“Am … am I about to die?” I thought

I’ve done my best to distance myself from this day and the week that followed. But there’s a moment I keep returning to, when the ambulance makes a fierce left turn. I remember looking out the back window and seeing a two-story, cream stucco building with a red tile roof fading from view. I knew where we were, for that house is across the street from the local municipal golf course.

Until that day I didn’t think much of that muny, Brennan Golf Course. Its routing is odd, the conditioning is brutal and the rounds are slow. But at that moment I was happy to know it was there, because Brennan is next to the hospital. For an instant, after drowning in doubt and fear and unbearable discomfort, I was distracted.

[divider] [/divider]

Two months ago I would have told you golf is my passion. I play it, watch it, read it, write it, think it, breathe it. It’s what I do and defines who I am. There’s a good chance that description describes you, too. Golf has a tendency to do that.

Now? Now those sentiments still apply, mostly. Only the past two months have made golf into something more.

On the morning of September 8, I was preparing to walk my dog, a little long-haired, ball-of-rage chihuahua, when a crushing sensation radiated from the middle of my chest. I had a sleepless night, at one point moving to the living room in hopes a change of scenery would help. I figured that uncomfortable feeling was a strain from laying on the couch in an odd position. Or, hey, I had just turned 36. Maybe it was the pangs that come with aging. I shook it off, and the dog and I proceeded out the front door for our usual two-block stroll. I made it just 30 yards before turning around. With each step that crushing sensation worsened. By the time I returned to my couch it seemed like someone was attempting to embed a bowling ball in my sternum.

Over the past decade I had a number of similar episodes where I felt pressure around my heart, ranging from sore and achy to a stabbing intensity. However, every test, X-ray and ultrasound showed a healthy heart and lungs, so these incidents were chalked up to panic attacks. I never accepted this answer, not truly or fully. I didn’t feel anxious or overly worried, and couldn’t shake the idea something else was spurring these events. But there was no evidence of anything wrong. The pain, visceral as it felt, had to be in my head.

I told myself this over and over and over as I was bent over on the couch that morning. You’re fine. You’re FINE. Only I leaned back and, boy, I didn’t feel fine. I felt like I was going to collapse. I called my doctor’s office, located just three streets away, and told them I thought I was having a mean panic attack. I laboured into the building and must have looked like hell because I was immediately brought back and hooked up to an EKG.

It wasn’t the doctor’s expression, one I could read through her surgical mask, that signalled something was wrong. Nor was it the pitch in her voice when she called for EMTs and yelled to nurses to find aspirin now. These observations, obvious as they should have been, needed to be spelled out, which the doctor calmly did when I not-so-calmly asked what was up: “You may be having a heart attack.”

I sat frozen with electrodes uncomfortably hanging from my chest, those words too surreal to process, until two very nice men swooped in and placed me on a stretcher, rolling me out of the doctor’s office and into an ambulance en route to the hospital. When we reached the ER, I was lifted and placed on a cold, stainless-steel table as a dozen doctors and nurses converged on me like a pit crew. I was stripped down and shaved, a number of IVs and lines jabbed in my arms. “You’re where you need to be,” one doctor told me with confidence. “We’re going to act fast.” A cut was made on my right wrist, allowing the doctors to insert a flexible tube through the artery that would see where a potential blood clot was located. Through the crowd I could see my wife, who had been called from work by the doctor’s office. Next to her was a priest. Man, this really isn’t good. I was wheeled into another room, conscious but confused.

Space and time tend to stop when laying naked in a sterile room with strangers poking your body as your chest feels like it’s going to explode while staring directly into bright lights. I do remember thinking this predicament likely meant I was going to miss a tee time I had with my neighbour for the following day. I also remember praying. A lot. I prayed for the pain to stop. I prayed not to die. I prayed that if I did die for my wife to find happiness and strength to move on …

“Bridge! You see that, right there? It’s a bridge!”

The pit crew of doctors and nurses seemed relieved, and within a minute nearly all but two of them left the room. As I was beginning to think I was coming out on the business end of a brutally coordinated lunch break, the head doctor leaned in. “Good news, you’re not having a heart attack,” he said. “You have a heart defect. It’s the best possible outcome.”

The doctors discovered I had a myocardial bridge. It is a condition where a coronary artery tunnels through or under the heart rather than sitting on top of it. The defect is present at birth, but it doesn’t reveal itself on X-rays or echocardiograms or ultrasounds. In fact, it’s unknown how many people have a myocardial bridge since it’s only discovered through heart catheterisations (which is what I had done with the tube up my wrist) or, um, autopsies. That squeezing sensation I had was the heart “trapping” the artery. Why it hurt worse than usual this day was unclear, although low potassium and magnesium levels likely contributed to the magnified pain.

While it sounds serious, a myocardial bridge is relatively manageable and shouldn’t affect the quality of life. Eventually, some drugs kicked in and my chest pain subsided. I was taken to a private room and had several other tests administered, all coming back normal. I was kept in the hospital overnight for observation and released the next afternoon, a Friday. I would be taking beta blockers to help with blood flow to prevent similar trapping incidents going forward, but crisis, I thought, had been averted.

Has your love for golf ever been unhealthy? Not in an ironic, cheesy, “I played 45 holes this weekend because 36 wasn’t enough!” way, but in a manner that genuinely had an adversarial affect on your life? Because that was the question I chewed on that night in the hospital.

I wasn’t kidding when I said golf consumes me. I love that it does, and I’m lucky enough that I have a job that allows me to channel that spirit into my work. Yet, potassium and magnesium levels aside, I wondered if this incident was related to my career. On the list of stressful occupations “golf writer” ranks pretty low, but this year was filled with existential questions and fraught with a complicated schism made worse by some of the characters (and threats!) associated with it. Plus, the relentless cycle of writing for a website, paired with the fact that your work is always public, creates a type of pressure one might not expect from such a fun-sounding job. That pressure is a privilege, no doubt … but it is pressure. The last 15 years, that has been the life I’ve known.

I wondered if I needed to recalibrate how I viewed golf as a recreation, too. The spare time I did have was devoted to hitting balls or sneaking in an emergency nine. Same goes with reading golf literature. I loved these activities, but when you think you’re about to die you tend to evaluate if you’re making the most of life. I worried if totally ingratiating myself into one thing — thus blurring the line between work life and real life — was healthy.

The catheterisation meant I couldn’t use my right hand for some time, which meant no writing or playing. From a schedule standpoint it was a fortuitous respite. There was no professional golf that weekend and the next tour stop was the season opener in Napa, an event I wasn’t heartbroken over missing. Forget answering email or checking the company’s Slack channel; I promised myself not to watch or read or listen to anything about golf because the temptation would be too great to somehow bring it back to work. To do this right I needed a cleanse. For the first time in what felt like forever I would be unplugged from the game.

The first night at home was rough. Two hours of sleep, generously. It wasn’t unexpected. My chest was sore — I was told my heart was racing at 150 beats per minute in the ambulance — and I had to lie awkwardly in order to stabilise my right wrist. But I figured I could grab a few naps over the weekend and be right by Monday morning. Only in spite of feeling emotionally and physically spent, I couldn’t doze off on Saturday. Not during the day, not into the night. Not one single hour of sleep.

