dealing with.

"Thanks Jimmy. Here’s my keys. Put my bag away and have fun tonight. For once, you don’t have to be here at six in the morning." And again, as Jimmy walked to Willard’s beat up Honda Civic, he asked himself why in the world he was a caddy for such an asshole. ‘Never work for an asshole,’ was the only piece of advice that Jimmy had ever gotten from his alcoholic father. And here he was, working for an ungrateful one at that.

Willard on the other hand, was pure joy. He was buying drinks for any girl with nice legs, even wives of other players were still on the course. After two hours of trying to get laid without having to pay for it outright, Willard Marx sat down at the bar to have yet another drink. It was only for a brief moment Willard wondered what had inspired him to play so well. His best round ever had been a sixty-seven and that had been a couple of years earlier, definitely before he had found the glorious revival of a Jack Daniels on the rocks.

He sat at the bar and drank. Most of the crowd had dissipated by the time Willard realized he was drunk. Most people drank to get drunk; Willard drank to get normal. The bartender was cleaning when the small old man walked in. He was the kind of man no one noticed until he tapped on your shoulder.

Willard Marx was slow to turn around when the man tapped on his shoulder. "Wassup old man?" asked Willard.

"Nothing," he said softly. The old man was quiet and looked not at Willard, but through him.

"Whaddya want old man?" Willard asked again belligerently.

"I said ‘nothing’," he said calmly.

Willard did not like his presence and he proceeded to tell him.

"Don’t blame me because you don’t know why you played so well today," the old man with the wrinkled face said.

Willard Marx turned on his barstool, looked down at the man and said, "What did you say?"

"You heard me. Life is too short to repeat the obvious." The old man smiled and drank from a glass that no one had seem him bring in.

"Just who in the hell do you think you are?" asked Willard. To the eight or nine people still in the bar, it was clear Willard Marx was not in control of himself. Whispers of ‘That’s the guy who’s leading the tournament,’ could be heard.

"I am no one you know, but I’ve been with you for awhile." He drank from his glass and looked at Willard as if he were a science experiment.

"Just what in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what the hell that means," the old man said from a cold, evil place. The way he said ‘hell’ stopped Willard.

"Bartender, bring me another drink and one for my buddy here," Willard said, putting his arm around the old man.

"I don’t know if that’s a good idea," the bartender began.

"Look pal, I just had the best round of my life today, and nobody is gonna tell me how much I can drink."

The bartender was a bartender by nature as Willard was a golfer and he knew that Willard would get whatever was coming to him. "No problem pal," he said with insincere politeness.

"How would you like to play that well tomorrow?" asked the old man.

"Well, it ain’t really up to you now, is it old-timer?" Willard chuckled and for some reason was amused by the old man.

"More is in my hands than you think, young-timer," the old man said, mocking Willard.

Willard Marx may have been piss drink but you knew when someone was patronizing him. Little did he knew that almost everyone had that trait. "Look pal, what’s your deal? You come in here like Obie-won-Kanobe and now you’re talking golf which I think we both can say who knows more about it, eh?" said Willard, and he nudged the old man jokingly.

"Don’t touch me again," said the old man and again, looked through Willard’s eyes.

"Alright, alright, old man, calm down, don’t get your panties in a bunch," said Willard. The bartender brought their drinks and began walking away. "Get a load of this guy," Willad called after him, laughing ryely.

The old man began his new drink and was quiet.

"Say, what’re you drinking after?" asked Willard after downing half of Jack Daniel’s in a gulp.

"Soul," the old man said softly.

"Oh yeah, Sol, that new beer? I thought that was a bitch drink," Willard said. There was no end to his infidelities on life.

"No, soul," repeated the old man. "As in, you don’t have a soul." The old man’s sense of humor was lost with a man like Willard Marx and that is precisely how he played into the old man’s game.

"What do you mean, ‘no soul’? Didn’t ya see that game of stick I played today?"

"Yes, but you don’t even know why you played so well. It defeats the purpose."

"Purpose?" asked Willard incredulous. "Purpose? The only purpose is so that I can make money so I can buy strange old guys like you and myself drinks all night." Then he leaned close and told the old man one of his favorite analogies. "Look, it’s like getting laid. You don’t care how or why, you’re just glad to be wet," he said and smiled his yellow teeth.

