another entry for the "Bizarre Injuries" file.

John Daly is probably the most entertaining figure in golf outside of Tiger Woods, and for entirely different reasons than Tiger. A drinker and chain-smoker, Daly has long been the sort of People's Champ on the Tour, despite his flameout in wins after starting his career on a hot streak. He is also the Tour's hard-luck fellow, a guy for whom bad things just seem to happen (like huge gambling debts.)

Today, he hit the 12th hole of the Honda Classic, and someone just happened to have a camera:

The clicking could be heard almost at the same instant [Daly] started his backswing. He stopped and reportedly glared at the woman before trying to swing again, but immediately complained of pain and walked off to seek treatment in the tour's medical trailer.

He declined to comment afterward.

"All he said to us was, 'I'm done,' " [playing partner Joe] Ogilvie said. "It wasn't good."

Far be it for pudgy me to tell a full keg like Daly that the girth on him probably isn't good when you need to stop a backswing, but I can't help but think that had something to do with the injuries to his ribs and shoulder (also, if you see pictures of his swing, he generates a lot of power with a long wind-up). This is the kind of dumb golf injury that happens in books -- which is fitting that it happened to Daly; he is a Dan Jenkins character writ large.

(Fascinating aside from his Wikipedia page: "A John Daly is also a kind of drink. It is an Arnold Palmer (Lemonade and Iced tea) with whiskey and a splash of ginger ale. This drink was patented by Matt Schroeder." Sounds good, actually.)

the dirty life and times of Bobby Joe Grooves.

Dan Jenkins has always been a personal favorite, ever since my dad brought home a copy of You Gotta Play Hurt from the library somewhere around the vicinity of ten years ago. That book remains a favorite of both of ours, mostly because I wanted to be a sportswriter like Jim Tom Pinch at the age of 14 and my dad wished he'd gone that way rather than news. Slim and None was put out in '05 in hardcover and made paperback last year, and since a lot of Jenkins is either hard to find in stores or out of print (Semi-Tough got the re-issue treatment only recently), I didn't get ahold of a copy until Dad sent me one last week.

Readers first met Jenkins creation Bobby Joe Grooves in You Gotta Play Hurt, as main character Jim Tom Pinch's golf pro of choice, and then got to know him more in the mildly disappointing The Money-Whipped Steer Job Three-Jack Give-Up Artist. Now, Jenkins is chronicling Grooves' attempts to win a major at 44, while trying to get his love life jump-started with the mother of a Tour phenom after his third divorce.

The appeal of Jenkins as a writer lies in what everyone calls his "political incorrectness," and while it is fucking hilarious for the most part, some of it will rub you the wrong way. There's something questionable about the two times the NBA is mentioned that it happens to be about a player Grooves' agent has who's always getting in trouble for rape. The rest of it is what Jenkins readers and devotees come to expect: good humor, good golf lore about the course and the four major championships, etc. Bobby Joe gets screwed out of tourney victories something fierce several times in uproarious manner.

The problem is that it feels like Jenkins just re-wrote and updated Dead Solid Perfect again, without giving us a reason to really root for Bobby Joe in this book. If you read the Give-Up Artist, Bobby Joe's quest and efforts in Slim and None make more sense -- you know his back-story and his difficulties. Slim and None is Bobby Joe playing Kenny Lee Puckett, without the fun anecdotes of an imagined Fort Worth to add levity to a book about what, to casual observers, seems the most boring of sports. It's a nice afternoon read if you find a used copy, but I miss the Bobby Joe in You Gotta Play Hurt, whom, after he lost the Masters, cussed out Augusta. Now, he sings its praises like everyone else.

Eldrick Woods makes golf shots.

Dude shot a 66 in the fourth round of the Buick Invitational to win the tourney yesterday after starting about three or four strokes back after the third round.

Watching Tiger Woods play in the fourth round is like watching Federer -- either he's ahead and looking to lock it up or he's just fucking around with the other players, waiting while they screw up and get the willies in his presence. Impending fatherhood continues to do wonders for him, as the Buick makes his seventh straight victory in a chase of Byron Nelson's consecutive tourneys streak.

Of course, him and Federer winning on Sunday brings around the usual question of "quien es mas macho?" when looking at Roger's 10 majors and Tiger's 12. I'd argue Tiger's, mostly because I suck at golf and can at least fake my way through tennis, but mostly on the premise that in golf, you are playing the course as well as the field, while that isn't as prevalent a factor in tennis (unless you are playing in the French Open, which Federer has yet to win.) But Federer's winning without dropping a set during an entire tournament makes me question that logic. To them, it's a dick-measuring contest, like "OK, motherfucker, whaddaya got?"

creative methods of endorsement.

Cribbed from ESPN via Deadspin, it seems Tiger Woods and that very, very beautiful wife of his are expecting a child. MJD noted in the Deadspin story:

"Someone at Nike headquarters is very busy today... trying to figure out a way to get a big Swoosh to pass through Elin's birth canal, or somehow get her baby-making part in the shape of a Swoosh after the blessed event."

Nah, that leaves too much up to chance. In this age of genetic advances and given how early we can identify characteristics of children via ultrasounds, the obvious solution will hit the folks in Beaverton fairly soon, and I would appreciate some back end payment for the idea, because it will require some serious cash payment to get this done (that brings up several problematic issues: do the parents sign in the fetus' name? Does this render the kid ineligible to participate in college golf from the get-go? If it gets an endorsement contract, I don't even want to think about what that means for Roe v. Wade.)

Here's the easy way to do it: just do some slight modification to apply a swoosh birthmark to the kid's inner thigh or leg, maybe ankle or wrist. It may not be visually prevalent enough for Nike, whom I'm sure would love to have a Drew Brees-style Swoosh Mole on the cheek. We're all about compromise, so Mr. and Mrs. Woods, give 'em the forearm birthmark, but not until they shell out another $60 million. You're very welcome; just keep it in mind when I'm old and decrepit and the kid is winning titles.