Sunday I felt like a zombie. Remember, I hadn’t slept the day before this mess started, and the night in the hospital wasn’t exactly a peaceful snooze. I started to physically feel sick from being so alertly awake. It felt like I had 20 venti lattes surging through my veins, except I hadn’t had coffee in days. When the sun went down on Sunday night and reappeared Monday morning I remained up. I went to a general practitioner on Monday morning, this time with my wife in tow. I hadn’t slept in four of the past five nights. Forget zombified, at this juncture I was having trouble moving. My appetite was shot, and what I did manage to get down didn’t stay for very long. Everything hurt. I relayed this to the doctor, asking if there was any chance the beta blockers were causing insomnia. I was sent home with more medicine. And it was one thing that my chest remained on fire and my head was thumping and my body throbbed, but now it felt like my psyche was under attack, the insinuation being this was all in my mind and I needed to toughen up. In reality it already took so much strength just to keep going.

Not helping matters was I no longer had my outlet. When I would normally feel cooped up or burdened I would hit a few buckets at the driving range. Even if I wanted to break my golf sabbatical I couldn’t, still too weak to grip a club. Same goes with putting on my basement green. Suddenly this happening on one of the few PGA Tour off-weeks didn’t seem so serendipitous. Days before I was worried golf was distracting me from other things in life and now would have done anything to have that problem back.

I was up until 4am that Monday night/Tuesday morning, and somewhere between 4-to-6 I got some shut-eye because it was the only stretch I didn’t see the clock on my phone staring back at me. I had an early appointment, this time with the cardiologist for a follow-up, and renewed my questions about the beta blocker. The cardiologist replied in the affirmative, that insomnia can be a side effect of the drug. He recommended I shelf it until getting the sleep under control. I felt heard. Probably because I had been seen: the mirror reflected the image of a haggard, ghostly figure, a person I did not recognise, yet knew was me.

Another sleepless night followed. I thought this could be the beta blocker working its way out of my system. I think. Who knows. For the life of me, what life I had left in me … I could not sleep.

At that point I envisioned the worst, and the rumblings it would cause. “Yeah, did you hear how he went? Sleep deprivation. I didn’t know you could die like that, either.”

It had been a week since I was rushed to the hospital and now I was somehow in worse shape, failing to sleep in six of the previous seven nights. That day, Wednesday, September 14, my wife and I were hosting a prayer group from our church. Despite the state I was in we had people over; I figured, well, if I’m about to die, probably not the worst thing to get an extra Bible study in. Before the group departed for the night I asked our pastor if he could pray for me. At the time I wish I could say it was because I solely believed in the power of faith. Truth be told, it was because I was broken. I did not know where else to go. The pastor and the group prayed over me. If it sounds weird that a group of people would pray for someone to get sleep, know it was just as weird to ask. When the meeting departed, I told my wife I was going upstairs to see if it worked, tucking myself into bed and closing my eyes.

When I opened them it was light out. I checked my phone. It was 7am I was out for nine hours.

I went into the shower, and cried.

I felt armed with science and faith, but to make sure this sleep wasn’t an aberration — to put the past week into the past and keep it there — I needed to do my part. In the honest, sober reflection of morning, whatever harm the beta blockers were doing wasn’t helped by my own anxiety. It was a vicious self-fulfilling prophecy: I wasn’t sleeping, I would get agitated why I wasn’t sleeping, I would catastrophise what it could mean, repeat. I needed something to take my mind off things.

I needed golf.

To hell with unplugging. Like a McDonald’s salad it was good in name only. I decided to do the opposite and lean into my love for the game. I just had to love it differently.

I had grown accustomed to viewing the sport through the prism of a scribe. I didn’t consume it for myself; I consumed it with the thought of contextualising what I had seen and heard and observed and felt for a larger audience. In that lens, every round, every tournament, every win is framed as a validation or statement of some sort. They are all pieces to a larger puzzle. Fans can have that outlook, too, which I get, because knowing the touchstones of a journey makes for a richer, more compelling story. But now I wondered if we are in such a rush to see that bigger picture we don’t appreciate the individual pieces for themselves.

Max Homa

When Max Homa won the Fortinet Championship, I didn’t try to arrive at some broader storyline about what it said about Homa the player and where that player might be going. I appreciated it for what it was, which was a shocking, dramatic finish. That’s how I watched the Presidents Cup, too. Maybe Tom Kim really is the next big thing. If he isn’t, so what? Because I can’t tell you how much fun I had watching him have fun, and not once did I extrapolate what it could mean for his trajectory. They might not be pieces to a larger puzzle. Sometimes it’s just golf, something to keep your mind off real life. That sounds like a knock, but it’s a pretty damn good compliment.

I went back and watched the final rounds from this year’s majors. I covered all four on-site yet watching their broadcasts revealed how, at times, I was blind or ignorant to smaller moments that in reality stood large. When Mito Pereira’s alligator-armed swing sent his ball and hopes into that creek at Southern Hills, I was too worried about preparing for a likely playoff that I missed Pereira’s expression, a look that said he knew this might be the only chance he’d ever get and that chance was now gone. At Brookline I was with a group of writers less than 15 yards away from Matt Fitzpatrick’s final approach from that bunker. Then I was too focused on his lie and the precarious position he was in; now I focused on Fitzpatrick’s eyes, which belied a conviction that was the undercurrent for such an audacious play. In April I laughed at Scottie Scheffler’s struggles with his bubble vest, yet on rewind it was a reminder that the guy who had looked so robotic in dismantling Augusta National was, indeed, human. Somehow, the broadcast failed to do justice to the rapport between Rory McIlroy and the crowds at St Andrews, for that week he not just entertained but galvanised those that followed and they in turn returned the favour.

I had marvelled so much at what these players were able to do that I was forgetting about the person who was doing the performing.

TV wasn’t the only storyteller. Because the only thing I had the strength to do for a month was walk, I took my dog for long treks three or more times a day, and most of those times I would fire up a golf podcast. I read all the feature pieces I saved from competitors that I never had time for in the spring and summer. I devoured Michael Bamberger’s “To the Linksland” and a number of James Finegan books, and heroically tried and desperately failed to get through “Golf in the Kingdom”.

Impressive, educational and entertaining as all the different avenues were, and successful as they were at keeping my attention diverted, the most cathartic story was delivered at the driving range.

About three weeks after the hospital visit I was driving to the pharmacy when I decided to make a detour to Sterling Farms, the other muny in town. I still couldn’t swing a club, but, well … I missed the range. I missed the feeling of hitting a perfect draw after fighting a hook the previous five attempts. Missed being alone with others, that often-unsaid acknowledgement from strangers when you glance up from your stance and see someone else doing the same. I missed the voice over the loudspeaker asking the upper deck bays to stop hitting drivers over the net, a message that is always ignored. When I parked myself on a bench I expected those feelings to come back.

Instead, I was struck by two things. The first was how cool it is that one game can speak to so many different folks of different ages and backgrounds. Seriously, you don’t exactly see grandmas working on their basketball jumpers next to middle-schoolers on the playground. The second was a bit more profound. To me the range had always been synonymous with work, improvement. Trying to squeeze a few more yards out of the 3-wood. Trying to flight the 7-iron through the right window. Trying to dial in your wedges. Trying. Thing is, I always had my head down at the range so I never truly saw what others were doing, and on this day I didn’t see any trying. What I saw were people doing their best to wail away at highlighter-colored golf balls and fully immersed in the task. The belief that amateurs shouldn’t predicate their enjoyment off scores or shots is not new, but something that day — watching ball after ball after ball after ball sail, and sometimes shank, into the sky without an outcome attached to its destination — rooted a principle deep in my subconscious.

I had always viewed golf as a demon that can never be caught, its joy found not in its capture but in its pursuit. To an extent that is true, or can be true. It’s fun to shoot lower scores, to better your best, to work towards a goal. But at its essence, golf doesn’t need to be chased. It wants to be caught. All it takes is seeing it for what it is, a game. And games are meant to be enjoyed.