The old man, if he was truly capably of amusement showed it to Willard. Willard read it as standoffish.

"Old man, what in the hell is your problem?"

"I am concerned about your golf game, that is all," he said without emotion.

"Concerned about my golf game? Don’t worry about it buddy, as you can see I’ve got it under control."

"Yes, but what about tomorrow?"

"What about tomorrow?" Willard could not believe this guy. "Who are you?" he asked.

"I don’t think you should know," he sais. He looked aright at Willard and asked him, "How would you like to repeat your performance tomorrow?"

"Well, sure that’d be great, but hell," Willard said drunkenly, "maybe I’ll play even better, eh?" Willard laughed a laugh he reserved only for people who had seen him drunk. Everyone that had ever known him had seen it. Many times.

"What you find funny isn’t humorous at all," the old man said.

"Oh it isn’t, is it? And why do you talk like that? Lay back, live it up a little," Willard said, and danced from his barstool to a tune that could barely be heard.

The only people in the bar no longer attempted to hide their eyes from Willard. They openly watched him as if he himself were the Ryder Cup.

"Tomorrow is a new day and how will you conquer it?" asked the old man.

"Look, do you have something for me or not? You been talking this mumbo jumbo like you can help and I haven’t seen anything you got old man," he said hotly.

"Let us venture outside then," said the old man and began walking through the entrance. Willard grabbed his drink and followed. Hell, he had nothing to lose, right? The old man continued walking out onto the golf course. It became darker and darker as they got further from the clubhouse. Soon it was black and Willard Marx could not see a thing.

"Hey old man, where are ya? I can’t see shit out here," he yelled to anyone.

‘I’m right here," the old man’s voice said and to Willard it could be heard swirling around. He could not pin down where it was coming from.

"Where are you? I can’t see you," Willard said and realized that his golf shoes were still on and his feet hurt.

"I am everywhere," the old man said.

"Cut the crap," said the golfer. "What’s this all about?"

"Your golf game of course," the voice said from everywhere. It continued to spin around Willard and he began feeling nauseous. He sat down and for the second time that day the seat of his pants were wet.

"There are conditions to every game, Mr. Marx, are you willing to abide?" asked the dark voice.

"What conditions?" Willard asked, drunk and wet.

"First," the swirling voice began, "realize that everyone has as much right to be here as you do."

"What the—look, what do you want from me?" Suddenly, Willard Marx was no longer in control of his little world and it wasn’t the alcohol.

"Treat the people around you better and better people will treat you," the voice said. The old man was gone.

* * * * *

Willard Marx woke up the next morning on the thirteenth green about five minutes before the grounds crew were going to mow the fairways and greens. He was hungover—no, he wasn’t but he should have been. As he stood up, he remembered he had dreamt of being an old man who drank other people’s souls. He went to straight to his car to change and as he was putting on a new shirt, the old man from last night came back to him. "Jesus," he said to himself and reached for a cigarette. Willard went to get some breakfast and tried to remember that he was leading the tournament. He chuckled and decided he would treat himself to a double Jack Daniel’s this morning.

He saw Jimmy over his second stack of pancakes. "I heard about you last night," Jimmy the caddy said as he sat down with Willard gingerly. Jimmy had his own drinking problem but at least he was mature about it. Somehow, he was the hungover one.

"Man, you look like hell," Willard said with his mouth full. He went back to his food.

Jimmy shrugged it off as he did everything that Willard said. "You should see yourself," said Jimmy. Gratefully, Jimmy had worked with Willard Marx long enough that he could be honest with him. Sort of.

"Ah, it’s my natural glow," Willard sad as he did anytime someone commented on his appearance. The man was a creature of habit.

"Uh yeah," Jimmy responded for the two hundredth time since knowing Willard Marx.

"Rough night last night," said Willard, partially to his food, and the other part to Jimmy.

"Oh yeah?" Jimmy asked, only half-interested.

"Yeah, I met some old guy that said I could play better if I listened to him."

It was at this time Jimmy smelled Willard Marx. He might as well have been named Jack Daniels. "You’ve already had a couple, eh?"

"Jimmy, lay off if you know what’s going for you," Willard threatened.

"So what did the old guy tell ya?" Jimmy asked, trying to change the subject.

