Why I despise Raymond Floyd

We all have our pet players on the PGA Tour, don’t we? Guys we just cheer for because they somehow look like the kind of guy you’d like to play 18 with and then go out for a beer.

Why do I like Jesper Parnevik? Maybe the up-turned bill on his cap. Maybe his taste in nannies. Maybe because I used to speak Swedish fairly well. Who knows?

Then there are they guys we love to hate. Why do I dislike Davis Love III so much? His tantrums at hecklers? I don’t think so. I disliked him long before that—even when he won the PGA and was practically impossible not to like, what with that rainbow over the 18th green and all. Sorry. Maybe I just have no heart.

Then there are the guys we actually have a reason to despise. Maybe Justin Leonard snubbed your autograph request. Maybe Jim Furyk stole that hottie Tabitha from you in college.

Or maybe, as in my case, a golf legend and his cocky mini-tour-traipsing son nearly ran over you with their golf cart…

Back at the 2001 Par-3 Shootout, Ray Floyd was in rare form. I mean this event is one of the fan-friendliest, most intimate, most congenial and easy-to-play money-grabs a washed-up Hall of Famer could hope to play. Nevertheless, Floyd did all he could to alienate the fans and the media.

At the end of day one, after Lee Trevino had holed an ace in the richest shot in golf history, the media were busy asking him all sorts of questions. After about 15 minutes, Floyd stood up and said something like: Listen, I’ve been here for fifteen minutes and no one’s asked me anything. If no one wants to talk to me, I’m going to leave.

The funny thing was, no one wanted to ask him anything because he hadn’t done diddly all day. So, off he went to a chorus of bemused chuckles.

But what really cheesed me off was how he and his son ran me off the cart path — nearly running over my foot — during the pro-am the second day. I was minding my own business, hauling my butt up one of the god-awfully steep holes on Threetops, without another person in sight. Suddenly, the Floyds were upon me. No word of warning at all. I jumped out of the way, felt the cart tire brush my heel, and away they sped. No apology, no thank you. Nothing.

So, that’s my story of how I came to have a least favorite golf legend. I still can’t explain why I always cheer against Davis Love, though.