I had gained perspective, and unlike a tour pro I didn’t need to have a baby to get it.

Beall returned to the course in October, but plays now with a different perspective on the game. Ben Walton

Since that week from hell my life has stabilised. Progression hasn’t been linear. There were plenty of bad days, mainly from battling some nasty side effects from medicines that are now part of my daily routine. I lost close to 20 lbs and haven’t gained it back. But I’m sleeping well, I’ve levelled out, I feel confident about the plans I’m on and where they should take me.

Lest I give you the wrong idea, golf wasn’t the only thing I did over the downtime. I read a ton of Patrick Radden Keefe and contributed to a friend’s book project. I watched football and “Parks and Recreation” and Stanley Tucci’s tour through Italy. On some of those long walks I made it a point to listen to nothing at all in order to appreciate the autumn foliage in all her glory. I’m trying to build and diversify my interests, attempting new things for both adventure and appreciation of what I already know to be good.

Yet, if there is a main element, what got me from there to here, it was golf.

My relationship with it has changed. I’ve been able to play a few times since I regained the use of my right wrist, and lost count of how many range visits I’ve made. I still want to improve my game, to shoot the lowest scores that I can. But those are distant aspirations that are not allowed to contradict the simple comfort of getting to swing a club. Appreciation has to be practised, and when I’m at the range now, that’s what I’m doing, not focusing on my takeaway or hip action but realising how good I’ve got it.

I’m back to work, trying to infuse more joy and colour and life into what I write. I still take what I do seriously, but I’ve been covering it with the delight I think a reader would have if we swapped places. I still marvel at the players, yet am more enchanted with what it says about them as people. Adam Svensson won the RSM Classic with a final-round 64, yet it was the Canadian coming undone afterwards — knowing the bet he had made on himself had finally paid off — that will stick with me longer than any shot he hit.

At the end of each day, I make a point to remind myself how lucky I am to do what I do.

Part of me thinks saying golf saved me is hyperbolic and blasphemous. It’s a disservice to my wife and parents, to my faith. Those people and that power did the hard work. And yet we all have our callings, and I hear mine loud and clear. Golf is what I do, and it defines who I am. I just didn’t know it could be something more. Despite how I found out, I’m thankful that I did.

You may also like:
PGA Tour University star earns trip to Dubai Desert Classic
Jumeirah Golf Estates secures 10-year deal for DPWTC
City boss Pep enjoys World Cup break in UAE
LOOK: Augusta’s new-look 13th hole revealed
Was Rory at his best in 2022? Take a look at the stats
Tiger’s latest victory in PGA Tour 2022 PIP standings
Legends of the fall: Rory and DJ among the big winners this autumn
Gareth Bale’s crafty World Cup golf hack
Take a look at the players who have qualified for the 2023 Masters — as it stands
Dubai Duty Free Golf World Cup returns
LOOK: Rare Tiger Woods shirt up for auction
DP World Tour ‘Race to Dubai’ to return from 2023
LOOK: Prize money payouts at DP World Tour Championship
Rory deserves to brag after DP World Tour triumph
Rahm raises the bar with third DPWTC
How Lydia Ko returned to LPGA glory
Get your FREE November issue of Golf Digest Middle East here
How Bryson dropped 20 pounds with new diet
PGA Tour to lose long-time and loyal sponsor
How South Australia landed the LIV gig
Rahm slates ‘laughable’ OWGR, open to LIV Golf players earning ranking points

The post I thought I was dying. How golf kept me going appeared first on Golf Digest Middle East.

Illustrations by Antoine Dore

By Joel Beall
Twitter is an odd place to start this story, but this is an odd story and that’s where it started. I was on my living room couch listening to an office-wide teleconference, which is to say I was aimlessly scrolling through social media, when this popped into my feed:

“Billy Mayfair Reveals Autism Spectrum Disorder Diagnosis”

The tweet led to a Sports Illustrated interview, in which Mayfair—a former talent on the PGA Tour but a man with a complicated past—explained how a rules controversy ultimately led him to discover he had autism. It was an extraordinary interview and one that left me curious. But curiosity can take you on an unexpected journey, and over the next month Mayfair would lead me to a life-altering destination of my own.

. . .

Mayfair, 54, was a decorated amateur and has enjoyed a fruitful career that spans over three decades. But it is a career primarily known for two things. The first is a badge of honour: He is the only player to defeat Tiger Woods in a PGA Tour playoff, doing so at the 1998 Nissan Open. The second, a badge of infamy.

Fairly or not, there were rumours in tour circles about Mayfair’s on-course conduct. Those whispers were given wider credence following a 2019 incident at a Champions event outside Los Angeles. Mayfair faced two rules issues in the same round, the first involving how much time was spent looking for a ball, the second a question if Mayfair caused a ball to move in the rough by patting down grass. In both circumstances, tour officials said Mayfair misrepresented what occurred. The second instance was caught before Mayfair left the tournament grounds, which added two strokes to his score. The first, however, was not realised until the next day, which led to Mayfair’s disqualification from the tournament.

Mayfair continued to play on the Champions after the episode, his name mostly out of the spotlight. That changed this April when, in the Sports Illustrated interview, Mayfair revealed his wife Tami prodded him to seek medical help following the rules fallout. She suspected the challenges Billy faced, some which caused battles with others and himself, were more than the routine stresses that come with professional golf. Following a series of doctor visits, Mayfair was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD), in the range formerly known as Asperger syndrome.

Mayfair told SI he was going public for several reasons. He claimed his 2019 DQ was the result of miscommunication and misunderstanding. He was asking the tour for accommodations related to ASD’s effect on his play. He wanted to change the public’s perception of him. He also wanted to change the public’s perception of autism.

These are far from the only characteristics of high-functioning autism but they tend to be the more common flags. They’re also the ones that caught my eye. Because they applied to me.

Compelling as the interview was, I couldn’t quite see the correlation between ASD and Mayfair’s reputation. There seemed to be a story not being told in its entirety. Luckily, Mayfair’s representatives were eager to get him on as many platforms as possible. We had a date to chat.

Thanks to the Internet I was able to grasp the basics of the disorder, and though what I read were overviews, I quickly realized they were also maps, and not just to Mayfair’s story. I phoned several autism centers and experts, prepping for an interview with a guy who didn’t know he was autistic until his 50s while simultaneously seeing a different picture begin to take shape. And I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

. . . 

You’re thinking “Rain Man.” I get it. Dustin Hoffman’s portrayal of an autistic savant in the 1988 Oscar-winning movie is credited for raising public awareness and dispelling some myths about the disorder. Conversely, the film is also accused of feeding a stereotype that has become autism’s conventional image. It is problematic because no individual or characteristic can encapsulate what we talk about when we talk about autism.

[divider] [/divider]

GOLF SAVED MY LIFE
A boy with autism and his father find happiness through golf.

[divider] [/divider]

Autism spectrum disorder is a remarkably complex developmental condition. The American Psychiatric Association describes ASD as “persistent challenges in social interaction, speech and nonverbal communication, and restricted and repetitive behaviours.” What we know about ASD is rapidly evolving. In 2005, Autism Speaks—the largest autism research organisation in the United States—found one in 166 children were diagnosed with ASD. Last year, in conjunction with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Autism Speaks said the prevalence is now one in 54. It was news welcomed as a breakthrough while also underscoring how much more there is to explore.