"Ha," he laughed, "this is a good one. He said I should treat the people around me better. Go figure," Willard snorted.

"Really?" Jimmy would like to meet this old man and thank him. And scoff at him for wasting his time talking to such an ignoramus.

"Yeah, but he was drunker ‘an I was. Said he was drinking ‘soul’. Can you believe that?" Willard went back to his pancakes.

"Hmm," Jimmy mumbled. He wondered who this old guy was.

Later that day, as Willard was playing with one of the more well known players on tour, he felt the limelight the better golfers got to see regularly. He loved it. Willard Marx was a ham and half the crowd didn't know what to make of him and the other half just laughed. The sponsors didn’t like him. "He’s a jerk," one of them said and refused to advertise if was being spotlighted.

Willard Marx had to drink less that day because more people were watching. One of the officials had come over and told him drinking while playing was not allowed. Willard Marx, with his Jack Daniel’s breath told the official he was not drinking and told him to leave him alone. He was leading the tournament. He finished with a sixty-eight and was tied for the lead. He didn’t see the old man that afternoon but looked for him quite often. He thought he saw him once and walked over to the man. It wasn’t him and half-aplologized in his Jack Daniel’s breath and then walked away, muttering to himself.

Jimmy was still amazed with Willard’s play. He was hitting his fairways and making most of his putts under ten feet. He had never played that well before; Jimmy wondered what might have possessed him. Willard was not surprised to see the old man again that night. Willard was in the same barstool berating the same bartender when he saw the old man. "Jesus old man, you scared me," he said though he had been waiting for him.

"I see you did well again today," said the old man. "Were you treating the people around you better?"

Willard laughed. "No, that’s the funny thing. I treated them the same I always do and I was still unbeatable. So much for your theory, eh?"

"We’ll see," said the old man quietly and Willard didn’t even hear it.

"Another drink over here," Willard barked to the busy bartender.

"Be careful Mr. Marx," the old man warned. "You never know who you’re talking to."

"Look old man, who do you think you are talking to me like that? Huh?" Willard asked. "You take me out to the course last night and scare the bejesus outta me and leave. I woke up there on the golf course, ya know. And now here you are again, jabbering on that crazy madness you speak." Willard Marx was still somewhat sober and he was more eloquent than the previous night. It was alright with the old man. He had all night.

Three drinks later, Willard was loose enough to be toyed with again. "Are you ready to go out again, Mr. Marx?" the old man asked.

"What? I don’t think so, old man, you kind of freaked me out. And besides, it’s obvious I don’t need you. I played pretty damn well without you today."

"Did you?" asked the old man.

"What does that mean?"

"I saw your every shot today," said the old man plainly.

"You did? I looked for you but I didn’t see you."

"I know. I didn’t want to be seen."

"Oh, is that how it is?" Willard asked sarcastically. "don’t try and take credit for my play today. It was all me," said Willard, acting very much true to his character.

"Was it now," the old man remarked. Again, he showed what little amusement he had inside.

"What are you saying?"

"Spell it out, Mr. Marx. Are you ready to go outside?" The old man was wearing all black though Willard couldn’t tell if it was pants and t-shirt or a toga.

"Shit, why not? Bartender, two more drinks and hurry up." Willard actually tipped the guy this time because after all, he made the cut.

It was even blacker that night. The sprinklers were on and Willard Marx was wet from head to toe before the swirling voice even came. Willard spun around violently, trying to find the old man but couldn’t.

"I told you that you couldn’t see me if I didn’t want you to," the swirling voice said.

"Where are you?" Willard asked. He was becoming nauseous and would have loved to vomit all over the old man.

"I am everywhere and, as we can both see, you are nowhere."

"What do you want from me?"

"What do you want from yourself?" the old man’s swirling voice asked. The trees surrounding the green ruffled slightly by the movement of the voice.

"Nothing."

"Exactly," said the voice.

"What?" asked Willard.

"What did I ask you to do?" asked the voice.

"I don’t remember," the wet drunk golfer said miserably.

The old man’s voice was mean the night became filtered red. "Treat people better and better people will treat you."

Willard was scared, bad. He had no idea where he was until he woke up again the next morning, wet and this time hungover. The groundskeeper did find him still asleep. "Senor, ju need to wake up," said one of them.

