On a trip to Scotland with a group of Tour colleagues he shot 69 at Turnberry's famed Ailsa course, site of three British Opens. He has also earned a permanent place in Sawgrass lore thanks to his heroics at a long-ago club championship.
It was a four-man team event, and Finchem and his partners were locked in a duel with a quartet of jabronis from New Jersey who were playing as out-of-town members and getting lots of shots thanks to their spurious handicaps.
These yahoos were wearing matching outfits, and their obnoxious wives were noisily following the group with video cameras in hand. Standing in the fairway of the Stadium course's exacting par-4 18th hole, Finchem watched incredulously as his antagonists made a net birdie to go up by a stroke, which begot a lusty celebration.
From 200 yards out the commissioner proceeded to rip a majestic three-iron that covered the flag. He buried the 15- foot putt for a net eagle to secure his team's immensely satisfying victory.
"I remember that shot quite clearly," he says. "I remember that putt."
Finchem's palpable passion for golf led him in 1997 to spearhead the creation of the First Tee. The First Tee has a charter to make golf more accessible to the masses, especially those in communities that traditionally have had little entree to the game.
There are now more than 200 chapters, which have served an estimated 2.2 million kids, and Finchem feels a connection with those who are using golf to better themselves.
"My family didn't have any money," he says, "but I had access to inexpensive golf, and the game changed my life. I still carry with me the values I learned from golf."
Finchem is forever looking for ways to give back to a game that has given him so much, such as his recent high-profile push to make golf an Olympic sport again after a century's absence.
Should it come to pass, the Olympics would wreak havoc with the Tour's schedule, but Finchem sees it as one of the best ways to expand the game globally, which makes it the right thing to do. On the other hand, 2016 is the target date, by which time the logistics will be another commissioner's problem.
Or will they?
"Actually, my plan is to die in office at the age of 82," Finchem says with a hearty laugh.
In fact the commissioner says he has no time line in mind for the end of his tenure and that "it would be a mistake to assume" he will step down in four years when his contract expires.
Then again, "there are a lot of things I want to do with my life," he says, "and there's not time for many of them with this job."
It's rare for Finchem to allow for such reflection, but last Wednesday, April 23, presented the perfect opportunity: He had just returned from his long day in Dallas and was whizzing through the darkened streets of Ponte Vedra Beach, on the way home. His family was waiting for him to arrive to share a late dinner.
Asked about the L word — legacy — Finchem said, "I'd like to be thought of as a key player on a team, because that's really what this job is. I would like to be remembered as a guy who got up every day and brought it as hard as he could. I don't need anything beyond that."
Those are modest aspirations coming from a man with so many big ideas. Perhaps Finchem had more to say on the subject, but there wasn't time. He was eager to step into his home, before his dinner got cold.