How ASD is classified is changing, too. In 2013, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders replaced a series of autistic disorder subgroups, including Asperger syndrome, with the single umbrella term “autism spectrum disorder.” Though it is a disorder predominantly diagnosed during childhood, Mayfair’s case is not rare, as a growing number of adults are finding out later in life they have ASD.

No two cases of ASD are alike. There is a wide variation in the type and severity of symptoms people experience, which is why “spectrum” is often used when describing it. People with ASD could range from those prone to frequent physical ticks, people who are silent and developmentally disabled, to high-functioning individuals who have narrow interests, loquacious and monotone communication habits, and odd social approaches. One of Mayfair’s biggest challenges is processing information in a timely manner. He says it leads him to be constantly in danger of being put on the clock in competition, which in turn throws him off his routine and game.

Taxing as that might be for someone like Mayfair, there is a belief that golf—a sport that calls for a series of repeatable motions and can be played outside the team dynamic—can be helpful to those with ASD. Ernie Els, whose son Ben has ASD, founded an autism-based golf foundation which teaches the game while also practicing specific ASD learning concepts, such as communication, emotional regulation and motor and social skills. (Els also built an autism charter school in Florida.) The Brooklyn Junior Autistic Golfers Academy does the same, asserting the recreation helps build self-esteem and confidence. Moreover, Mayfair is unlikely to be the first high-profile golfer to have ASD: Moe Norman, golf’s troubled genius, is believed to have been autistic.

Because the spectrum is so vast I concentrated on the high-functioning scale where Mayfair said he sat. Some of these signs are:

Speech difficulties; odd, stiff speech patterns; problems with conversational give-and-take; impaired nonverbal behaviours (lack of eye contact, missing body language cues); socially naive; oversensitive to sunlight; repetitive behaviour; exhibiting strong, special interests; fixation on particular subjects or ideas; clumsiness; dislike of change; trouble regulating emotions and responses; anxiety and depression.

These are far from the only characteristics of high-functioning autism, but they tend to be the more common flags. They’re also the ones that caught my eye. Because they applied to me.

. . .

I am 34 years old, and many of those years have been marked by private frustration. It is a frustration that stems from an inability to speak coherently. From an early age I knew what to say and how to say it, but when I opened my mouth the words that were so eloquent and powerful and concise in my mind came out disjointed. A speech impediment took its toll early on, and though my stutter eventually subsided, I still tend to mumble, or speak in sentences that can run on or end abruptly.

I remember spending an entire year of recess sitting on a playground curb because it was easier than opening my mouth and divulging something worse. But by high school I realised more was amiss than how I spoke.

The impediment became a catch-all scapegoat for other failings. Sometimes it was a pretext for not venturing out. I remember spending an entire year of recess sitting on a playground curb because it was easier than opening my mouth and divulging something worse. But by high school I realized more was amiss than how I spoke.

I struggled to hold conversations. I couldn’t decipher if someone was mad at me or liked me or hated me. It was like listening to a different song than everyone else. Group settings were minefields. Someone would laugh, and I would have no idea why. I misread when it was my turn to speak. The constant unease left me with an ever-present scowl. Everyone saw it, except me. I was perplexed when told I was aloof, pretentious and arrogant. In short, I was not a “good hang.”

I was not a social pariah; I was pretty good at sports and counted my teammates as friends. I did not have those luxuries in college. My first two years were so isolating that I habitually thought of transferring or dropping out. But I stayed, and by providence, my junior year I was paired with five guys in a house who somehow saw past my quirks. Of course they drank a lot, so maybe they didn’t notice. Still, they accepted me as their own.

Now, I come from a family with loving parents and siblings. I have a wife who is my soulmate, and as much as they do enjoy their spirits, those college roommates have become lifelong friends. In that same breath … it is a lonely, demoralising existence to be incapable of telling the world who you are and how you feel and what you think, especially against the conviction that it is your reality now and forever.

My escape, the only thing that made sense, was writing.

Be it a notepad or white sheet of paper or a computer screen, I had space and time to put together all these seemingly disjointed pieces into a complete puzzle and show others the picture I was so desperately trying to describe. It began when I was a kid, writing to sports teams asking for free swag or providing unprompted lineup and roster advice. In high school I wrote for the paper, and by college I had a blog that gained a bit of traction. These writings … they weren’t always good. I tended to go overboard with big words and tangential theories to compensate for my shortcomings. But the material at least showed potential to allow me to get a job at a major sports publication at 23 that ultimately led to where I am today. On the surface, mine is a position that is tailor-made to camouflage my weaknesses.

Unfortunately, foundational cracks can’t be concealed. Last year I was invited on a podcast and was borderline incomprehensible, and when the call was over I heard a sound engineer tell the hosts, “I think I can clean him up to make it work.” Be it a chat with a boss or an interview subject, I still struggle to maintain a conversation. Whenever I pitch stories I can visualize their rhythm and flow, their message and their purpose, but often labor to distill that into two or three sentences.

And it’s just not my work. My wife’s job requires social gatherings, but she often leaves me home, worried that my perceived aloofness will become a distraction, reflect poorly on her, or make others feel awkward or unwelcomed. She contended I would zone out or show indifference if the subject was something other than golf. She was disheartened that I couldn’t expand my interests and expressed worry I was depressed.

Thing is, I had visited speech therapists and doctors and psychologists. There was never an overarching theme or sufficient answer. Each problem, the ones I acknowledged or was informed of, could be explained in itself. Some people don’t have a silver tongue. Some are fixated on their work. Some of us are introverts.

Some have two left feet and are blind without sunglasses and are obsessed with golf and, despite their best intentions, are aloof and emit a “Stay Off My Lawn” vibe.

What I received was a universal response: It sounds like you should see someone.

Then I read the signs of ASD that morphed my computer screen into a mirror and made the room spin like I was on a Tilt-A-Whirl. Within hours I called a number of autism-related centers and doctors—to get more information for my chat with Mayfair, yes, but also to throw a nasty “Oh by the way” curveball in each phone call’s direction. See, I am from the WebMD generation. We type in fatigue and loss of appetite into a symptom checker and deduce that we, indeed, are dying of (checks notes) water deficiency syndrome. Clearly one of these voices of authority, after reading the list of signs that worried me, would set me straight with a, “No, you’re reading too much into this.”

What I received was a universal response: It sounds like you should see someone.

I called my wife. Oddly enough she had asked a week earlier, during a small fight about house work, if I had ever been diagnosed with autism. I initially took it as something said in the heat of a tense moment. Now I was realising that question came from a different place. “Were you serious when you asked if I’ve been checked for autism?” I blurted out. She calmly said yes, stating much of the behaviour observed above. She encouraged me to get checked out. One of the experts I talked to was local, just a 20-minute drive away. I made an appointment for Monday. This was a Thursday. Friday was my chat with Mayfair.

. . . 

“I had struggled in school,” Mayfair said in late April. “I socialized, although I never felt like I fit in or understood what was going on. The biggest thing was school; I had tutors, but never performed well on tests. Some tests were OK but if it was a timed test, it put me under the gun. I spaced out. Never felt like I got the grades.”

Mayfair had just completed a full practice session, but he was energized by the opportunity to tell his story and happy that someone wanted to hear it. “I screamed and kicked,” Mayfair said at his wife’s suggestion to go to the doctor but realised “when the [2019] incident happened, I needed to stand up for myself.”

Mayfair did not take the diagnosis well at first. He was a professional athlete; how could he be autistic? More than just being skeptical, he went into denial.

“I fought it. This wasn’t me,” he said. Then he read the doctor’s report. “I thought, ‘Well, I do have that problem. And that problem.’ And I realized it wasn’t telling me my problems as it was giving me a blueprint to combat these problems.”