A half hour later, Wilalrd was eating the same breakfast as the day before when he saw Jimmy.

"Mornin’," Jimmy said. He hadn’t gotten drunk last night and felt pretty good that morning.

"Yeah, whatever," said the grumpy golfer.

Jimmy wasn’t phased. "You look like hell. You want some more coffee?"

"Leave me alone!" Willard yelled. Then he regained his composure and spoke again. "Just meet me with the bag and hour before the tee-time."

"Alright," Jimmy said and walked away. "I don’t need this," he thought as he walked to a different restaurant on the golf course grounds. He met a strange old man there who was drinking from an odd-shaped glass. He bought the old man breakfast and had the most interesting conversation with him. Jimmy left the restaurant in high spirits. It’s not everyday you meet a man who encourages you to change your life.

Willard was bothered by Jimmy’s smile when he arrived at the driving range. "What’s with you?" he asked while getting ready to hit an eight-iron.

"Nothing. I just finally had a good night’s sleep," Jimmy said and continued smiling at nothing.

"Whatever. Hand me the six iron," Willard said and thrust the eight back in Jimmy’s face.

"No problem boss," he said cheerfully.

Willard hit a six iron and watched it soar. Jimmy must have gotten laid last night, he thought. Good for Jimmy.

Saturday’s round was spectacular. Willard Marx shot a sixty-eight in windy conditions and was the leader by five shots going into Sunday. The winning purse for the tournament was $325,000, more than most executives make in a whole year. Willard wasted no time getting drunk that night. He had barely finished his abbreviated interview with Jim McCarden before throwing down a few Jack Daniel’s. The orange sunset was soothing to Willard; he was drunk in a mellow way that evening. It may have been the new bartender but maybe he was tired. Winning takes a lot of energy, he said to himself.

"Another Jack on the rocks, Mr. Marx?" asked the cute brunette. Willard learned that you get free drinks when you’re leading a tournament going into Sunday’s round. He wondered what else was free.

"You bet sweetheart, and why don’t you bring one for yourself," he said, not as sly as he would have thought.

The brunette blushed accordingly. She had heard about Willard Marx and her guard had been up from the start. "Uh, I’m sorry Mr. Marx, we’re not allowed to drink while on the clocdk," she said, trying to walk away.

"Well, what time do you get off?: he asked. Persistence is never so obvious as when mixed with alcohol.

"Pretty late," she assured him and acted like she was wiping a counter.

"It’s alright, I got the last tee-time of the day tomorrow," Willard said, smiling those yellow teeth that never gotten him any sexual favors.

"Hmm," the cute brunette said noncomitally.

"Well, think about it," he said, and tried to act indifferent, which wasn’t hard. Willard Marx was drunk for the thirty-seventh straight day. Thirty-eight days ago he hadn’t had enough money to get drunk, only buzzed.

It slowly became dark and Willard the crowd thicken for dinner, get even busier after dinner, and then around ten o’clock it was bumping. Willard’s vision was blurred and any woman looked good enough to sleep with. It was fairly obvious to every woman he came across that night. They wanted to like him; he was going to make a lot of money the next day but he was just too much of an asshole to hang out with. More than one woman left saying, "Whatever, jerk!" and one woman spilled a drink in his lap. It didn’t bother Willard; he was too drunk to care.

He was the life of his own party that night, cracking jokes to people who weren’t listening, enjoying the odd attention he was getting from being the leader of a professional golf tournament and also from being the drunkest one in the bar. He mostly would have been asked to leave except for the twelve under par that was posted next to his name on the leader board outside. Eventually, they started diluting his drinks with water. He didn’t even notice.

For the third consecutive night, Willard Marx was among the last to leave the bar. He had slowed his pace so that in case a woman did want to sleep with him, he would be able to see it coming.

Well, the old man did come that night and Willard was ready for him. Or so he thought. The cute brunette waitress came by and told him that if he wanted to go somewhere , she was more than willing. "Now we’re talking," Willard said, practically licking his chops.

"Let’s go out to the course," she said in the sexy way women say things when they want a man to do something.

"Sure," Willard said, completely forgetting what had transpired out there the last couple of nights. What moon was out that night had already set by the time they ventured onto the course. It was pitch black and Willard could hear sprinklers on another hole.

