Golf: Golf's good day

By Vincent Musco Sports Central Columnist

Luis Gonzalez's gum? Please, I had a chance at a real prize.

It was a loogie. A big one, thick and slimy. (You know what a loogie is, it's that stuff you cough up and spit when your allergies are acting up.)

But it wasn't just any loogie, it was Tiger Woods' loogie. When it hit the grass, it hovered, just asking for a fan to scoop it up and sell it on eBay for several thousand dollars.

He spat it as he walked past me at the 2000 Presidents' Cup. Of course, it wasn't just Tiger and I. About seven billion Tiger-addicts followed close at his heels (on the other side of the ropes, of course), as he made his way to the practice tee.

He wore a look of intense ferocity, acknowledging none of his faithful followers. It's a good thing, too, because he went on to drop his match to Vijay Singh during a U.S. rout of the International Squad. Geez, imagine how bad he would have lost if he had craned his neck and said hello to the kids drooling over themselves with the patented "Sunday" red shirt on.

It was at the practice tee that I saw another man emerge, someone of importance, apparently, as the fans observing broke out into applause. The man wore a smile despite the early hour of the morning, and he looked at his fans in the eyes as he walked by with an air of appreciation and respect. Was this a greenskeeper being showered with love for conditioning the course so well? Or a coffee vendor carrying fresh cups of caffeine? Or maybe Tiger's coach, Butch Harmon? (After all, if there is a man who should feel appreciative, it's Butch Harmon.)

The man was Phil Mickelson, the second-ranked player in the world. He was friendly, polite, and somehow on the same team as Tiger Woods. You would have never known it by the way they acted that day.

So you can imagine my surprise over the last few weeks when Phil has been relentlessly attacked by critics, writers, and even John Daly for 20 wins without a major. He throws tournaments away with bad decisions, he can't win a the big ones, he can't make a four-footer under pressure. He's just a classic choke artist. The next Greg Norman.

But I did see Phil win. It was last summer in Hartford. He upped his total to nine-for-nine in winning tournaments that he led after three rounds with his final round 68. He won despite Billy Andrade's attempt to put pressure on Phil. After holing his final putt on 18, Andrade offered an emphatic fist pump back down the 18th fairway at Phil as he prepared to play his approach in hopes of keeping his one-stroke lead. The attempt failed, as Phil hit the green and two-putted for the one-stroke win over the classy Andrade. This, however, is not what I will remember Phil for that week.

First, it was his Thursday episode on the practice tee. Dozens of fans yelled for his autograph as he walked past, but he did not stop. He went into the courtesy tent behind the tee. Ten minutes later, he emerged. He went over to the fans and fulfilled every single autograph request until he was the only one left standing there.

Then, on Friday, Phil was on his ninth hole of the day when suddenly he looked up into the gallery and smiled like a kid at Toys 'R Us. He had spotted his wife, Amy, and that seemed to please him even more than his good play. Forget about being in contention, Phil was too busy being in love.

Later that day, Phil made a Herculean up and down from a bunker to save his par, and as he walked by on his way to the next tee, I congratulated him on his good play. Phil smiled, looked me right in the eye, and thanked me.

It's not that I was lucky. Phil did this for everybody that week. He acted like a sheepish houseguest among members of the gallery. No steely stares. No eye-hiding sunglasses. No walking with the head down. Only an embarrassed, baby-faced look as he smiled his way to victory.

I've seen too many tournaments to not appreciate this sort of honesty and friendliness. I've heard more curse words from the "gentlemen" of the PGA Tour than at an Andrew Dice Clay performance. I've seen John Daly throw clubs, Tom Lehman smash a tee marker with his driver, and Frank Lickliter toss around a few four-letter words after a three putt.

And don't get me started on Tiger. If they ever showed a replay of one of his bad rounds on television, they would need the sort of editing "Major League" receives every time it's on cable. You know, some guy saying "Oops" or "Drat" over Tiger's expletives as the ball sails into the trees.

Phil's idea of a curse? "Gosh" is the most severe word I've heard out of his mouth. And when he does hit a bad shot, his look turns to one of utter disappointment, the sort of look a houseguest would give if they spilled grape juice on your new white carpet.

So go ahead, slam Phil for being a gambler who can't win the big one. And keep praising Tiger for being golf's greatest hero since Jack Nicklaus.

Just don't be surprised if all you get back is a fat loogie.