Mayfair began assessing his past through the ASD prism. He never understood why he would get so frustrated and upset at small things, or why he was so quick to lose his temper. He replayed many of the interactions he had with fans and rules officials over the years that left one or more parties aggrieved. He wondered why he was so stressed over moments that shouldn’t have been stressful.

“One more thing,” Mayfair said before the call ended. “Good luck.”

. . .

Since his diagnosis, Mayfair said he’s found peace. He’s more aware of situations and their environments when it appears things could go south. He does all he can to not feel rushed. Whatever reservations he had about sharing his story had dissipated. He was now on a mission, he said, to destigmatize what some think of ASD.

“Well, I think a lot of people think maybe I’m trying to use this as an advantage,” Mayfair says. “I’m trying to have an equal playing field with what I do. And I want to show people you can have a normal life with this diagnosis.”

Before our first chat I arranged for a second interview, as I wanted to revisit the conversation after I went through my own evaluation. I wasn’t sure how Mayfair was going to take this information; the platform he thought he had may now be shared with a writer he had never met. But when I told him my story, he was encouraging and did his best to defang what could lie ahead. He even seemed galvanized, as if my revelation had given him conviction in what he was trying to do.

“Good on you for exploring that about yourself,” Mayfair said. “You might not like what you hear. I didn’t. But it’s good to find out and take the first steps.”

It was a productive chat but one that left me harbouring guilt. Mayfair was gracious with his time and his story, how he felt and what he went through. I initially reached out because I was curious about the story rather than who the story was about. Plus, I still didn’t see the parallels between his controversy and ASD. That would have to wait for the follow-up.

“One more thing,” Mayfair said before the call ended. “Good luck.”

. . .

My appointment was with a psychologist who specialises in diagnosing ASD, ADHD and learning disabilities. I learned a bit more about autism; for example, some of the aloofness and scowls could be the result of underdeveloped social cues in the brain. However, because I arrived with a framework of the disorder, we dove in—into my past and present, of who I was and who I wasn’t able to be. That sounds like a purge, and in ways it was. It also felt like we were trying to solve a mystery that had long ago gone cold but was now revived with a new lead.

A few days following the meeting I was given an assessment to take at home. My wife was given a similar questionnaire about what she had observed in our time together. There was homework, charting my daily routine. Two weeks later there was an in-person two-hour evaluation. More than once—like when I was asked to imagine aliens landed and was tasked with teaching them to brush their teeth; or to narrate a story about flying frogs invading suburbia—I felt this was a spectacularly stupid endeavour. Just when I came close to asking, “All right, what the hell are we doing here?” I was told the tests were over. I would know the results within the week.

I thought the interstitial between the evaluation and its outcome would be a reflective period. It was mostly excruciating. I read all the same articles on ASD I already had, hoping to glean something new. I checked my emails and call log to make sure I didn’t miss a note from the doctor, then would check again five minutes later. When you’re on the precipice of something big, a week to wait is weekend-round-at-the-muny slow.

Finally, the psychologist asked if I could meet. A Zoom call would have to suffice as it coincided with the PGA Championship, which I was covering in South Carolina. In a media center where other writers were conducting virtual interviews with Rory McIlroy and Justin Thomas or pounding out stories, a psychologist filled my screen.

The call took 45 minutes. It felt like five. My psychologist diagnosed me with autism spectrum disorder. I wish there was a more climatic way to deliver the news, but that’s how it was delivered to me.

The psychologist reminded me at least a half dozen times I was still the same person now as I was before the call began.

The conversation was surgical and sober. I was in the range formerly known as Aspergers. It was a mild case, emphasized by a lack of social-emotional reciprocity. Most of the call outlined how we could improve some of those problem areas, along with the psychologist reminding me, at least a half dozen times, I was still the same person now as I was before the call began. When the meeting was over I called my wife, who said the same thing: I was still the same person. I then walked out of the media centre and onto Kiawah’s driving range, watching players try their best to hit into howling wind without really paying attention to who was in front of me.

I’m still the same person today as I was yesterday. I suppose that’s true. It feels true. I still have a job and a family and friends. But my past and future are forever altered. My horizon is now dotted with behavioural therapy trying to address areas I long thought were irreparable. That is for the good. There is hope.

My former self does feel different. There is clarity, a connective tissue to the horde of frustrations I thought were singular beasts. There’s relief in knowing why I am the way I am. But if I’m being honest, one of my first emotions when hearing I was on the spectrum was, if only for a moment, heartache. Not for the diagnosis itself, but all the moments that led to it and how they could have been different.

I thought of all those frustrations as a kid and teenager and adult. Those frustrations were tormentors, bullies. If you’ve dealt with a bully you know it’s not just the fear but how that fear can siphon so much energy and time. There’s a weight that you’re unable to shed. I wish I could tell that guy it’s going to be OK, to ease the pain only he knew but couldn’t explain. It would have saved so much hurt.

. . . 

You mentioned the 2019 incident caused you to seek help, I asked. Knowing what you know now, how would you handle that situation differently?

The diagnosis made me see Mayfair in an altered light. There was awareness where there had been curiosity, empathy where there was judgment. There was admiration and gratitude for what he did for me. In return he seemed touched that he could play a small role in this discovery.

However, this journey we were now on began with a rules controversy, one that led some to label Mayfair a cheater as a result. Mayfair said he wanted to change his public perception. What did the public need to know that they didn’t?

“People are going to be understanding now,” Mayfair said. “It’s all about communication. You have to know what they’re saying and how to respond. Communication is better now. It’s just a different form of communication and people are going to have to get used to that.

“A lot of times on the PGA Tour officials or fans would say things and my reaction offended them. It just took more time for me to process what was happening. I did that to my closest friends. Hopefully people see I wasn’t trying to offend anyone.”

If Mayfair’s critics are hoping for an apology, he isn’t offering one. In his mind there’s nothing to apologise for. But to say he’s avoiding the question is unfair. Mayfair knows what people think of him. He’s not asking people to overlook his past, just to give his past another look.

I am biased. Ironically, a strong sense of justice is a common strength of those with ASD, which might explain why I was intrigued with this story involving a rules fiasco in the first place. And it’s easy to take the allegations as fact. It would also be hypocritical to look back on my life and think of all the frustrations rooted in being unable to say what I wanted to, and not give Mayfair the same compassion. I may not fully grasp what happened at that tournament in 2019, but when Mayfair says he’s misunderstood, I understand.

There’s one area his message needs no interpretation, however. Billy Mayfair said he’s sharing his struggle to be a force of good, and whatever the motivations were for doing so, the story’s power to help others was never in doubt. Just turns out one of those “others” was me.

For more information on Autism Spectrum Disorder, including a guide to specialists near you, go to Autismspeaks.org.

The post How a tour pro’s autism diagnosis led to my own appeared first on Golf Digest Middle East.

By Joel Beall
Normally when gathering around the table this time of year to give thanks, we keep the list short. Not that we’re ungrateful; it’s just that the potatoes are getting cold and we see Uncle Mark eyeing the turkey leg. This season, however, there’s no need to curtail the gratitude, and that includes around the table of this sport we love so, so much.

When compiling our list of golf thanks, we sought to avoid items like “the perfectly struck 7-iron” or “the dulcet tones of Jim Nantz.” Let’s be honest, they border on the mawkish, and we wanted to focus on things specific to this year unlike any other. As you’ll see, this list does plenty of gazing into the rearview mirror. But 2020 has taught us to appreciate the victories in all their forms. Big and small, silly and solemn, transitory and forever. And if some are overly sentimental, well, the world could use a bit of that right now.