"Come on," she insisted, and was leading him further into the darkness.

"I’m coming sweetheart," he said, stumbling past a bunker, "I’m coming. Keep your pants on. For now," he added and laughed.

"Did you learn anything today?" asked a swirling voice Wilalrd Marx was now all too well aware of. He turned around in circles trying to locate it.

"Old man!" he screamed. "Where the hell are you?" Losing control, he vomited on the thirteenth green, the same green he had made that great eagle putt two days earlier.

"I told you what you needed to do and you did not listen!" the voice yelled, resounding through the trees.

"I kept playing good so I thought you were out of it," Willard admitted, on his hands and knees. He didn'’ remember the voice sounding so angry before.

"I was showing you the light," the swirling voice said in the unchanging black.

"Where did the girl go?" Willard asked.

"I was the girl," it said, and again Willard felt sick.

"Please go away," he begged.

"You are hopeless Mr. Marx, and you will never see me again." The sound of the voice vanishing filled Willard’s ears.

* * * * *

He awoke the next morning, this time in his car. He was wearing different clothes than he had been wearing the day before. I must have changed last night, he thought. Last night. Was that old man a dream? Then, as he got out of his car, he saw the remnants of Jack Daniels and peanuts on his shoes and some of it came back to him. That goddamn old-timer, he thought going to his trunk, but his clubs were gone. "What the hell?" Willard said. He didn’t like he was feeling at all.

He walked over to the golf course and he could see many of the players already on the driving range. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five in the morning. Wow, an hour before tee-time, I’d better get it together. And where the hell was Jimmy he wondered. As he got to the coffee shop, he saw more players inside having breakfast, including the golfer he was to be paired with today. Willard walked over and thought he might join him for breakfast. He sat down at the golfer’s table and greeted him. "Hey, good morning. I hope you had half as rough a night as I did," Willard said to him. The golfer just looked at him. He didn’t say a word and Willard immediately became uncomfortable. Before asked the guy what his problem was, he decided it better to just go somewhere else to eat. He grabbed a hot-dog and a Coke from a vendor and went to look for Jimmy.

Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. Willard checked the driving range. He checked the putting green. He even looked for Jimmy’s car and drove by the motel to see if he was sleeping in. Jimmy was gone. Willard Marx drove back to the golf course in a daze. He needed a shower, some coffee and more Jack Daniels. He parked his car and walked towards the first tee. As he did, he saw Jimmy exiting from one of the large CBS Television booths. Willard walked over to him. "Jimmy, where in the hell have you been?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Jimmy asked him right back and smiled.

"What were you doing in there?"

"Willard, I told you last night that CBS wanted to do some sort of piece on me today."

"You did?" Willard was confused. Too confused. "Look, I don’t care, just meet me at the first tee twenty minutes before we tee off, ok?" Willard said. He looked disheveled and Jimmy wondered if maybe he should pitch in for Willard to go to AA.

Willard walked around the course at a loss. Why in the hell would they be doing a piece on my caddy, he thought. This was not right. Twenty minutes before tee-time, Willard Marx headed over to the first tee. On the way, he saw Jim McCarden, patted him on the back and said, "Hey."

Jim McCarden looked around to see if the guy was talking to someone else and then said, "Hey," back to the guy. He quickly got away and Willard began to feel a conspiracy. He saw Jimmy near the first tee and said, "What a weird day, Jimmy, you have no idea."

"Hmm," was all Jimmy said.

Then Willard heard a voice he had hoped to never hear again. It was the old man’s voice but in a totally different context. "And now, on the first tee, from Portland, Maine. He’s currently leading the tournament by five shots. Jimmy Rolin!"

"What the—" Willard began.

"Come on Willard, we’re on," Jimmy said and waved his hand to the cheering crowd. Willard rubbed his eyes. A large heavy golf bag was standing next to him. It used to be his. Willard looked up, with watering eyes and he saw the old man. He merely winked at Willard Marx and said in passing, "Be careful with your back Mr. Marx, that bag looks pretty heavy. I hear he keeps bottles of tequila in there," and then the old man was gone.

Willard Marx stood there as Jimmy hit a perfect drive down the center of the fairway and he could decided what bothered him more: the fact he wasn’t a golfer anymore or the fact it was tequila and not Jack Daniels.