You could hear him from several holes away. His loud, booming voice carrying over the elitist grounds of Elmhurst Country Club. Standing underneath the TV tower at 18, entertaining a crew of associates and co-workers, was Mr. Larson of Happy Gilmore fame, decked out head to toe in Jordan Brand.
There he was. The funniest character, from the funniest golf movie ever made (you can shove Caddyshack up your ass). Rubbing shoulders with well-dressed Cedar Rapidians. Laughing, cursing, his voice turning heads and attracting dirty looks.
Mr. Larson was seen by fans at the 18th green Monday.
As Mr. Larson roared behind the 18th green, pounding vodka lemonades in the blazing sunshine, the ghosts of Ben Hogan and Sam Snead plotted their revenge.
The Golf God’s disapproved. This wasn’t how their game was meant to be enjoyed. Mr. Larson had turned the 18th green into a tailgate, fit with excess booze, dirty jokes and shameless flirtation. The only things missing were beach balls and vuvuzelas.
The Zach Johnson Classic attracts celebrity gawkers and the upper middle class to Cedar Rapids’ northeast side each summer. The hometown hero invites everyone he knows to town for a tournament benefiting local school children. The event thrives from the presence of people like John Daly, who you can watch chug a beer, then nail an approach shot within 3 feet with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
The people ate it up.
Back at the turn, Mr. Larson had whipped off his sandals and handed them to John Daly to sign. Mr. Daly obliged between puffs of his Marlboro.
“Jordan’s huh?” Daly joked.
The two-time major champion even took time to pose for a selfie. Mr. Larson hadn’t felt so good about meeting a player since Happy Gilmore first hit the tour.
“WHERE we drinking tonight John?!?!” he asked with typical boldness.
“WHAT are we drinking?” Daly responded.
“Whatever you want JD!”
Fuck Happy. Mr. Larson had a new favorite and his name was John Daly. This is the same I-don’t-give-a-shit golfer that’s written books with titles like “My Own Damn Way” and “The Truth Behind the Bullshit” John Daly was an athlete he related too. He left Daly for the 18th green confident he’d found a new drinking buddy.
There’s a certain etiquette observed by the gallery at the Zach Johnson Classic. Exercising control of your personal noise. Not taunting the players. Limiting alcohol consumption. It’s not that this etiquette is lost on Mr. Larson, he just prefers a more rowdy environment. He can’t help the fact his voice carries like a wind gust. He was in his element, hob-nobbing with the type of crowd he hadn’t seen since Gilmore and McGavin battled for the gold jacket.
The God’s first struck with unbearable humidity. Anyone who took a shower prior to attending the Zach Johnson Classic wasted their time. Sitting in the shade was the only way to avoid light headedness. The sweat beaded from every pore even if you held perfectly still.
Yet, still, there he was. Dressed in a black polo, sunglasses and aqua blue Jordan Brand hat. Soaking in the sun and fighting off organ failure. Sipping from a straw getting ripped up in the unrelenting heat.
The poor cameraman, filming the final pairing walking up 18, looked down in exasperation and shook his head. The noise was incessant. The line of appropriate behavior on a golf course long ago crossed.
The camera guy seemed to ask, “Doesn’t this guy understand we’re on live television?”
There was some unexplainable force to Mr. Larson. You couldn’t look away. I thought to myself, “Let me watch this for just a couple more seconds.” Then, suddenly, the Golf God’s struck him down.
“ARRRRRRGHHHHHH! MY KIDNEY!”
Out of no where he collapsed to his knees clutching the small of his back.At first it appeared his body had finally given way to heat stroke, the vicious level of clear liquor pumping through his blood expediting the collapse.
But as I ran for a closer look, a different truth came to light. Mr. Larson had been struck directly in the back by a live golf shot. He’d tempted the Golf God’s with outrageous behavior and they fell him with great vengeance and furious anger.
The cameraman swung in his direction. He lifted his shirt to reveal a red welt where the shot impacted. He kept repeating that he hoped it was John Daly who’d hit him. Anything for more time with JD. But say it was someone else, say a competitor of Mr. Daly. That would not be OK.
The poor sap had actually played a decent round to that point. Even though Daly would win at -41 under, he was in the final group. The player is nearly unidentifiable. Some local celebrity. He felt good about himself. Head held high, wearing a bright yellow golf shirt, he notices an imposing figure standing over his ball on the fringe at 18.
“My that man is big,” he thought.
Now his heart was beating a little faster. The nerves beginning to fray. He needed to close strong, not just for himself, but for the 5 figure sum he’d wagered on the round. He would have to confront the golf goon he’d just plucked with his approach.
“Don’t worry about it.” Mr. Larson said before the player could even apologize.
Now visibly agitated and skittish he waggles over his ball as Mr. Larson adds.
“I needed a good punch in the kidney. Helps push the liquor through.”
Clearly distracted he backs off his ball.
“Trying to hole out from here?”
The golfer grins nervously and stares at his shoes.
“Because John Daly accomplished that feat not more than one hour ago.”
Then, with the goon standing uncomfortably close, looming over his shoulder, he chipped within 25 feet, three-putted and picked up his ball.
Shook to his core he quit on the hole. Couldn’t even finish it he was so mentally rattled.
Satisfied he had supported Mr. John Daly to the fullest, Mr. Larson headed to the members only Olympic-sized swimming pool. There, he stripped down to his Calvin Klien’s and jumped in. Swimming laps in his underwear as strangers captured the moment with their phones. It was a good day on tour for Mr. Larson. A good day indeed.
