In Valdosta, Ga., during a mini-tour event, a player named James Black bet me $20 he could put five golf balls in his mouth and then close his mouth all the way. I tried it but could get only two in there.

I hate to repeat lines, to say the same damned thing. I try to rewrite cliches and make what I say sound fresh.

Golfers don't scream. Golfers just adjust the pleats in their pants and go from there. That's about as antagonistic as we get.

Many years ago, in the throes of my struggles on the PGA Tour, I had difficulty even getting into pro-ams. I needed money, so I put together a 45-minute magic show I'd perform at corporate events surrounding the tournament.

The first time I played a PGA Tour event at Tucson was 1975. I came off the course on Sunday feeling very good about myself. I'd finished at even par, and I knew I could play even better if I worked at it.

I made nothing happen very slowly.

He's in the mold of a Tom Watson, in that he'll hit the ball in the trees and undaunted go it there, flail it out and make something out of it.