Which is why we’re thankful for:

Players, caddies, volunteers, tournament directors, PGA Tour officials and anyone else involved in the season’s tightrope walk from Fort Worth in June to now. If that sounds like embellishment, well, you’re clearly not paying attention to college football.

Tom Brady. He was exposed as a sandbagger, received an ungodly amount of schadenfreude during a hit-n-giggle and ripped his pants in the one nanosecond where things weren’t going wrong. Yet his hole-out was the first “Oh-My-Did-You-See-That?!?!!” sports moment since the world shut down in March.

Maintenance crews. Busting their tails, often for little money, so we can enjoy a bit of heaven.

The Ryder Cup being postponed. Without galleries, the biennial match would have felt like a member-guest. Credit the players—most notably Rory McIlroy and Brooks Koepka—for giving voice to the fans. Credit the PGA of America for listening.

Harold Varner III. At a juncture where the lines of sport and society are blurred, with his words and resolve and a performance that can only be measured against the pain and uncertainty and fear we all face, HV3 showed us the best that golf can be.

Destination courses. Planning future itineraries has been as a mnemonic device that a sense of normalcy, eventually, will return.

Short courses. Providing the occasional nudge that, oh yeah, this is supposed to be fun.

Hometown courses. They are not Bandon or Pinehurst or Pebble. Their fairways are rough, with greens that aren’t, and hitting the lottery is easier than snagging an early weekend tee time. But they are there, and it took a lockdown for us to finally see them for what they are instead of what they are not.

Matthew Lewis/R&A

Sophia Popov. Reminding us the best Cinderella stories have nothing to do with Carl Spackler.

Majors going to munis. For demonstrating championship golf resides beyond ivy walls and brass gates, yes. But, too, for the unintended comedy of players and broadcasters marveling, “It’s so hard to play out of these Harding Park bunkers, there’s no sand!” while every public course player in America mumbled, “Yeah, no kidding.”

The Masters. Its postponement felt like winter. Its return was water in the desert.

Bryson DeChambeau. There is nothing standard about this cat in a sport whose players tend to be of the cookie-cutter variety. That can produce the astonishing (his odyssey from man into mountain for distance gains that beget the U.S. Open) and … uh, astonishing (fire ants?). No matter where he is on the spectrum in a given instance, it’s never short on entertainment and curiosity.

Bernhard Langer. The 63-year-old was last in the Masters field in driving distance, 60-something yards behind category leader DeChambeau. Langer finished at three under. DeChambeau, two under. Long live Bernhard Langer.

Buddies trips. Be they globetrotters or cross-country excursions or modified outings just down the street, for it’s not where you play but who you play with that truly matters.

Driving range attendants who don’t mind keeping the lights on an extra 15 minutes.

Golf debates. Maybe conversations about bifurcation and backstopping and broadcast complaints can get tedious and entrenched. Conversely, these disputes are (usually) civil and (mostly) come from a place of passion. Good luck finding that on other parts of the Internet.

The Great Wall of Dinah. Because sometimes there’s nothing wrong with a little chaos.

Jared Wolfe. This mini-tour journeyman grabbed two Korn Ferry Tour wins to lock up his first PGA Tour card at 32, showing us dreams don’t have expirations dates.

Camilo Villegas and Alex Goff. Models of grit in the face of unspeakable heartache.

Collin Morikawa, Matthew Wolff, Viktor Hovland. We were told they were the next big thing and that they would disrupt the game. Somehow, they’ve surpassed those expectations in 18 months.

Encouraged breakfast balls. As Euripides said, “Friends show their love in times of trouble, not in happiness.”

The Rory Runs. We should be used to McIlroy’s five-hole heaters. Instinctively, we know they will end. But the kinetic magic in those stretches, in which McIlroy makes anything seem possible, is a magnetism that never tires.

The perfectly struck 7-iron. If only for a moment, all seems right.

And finally, and most importantly, we’re thankful to all first responders and front-line workers. They risk their lives so we can go on living ours.

The post 24 things we’re thankful for this Thanksgiving appeared first on Golf Digest Middle East.

“Hey, shot in the dark,” I wrote, “But once a year it seems, there’s some minor controversy involving a player’s bulked-up physique and its perceived negative consequence on performance. Wonder if it’s worth having someone attempt to get jacked and see what the correlation, if any, is on their game.”

That “someone” ended up being me.

Starting in February, I did my best to get on DeChambeau’s level, bulking up in hopes of big gains with the big stick. The piece, which is in this month’s issue of Golf Digest, has been met with worldwide acclaim. “A triumph of the human spirit,” “Profound; a gift of words” and “Thank you for making us believe in journalism again,” are just three reviews I imagine are in my mailbox as we speak. Even my editors—tough crowd, editors—loved the article, sending such praise as, “Wait, you went ahead with that dumb pitch?” and “I guess this explains your lack of productivity.”

In order to promote this month’s issue and our Bryson piece, which can be found here, I was asked to answer some questions on what our endeavor involved, how it played out, and what you can learn from it. (The short answers: “Idiocy,” “Kind of!,” and “Never answer emails after midnight.”) Here are my takeaways from Trying to Get Big like Bryson.

Did the experiment work?
It did, in the sense that the true experiment was the friends I made along the way.

The venture had three original ambitions: 1) Gain 30 lbs. in three months in order to 2) Pick up at least 20 yards of distance, and most importantly, 3) Improve my golf game. We devised a game plan, put it in motion, and, due to the coronavirus lockdown, had to revise everything a month in. Despite the pandemic’s Bryson-sized obstacle, I did see the experiment through. Without giving away the third goal (Seriously, read the piece, it’s not bad, I promise), I gained nearly 20 lbs. (from 166 lbs. to 184 lbs.) and got my average drive up from 286 yards to 296.

There was a slight sense of pride at these goals. “Was” being the operative word. After watching Bryson in person at the Travelers Championship last week—which included driving a 389-yard green and using a cart path to smack one 428 yards—I now feel like what I did what amounted to getting a kindergarten drawing pinned on the refrigerator while Bryson’s submission was put in the Louvre.

296 yards. Really?
Not fake news, I promise. The highlight being a round I played recently with colleagues Mike Stachura and Mike Johnson at Rock Ridge Country Club in Newtown, Conn., which featured five drives over 300, including a 340-yard pop at the first hole. No word if my driver passed the CT test, however.

I want more distance, how did you go about it?
I teamed up with Brandon Gaydorus, the author of “The Ultimate In-Home Golf Fitness Program” and founder of Warm Heart Life in Greenwich, Conn. Gaydorus had a stint at the Florida Institute of Performance, training alongside Brooks Koepka, Michelle Wie, Daniel Berger and other golf stars, so he has intimate knowledge of a professional athlete’s regimen. Gaydorus devised a personalised plan that included four formal workouts per week, along with two I did on my own. Also daily yoga, as well as a SuperSpeed program. And I revamped my diet, eating 5,000 calories a day, which sounds tough but in reality was worse, because said diet included a ban on beer. It was hell.

I don’t have access to a gym. Are there any ways to circumvent that route and do this at home?
Listen, as every high school strength coach will tell you, “Success isn’t owned. It’s leased, and rent is due every day.” But yes, there is a route. And I took it.

