It has been quite a month for John Daly. At the British Open, he was strumming his guitar at the famed Cavern Club, where the Beatles started up in the ’60s. And on Tuesday at the PGA Championship, just like a rock star, he was . . . dead?
JD? Gone? The Forecaddie says Mark Twain has nothing on this cat.
As he chronicled in his own tome, “My Life In & Out of the Rough,” Daly has lived an adventurous existence at times to say the least, and may have expended a few of his nine lives. Tuesday afternoon on the range at Medinah, word started circulating around the practice area that Daly had suffered a heart attack.
The Man Out Front soon would learn it was nothing but a cruel hoax, the source of the rumor unknown, but before Daly could be located by phone and his well-being confirmed, there were some very concerned folks. The ripple soon went beyond the course and all the way to Arkansas. Sherrie Miller Daly phoned her husband in a panic.
“My wife was terrified,” he said. “All my friends and family at home are calling in a panic.”
As he spoke a day after his rumored demise, Daly lit up a cigarette.
“I figured since I came back from the dead,” he quipped, “I might as well smoke anyway.”
After playing nine holes Wednesday, he soon was bound for the local Hooters in Schaumburg to sign a few autographs and show fans firsthand that he is, indeed, the picture of perfect health. Well, maybe not perfect, but he’s OK.
“I don’t even have to take Viagra yet,” he said.
JD missed the cut, but hey, he lived to tell about it.