It's classic Feherty — classic Irish, really. Use self-deprecating humor to mask the ordeal of existing. Even at that, Feherty recognizes the difference between being funny and being stupid, and he seethes (more classic Irish) when people trivialize the effects of depression on the soul. "Tom Cruise says there's no such thing as depression, that you can get better with physical exercise. Well, maybe he's right — beating the shit out of Tom Cruise would be physical all right, and it would f---in' cheer me up, and a whole lot of other people."
By 1995, Feherty's heart was on the ground. He was living in Dallas, his first marriage had dissolved, and his best playing days were a memory. So were his winnings from nearly 20 years as a pro. ("I spent a lot of money on fast cars, women and alcohol," he says. "The rest I just squandered.") He was scrawny, broke and broken. He ran 15 miles a day to quiet his racing mind. He'd lost his playing privileges in the States. When a friend fixed him up with his current wife, Anita, a willowy brunette with warm green eyes, he showed up smashed for their date at an Italian restaurant. "I thought, She's gorgeous. I'm f---ed. What do I have to offer? So I arrived drunk and got drunker." He gulped her Bellini. She asked if he was HIV positive. "How's that for first-date small talk?" he says with a laugh. "She left after 30 minutes." But Anita liked his wit and vulnerability. She agreed to another date — if he'd stay sober. He did. They married in May 1996. "That was the first time she saved me," he says. "I was penniless, jobless, homeless and drunk. Sorry, ladies, I'm taken!"
He wasn't unemployed for long. A few months after their wedding, Feherty was at a hotel bar in Ohio, drinking again — "vodka-and-Gatorade, I was on a health kick" — when CBS golf producer Lance Barrow approached him about doing TV. "I'd lost interest in playing," Feherty says. "And TV was always in the back of my mind. I had the advantage of an Irish accent, which is a huge help. And I had a good relationship with players and caddies, because I spent a lot of time with caddies doing what caddies do — getting all f---ed up."
Feherty's droll, cheeky style immediately imp ressed viewers and colleagues alike. "One of his first events was the '97 AT&T [at Pebble Beach]," Barrow recalls. "Tiger Woods hit a dangerous 3-wood approach to the green on the 18th, which runs along the Pacific. David stops him walking off and says, 'Tiger, great shot. But didn't you see that big blue thing to your left?' That's typical David. He can ask an ordinary question in an extraordinary way."
Everyone knows Feherty, 47, is funny on the air, but the real show — the one you'd pay to hear — begins when the network cuts to commercials. When he works the booth, as he did perched above Pebble Beach's eighth green on Friday of this year's AT&T Pebble Beach- National Pro-Am, the crew's laughter literally shakes the tower during breaks.
On the chilly air: "I'm freezing my nads off. It's snot-blindingly cold. There are two lumps in my throat, and I think it's my raisins."
On the marshals' baggy white knickers and red-and-navy stockings: "Those outfits guarantee you'll never, ever get laid."
On short putts: "My, that's a testy 5-footer. Speaking of testy 5-footers, where's Lanny?"
On Roger Maltbie, walking off the green: "He's 6 inches taller when he's lying on his back. Come on, fat boy! Look up here! He's like an oil tanker. It takes him three or four holes to change direction."
Maltbie looks up, waves and smiles at golf's Don Rickles. The game's names love the abuse, and few escape Feherty's jabs. He dubbed Jack Nicklaus the designer "a landscaper on acid," and the Bear laughed it off. "My god, you're an asshole," he told Ken Venturi when they met; the vinegary commentator squinted, cocked his head, and declared, "I like you, kid!"
By 1995, Feherty's heart was on the ground. He was living in Dallas, his first marriage had dissolved, and his best playing days were a memory. So were his winnings from nearly 20 years as a pro. ("I spent a lot of money on fast cars, women and alcohol," he says. "The rest I just squandered.") He was scrawny, broke and broken. He ran 15 miles a day to quiet his racing mind. He'd lost his playing privileges in the States. When a friend fixed him up with his current wife, Anita, a willowy brunette with warm green eyes, he showed up smashed for their date at an Italian restaurant. "I thought, She's gorgeous. I'm f---ed. What do I have to offer? So I arrived drunk and got drunker." He gulped her Bellini. She asked if he was HIV positive. "How's that for first-date small talk?" he says with a laugh. "She left after 30 minutes." But Anita liked his wit and vulnerability. She agreed to another date — if he'd stay sober. He did. They married in May 1996. "That was the first time she saved me," he says. "I was penniless, jobless, homeless and drunk. Sorry, ladies, I'm taken!"
He wasn't unemployed for long. A few months after their wedding, Feherty was at a hotel bar in Ohio, drinking again — "vodka-and-Gatorade, I was on a health kick" — when CBS golf producer Lance Barrow approached him about doing TV. "I'd lost interest in playing," Feherty says. "And TV was always in the back of my mind. I had the advantage of an Irish accent, which is a huge help. And I had a good relationship with players and caddies, because I spent a lot of time with caddies doing what caddies do — getting all f---ed up."
Feherty's droll, cheeky style immediately imp ressed viewers and colleagues alike. "One of his first events was the '97 AT&T [at Pebble Beach]," Barrow recalls. "Tiger Woods hit a dangerous 3-wood approach to the green on the 18th, which runs along the Pacific. David stops him walking off and says, 'Tiger, great shot. But didn't you see that big blue thing to your left?' That's typical David. He can ask an ordinary question in an extraordinary way."
Everyone knows Feherty, 47, is funny on the air, but the real show — the one you'd pay to hear — begins when the network cuts to commercials. When he works the booth, as he did perched above Pebble Beach's eighth green on Friday of this year's AT&T Pebble Beach- National Pro-Am, the crew's laughter literally shakes the tower during breaks.
On the chilly air: "I'm freezing my nads off. It's snot-blindingly cold. There are two lumps in my throat, and I think it's my raisins."
On the marshals' baggy white knickers and red-and-navy stockings: "Those outfits guarantee you'll never, ever get laid."
On short putts: "My, that's a testy 5-footer. Speaking of testy 5-footers, where's Lanny?"
On Roger Maltbie, walking off the green: "He's 6 inches taller when he's lying on his back. Come on, fat boy! Look up here! He's like an oil tanker. It takes him three or four holes to change direction."
Maltbie looks up, waves and smiles at golf's Don Rickles. The game's names love the abuse, and few escape Feherty's jabs. He dubbed Jack Nicklaus the designer "a landscaper on acid," and the Bear laughed it off. "My god, you're an asshole," he told Ken Venturi when they met; the vinegary commentator squinted, cocked his head, and declared, "I like you, kid!"