A month into our program COVID-19 put my area in lockdown, which meant I couldn’t go to the gym. This could’ve been my out. Alas, I am a stubborn mule and would not wave the white flag. Plus, let’s be honest, there wasn’t a lot going on at the time. Since most online weight sets sold out quickly, Gaydorus devised a “Rocky IV” routine I could do with at-home objects. No, I wasn’t climbing up mountains or lifting tractors or ending the Cold War. But I did use cases of water, bookbags filled with bricks and firewood as de-facto weights. This way was nowhere near efficient (as I explain in the piece), but it did get some results.

Great, I’m in. Any warnings?
This sounds elementary, but if you want to try this yourself, make sure you’re hitting balls a few times a week. During the lockdown I was able to make swings in my backyard but didn’t have access to a range. My first two weeks back involved more topped shots than in my entire 33 years. Also, yoga was key. I did it to make sure my back didn’t break in two, but it also maintained my flexibility and kept my swing from getting rigid. Make sure to add it to your routine.

Anything else?
Easy on the protein. I don’t care what DeChambeau says, the colon can only take so much.

The post For three months, I tried to get big like Bryson DeChambeau. Here are the results appeared first on Golf Digest Middle East.

Welcome to another edition of The Grind, where we’re going to have to pace ourselves if the opening week of the PGA Tour is any indication of what we’re in store for this season. There were impressive debuts on the course, impressive performances on the stage and there was Phil (still) being Phil after all these years:

TFW you've hit 15 of 54 fairways on the week. ??#QuickHits pic.twitter.com/QU1VqEthvZ

— PGA TOUR (@PGATOUR) October 8, 2017

It was quite a start — and that’s before we factor in frightening wildfires, record-breaking performances across the pond and updates on two much-talked-about comebacks. Let’s catch our breaths and break it all down.

WE’RE BUYING

Defending champs: Brendan Steele made it back-to-back wins at the PGA Tour’s Safeway Open and Tyrrell Hatton did the same at the European Tour’s Alfred Dunhill Links Championship. Slight edge to Hatton for getting to celebrate on the Swilcan Bridge …

Well done, guys. Now if all of last season’s winners can keep this up, I might actually do well in fantasy golf this season.

Record breakers: Tommy Fleetwood and Ross Fisher didn’t win the Alfred Dunhill Links Championship, but what they did at two of golf’s most historic tracks will be talked about a lot more than Hatton’s victory. Fleetwood shot 63 at Carnoustie, and Fisher shot 61 at the Old Course at St. Andrews — with both scores breaking course records. By the way, Carnoustie is hosting next year’s British Open, so based on our new horses-for-courses theory, Fleetwood is basically a lock.

John Daly: Talk about life imitating art. Daly joined Gavin DeGraw on stage to pay tribute to Tom Petty by singing along to “I Won’t Back Down” on Thursday night and then birdied his final hole on Friday to shoot 69 and make his first PGA Tour cut in two-and-a-half years.

The fist pumps. ?
The smile. ?
The crowd. ????? @PGA_JohnDaly makes his first cut on the PGA TOUR since 2015. pic.twitter.com/GsLaT1G3iT

— PGA TOUR (@PGATOUR) October 7, 2017

Actually, we’re buying Daly’s entire month, from presenting a sport coat to Japan’s Prime Minister, Shinzo Abe, to finishing runner-up at a European Senior Tour event in France, to opening a steakhouse in Arkansas. JD seems to be hitting life harder than ever at 51.

Tiger’s comeback: Tiger Woods is back! To hitting irons. “Smooth” irons, at that:

Smooth iron shots pic.twitter.com/v9XLROZnfW

— Tiger Woods (@TigerWoods) October 7, 2017

Yeah, yeah, I’m getting suckered into another Tiger Woods comeback, but I can’t help myself.

Me: I'm done getting my hopes up for nothing
*Sees Tiger hitting full shots again*
Me: pic.twitter.com/Tup8vlrXCJ

— Golf Problems (@GolfProblems_) October 9, 2017

Tiger, if you’re going to break my heart again, just promise me you’ll do it quickly this time. Please?

WE’RE SELLING

O.J.’s comeback: On the first full day of the Juice being loose (again), Simpson was seen putting on a backyard green at the Las Vegas home he’s staying in:

We’re not knocking his effort — and at 70, he still has a few good years on the course — but his return to golf isn’t exactly great PR for the sport. Also, we’re pretty jealous of his backyard setup.

Phil’s fall policy: Remember a couple years ago when Phil Mickelson pushed for fall events in the wrap-around season to not count towards a person’s Ryder Cup point total? Well, that came back to bite him. Mickelson’s T-3 at the Safeway Open was his best finish since a runner-up at the 2016 British Open, but he’ll earn as many Ryder Cup points for his efforts as I did for sitting on the couch watching his efforts.

Unmarked golf balls: I’m not accusing anyone of taking advantage of the Rules of Golf, but every time something like this happens, it raises eyebrows and causes an uproar. At least, in the little world of Golf Twitter:

One of the worst #ProtectTheField examples I've ever seen. Finau 2 shots off the lead, ended up saving par from a plugged lie. pic.twitter.com/TsKHqHLrNK

— Will Gray (@WillGrayGC) October 8, 2017

It also probably only seems like it’s happening more now because people are making a point to point it out. Regardless, now that it’s become an issue, you’d think players would be even more careful about marking their golf balls — or telling opponents to do it — just to avoid this sort of controversy.

Silly penalties: This week’s “Hey, tour pros are just like us sometimes!” honor goes to David Howell, who teed off from in front of the marker. On No. 18 at the Old Course at St. Andrews. The gaffe resulted in an embarrassing two-shot penalty on one of the most famous holes in golf.

ON TAP

The PGA Tour heads to Malaysia for the CIMB Classic, AKA that event Justin Thomas wins every year.

Random tournament fact: This snake was spotted during last year’s tournament:

Last year at the CIMB Classsssssic …

?? pic.twitter.com/SlMXfvLOqR

— PGA TOUR (@PGATOUR) October 9, 2017

Players better keep their heads on a swivel …

RANDOM PROP BETS OF THE WEEK

— Tiger Woods will win a major this year: 1 MILLION-to-1 odds

— Phil Mickelson will win a major this year: 100-to-1 odds

— I will have nightmares about that snake: LOCK

PHOTO OF THE WEEK

State of emergency declared as three fast-moving wildfires totaling 44,000 acres burn north of Napa, California https://t.co/OZZoeBrj5l pic.twitter.com/5XURlVTw6E

— CNN Breaking News (@cnnbrk) October 9, 2017

This was taken at Silverado Resort & Spa, which was evacuated just hours after the final round of the Safeway Open concluded. Wow. We wish the best for everyone in the area.

VIRAL VIDEO OF THE WEEK (TOUR PRO DIVISION)

The European Tour is up to its old tricks of creating fun videos, this time, getting Edoardo Molinari to take 500 attempts at making a hole-in-one. SPOILER ALERT: He doesn’t get it done!

How many shots would it take a pro to make a hole-in-one?

We gave @DodoMolinari 500 balls, here's what happened… pic.twitter.com/AcTwKiplYp

— DP World Tour (@DPWorldTour) October 10, 2017

If you sense excitement from me, that’s because I’m happy to see another golfer – and a really good one, at that – get frustrated by not making a hole-in-one. It also just confirms that making an ace is 99 percent luck. Thanks, European Tour.

VIRAL VIDEO OF THE WEEK (TOUR-PRO TALENT DIVISION)

If this is really a nun, then she has the swing of an angel:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BZ052MvBG1v/

Talk about a potential ringer to bring to your next member-guest!

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

“I’m sorry, but f— cancer.” – Cristie Kerr, playing with a heavy heart, after winning the LaCoste Ladies Open de France. No need to apologize, Cristie.

THIS WEEK IN DUSTIN JOHNSON-PAULINA GRETZKY WAGS PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF AFFECTION ATHLETICISM

Things got dangerous at one WAG’s 30th birthday party:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BaAWkcbhvRn/

There’s so much going on here in this quick clip from Ashley Perez’s (Pat Perez’s wife). First off, why was there a fake cake? Second, why were they sitting on it? And finally, was there really an official videographer for the occasion? Impressive.

THIS WEEK IN TOUR PROS MAKING US FEEL BAD WITH THEIR TRAINING

Apparently, normal crunches aren’t enough of a challenge for the LPGA’s Gaby Lopez:

https://www.instagram.com/p/BZ7yN5oA6ZK/

That’s some Rocky IV-level stuff, and it goes without saying that you probably shouldn’t try that at home. Then again, that would require you having a punching bag at home. And actually having the motivation to work out.

THIS WEEK IN CELEBRITIES PLAYING GOLF (NON-O.J. DIVISION)

Soccer star Gareth Bale has a replica of TPC Sawgrass’ par-3 17th in his backyard:

First look at Gareth Bale's replica of the signature par three, 17th at Sawgrass in his own back garden. pic.twitter.com/acXm7YmEZJ

— GOLFNEWS (@golfnewsmag) October 2, 2017

Take that, O.J.

THIS AND THAT

Justin Thomas was officially named PGA Tour Player of the Year. It seemed like a lock, but you never know with votes these days. . . . Hunter Mahan’s T-13 at the Safeway Open was his best PGA Tour finish in more than two years. Mahan’s comeback isn’t getting quite the attention of Tiger’s (or O.J.’s), but he’s got the best chance of the three when it comes to winning this season. . . . Sergio Garcia and TaylorMade Golf are splitting up after 14 years. This one’s not quite as sad as Phil and Bones breaking up. . . . And finally, congrats to co-worker Joel Beall getting married over the weekend.

The only disappointing part of the wedding was that Jerry Rice didn’t crash it.

RANDOM QUESTIONS TO PONDER

Why do wedding receptions go by so fast?

Why do playoff baseball games go by so slow?

Does that nun give golf lessons?

The post Tiger Woods’ latest tease, O.J. Simpson’s return to golf, a WAG’s scary b-day moment & an LPGA star’s intense workout appeared first on Golf Digest Middle East.

Last Week: An off-week from Professor Lou’s Model, as Dustin Johnson (T-8) was the only selection inside the top 25. Our expert fared better, highlighted by picks of Charley Hoffman (fell short of win in playoff), Ian Poulter (3rd), Tony Finau (T-5) and Johnson. Through seven weeks, the expert is up 5 to 2.

This Week: With the last major still a week away, the golf world turns to Akron for the WGC-Bridgestone Invitational. The Bridgestone is a limited-field tournament, with only half the amount of players (76) as a normal tour event, and there is no cut. It is conducted at Firestone C.C. South, which has been home to three PGA Championships. Firestone is not universally beloved; there are few unique holes on the venue, with this uniformity causing some to deem it a “boring” experience. However, though the course is long and tight, it’s noted for its fairness in rewarding good shots. It’s also a favorite of Tiger Woods, with good reason: he’s won eight times at Firestone. Dustin Johnson is the defending champion.

Chris Condon

Professor’s Picks
Jordan Spieth
Jon Rahm
Dustin Johnson
Jason Day
Rory McIlroy
Hideki Matsuyama
Brooks Koepka
Rickie Fowler
Sergio Garcia
Bubba Watson

Professor’s Explanation: Firestone is a big track. It is a “bombers and gorgers” kind of place. Generally speaking you must hit it long. Of course accuracy is important, but distance seems to be essential.

In particular, the probabilities for the top three on the list are considerably higher than the others and much higher than anyone else in the field. Those probabilities are not like when Tiger was great and he won 30 percent of his starts, but these three have games well-suited for this course and have had success this year. And remember Dustin is the defending champ.

Two other points are worth mentioning. In the Model, Justin Rose and Phil Michelson just miss the top ten picks and are not out of the question. On the other hand the Model doesn’t think much of the chances of Patrick Reed, Henrik Stenson, Zack Johnson and PGA champion Jimmy Walker.

Bubba comes up high each week, but he has let the Model down almost every time. But given the nature of the field and the course, the Model is probably right that the winner will come from this list.

Richard Heathcote

Expert’s Analysis: Not exactly easy to find flaw in nine of the top 11 players in the world. But what the hell, let’s give it a shot.

Matsuyama has been playing well this summer, finishing runner-up at the U.S. Open with respectable showings at the Irish and British Opens (T-14 each). However, his track record at Firestone has been dicey, with just one top 20 in four appearances. There’s wet weather in the Ohio forecast, which should soften up the greens and take some of the bite out of Matsuyama’s ghastly short game (180th in strokes gained: putting). Even in this vein, he’s far from a lock.

A lack of course experience hasn’t hurt Rahm at other events this season. Moreover, his power off the tee and nimbleness around the green ostensibly make him one of the favorites. Yet, Firestone can be penalizing for those who can’t keep it in the fairway, and precision isn’t Rahm’s forte (58.55 percent accuracy off the tee). And though it’s not to the degree of U.S. Open conditions, winners here don’t necessarily go low; rather, it’s the ability to avoid the big number that delivers success. Rahm can ride the birdie train with the best of ’em, but he’s shown the penchant to go off the rails, too. Still a good play, just not as good as you think.

It’s easy to dismiss Day because of his struggles in 2017, but he’s played well here the past two years (T-3, T-12) and did show signs of life at Royal Birkdale. We wouldn’t necessary advocate the 2015 PGA Champ as a “must-play,” particulary given his accuracy issues this campaign (165th in driving accuracy). Moreover, despite his up-and-down season, Day still comes with a hefty price tag in daily fantasy formats. But, especially in regards to his Quail Hollow prospects, he’s one to monitor closely.

Should note, bizarre that the professor is dismissive of Zach Johnson. The two-time major champ has three top 10s in his last six Firestone outings, and is coming off a T-14 at Birkdale and a T-5 at the John Deere Classic. If you’re looking for a longshot, here’s your guy.

Richard Sellers – PA Images

Expert’s Picks
Justin Rose
Marc Leishman
Jordan Spieth
Thomas Pieters
Justin Thomas
Rickie Fowler
Tommy Fleetwood
Rory McIlroy
Dustin Johnson
Brooks Koepka

Expert’s Explanation: Don’t sweat the change in caddy; Rory will be fine. For all the fuss made about his Royal Birkdale roller coaster, man still finished T-4. He hasn’t played this event since 2014, but did win in his last appearance, with four top 10s in his previous five Firestone starts. If you like McIlroy’s chances at the PGA Championship, jump on him now before a good week in Akron lowers his odds.

Following a nice start to the summer, Thomas is in desperate need of turnaround before Charlotte, missing his past three cuts. In his Firestone debut last year, the 23-year-old finished T-33, although that standing was brought down by a six-over Sunday round. This course plays to Thomas’ strengths, making him a sound bet for a top-10 showing.

As for Rose, he failed to produce anything of merit since his sudden-death loss to Sergio at Augusta National. However, before a so-so performance last summer, Rose had three top-5 finishes in his previous four starts at Firestone. No matter their recent play, some courses just speak to players. Circle Rose as such a case this weekend.

The post WGC-Bridgestone Invitational: Golf Digest Tournament Predictions and Analysis appeared first on Golf Digest Middle East.