"It's hilarious," Feherty says. "People don't take me seriously when I call them a nut sack, but guess what? I really think you're a nut sack. But it doesn't mean I don't like you. It means I do." To Feherty, the gentle abuse offers the abused a chance for dignity: rise above or return fire.
Behind all the punch lines there were equal parts empty bottles and internal chaos. In 2000, Feherty was misdiagnosed with adult attention-deficit disorder, and his decline continued for three years until he sought a second opinion and learned he was suffering from clinical depression. Alcohol and depression are a lethal mix, his doctors warned. But he still wasn't ready to quit. The hallucinations were growing more frequent and vivid, and drinking seemed to help. He loved the bottle and still remembers his highoctane exploits like a long-lost love. "There's nothing worse than are formed whore," he says. "I'm not saying it's a great idea to go out and get wrecked. I'm just saying I had a good time. It almost killed me, but it was a hell of a good time."
It was the winter of 2004 when Feherty faced the full fury of his own mind. He spent days at a time trembling beneath a blanket in his den, squeezing back tears. "With my depression, the immune system in my head shut down," Feherty says. "I'd watch the news, and be overwhelmed with sadness, unable to banish images of the dreadful things people do. The tortured soldier or molested child would be my child. I'd see a knife raised over my daughter Erin, and the mental picture was unbearable. Before I knew it, the collar of my shirt was soaked and I'd be crying like a baby. If I was driving, I'd have to pull over. Even if I banged my head against the wheel, it wouldn't go away."
Feherty hid his grief from his closest friends. Yet CBS golf analyst Peter Kostis could see the storm clouds on his colleague's face. A dear friend of the family (Erin calls him Uncle Peter), Kostis grew concerned when Feherty grew quiet. "There's nothing in the Feherty genes that's quiet," Kostis says. "Heck, even when he's asleep, he's farting. But I could see a darkness there, and I'd ask if he was OK."
Often during that long winter of 2004, Erin, then 5, the youngest of his five children, would climb on top of her immobile dad. ("She used me as furniture," he says.) It helped to hold her, to scratch her back, but soon she was off to bed or school. His wife, Anita, covered him with a blanket. She believed she was watching him die. He felt the kindest act would be to leave them. His daughter didn't need this kind of father, his wife, this kind of husband. "I'm beyond adoration for my daughter, yet I thought she would be better off without me. I thought that the only thing worse than being me was living with me. Suicidal depressives often think they're actually doing everyone a favor, committing an act of kindness." One day, he tried to get up, but couldn't. He was too sore. Had he been able to summon the strength, he says, he would have reached for a way out. "I've got a houseful of shotguns."
Two years later, Feherty is again on the brink of tears on a bright, blazing February day in Palm Springs, but only because his yellow panties are a tad tight. He's wearing a ruffled black-and-gold cheerleader skirt, with matching pompoms. He bounces on a huge Wal-Mart trampoline. To his right — thoooomp! thoooomp! — a man fires a golf-ball gun, beheading a succession of life-size cardboard Fehertys. It looks more like a Fellini film than a Cobra commercial set.
"These underpants are 180 pounds per square inch," Feherty says between hops. The trampoline represents Cobra's new driver, and its pitchman is demonstrating the clubface's bounce. "Couldn't you get Olga Korbut for this? She must have a beard by now." Moments later, he considers his skirt. "I wonder if I can make this ripple." The director praises a take for its "integrity," which Feherty finds hilarious. "If there's one thing I have none of, it's integrity. It's a shame we couldn't do this at Augusta."
Later, his 14-hour workday complete, Feherty slumps into the back seat of a limo for the two-hour drive to Los Angeles, six Cobra spots in the bag. Playing a cheerleader is an odd way to make a buck, but the former wringerouter for a one-armed Belfast window washer will take it. "Somehow," he sighs, "I've managed to never let drinking or depression affect my work. Somehow, I fight it off. I was never drunk on the air, before or during a telecast. The thought of people not liking me or what I do — that terrifies me."
Behind all the punch lines there were equal parts empty bottles and internal chaos. In 2000, Feherty was misdiagnosed with adult attention-deficit disorder, and his decline continued for three years until he sought a second opinion and learned he was suffering from clinical depression. Alcohol and depression are a lethal mix, his doctors warned. But he still wasn't ready to quit. The hallucinations were growing more frequent and vivid, and drinking seemed to help. He loved the bottle and still remembers his highoctane exploits like a long-lost love. "There's nothing worse than are formed whore," he says. "I'm not saying it's a great idea to go out and get wrecked. I'm just saying I had a good time. It almost killed me, but it was a hell of a good time."
It was the winter of 2004 when Feherty faced the full fury of his own mind. He spent days at a time trembling beneath a blanket in his den, squeezing back tears. "With my depression, the immune system in my head shut down," Feherty says. "I'd watch the news, and be overwhelmed with sadness, unable to banish images of the dreadful things people do. The tortured soldier or molested child would be my child. I'd see a knife raised over my daughter Erin, and the mental picture was unbearable. Before I knew it, the collar of my shirt was soaked and I'd be crying like a baby. If I was driving, I'd have to pull over. Even if I banged my head against the wheel, it wouldn't go away."
Karen Kuehn
Often during that long winter of 2004, Erin, then 5, the youngest of his five children, would climb on top of her immobile dad. ("She used me as furniture," he says.) It helped to hold her, to scratch her back, but soon she was off to bed or school. His wife, Anita, covered him with a blanket. She believed she was watching him die. He felt the kindest act would be to leave them. His daughter didn't need this kind of father, his wife, this kind of husband. "I'm beyond adoration for my daughter, yet I thought she would be better off without me. I thought that the only thing worse than being me was living with me. Suicidal depressives often think they're actually doing everyone a favor, committing an act of kindness." One day, he tried to get up, but couldn't. He was too sore. Had he been able to summon the strength, he says, he would have reached for a way out. "I've got a houseful of shotguns."
Two years later, Feherty is again on the brink of tears on a bright, blazing February day in Palm Springs, but only because his yellow panties are a tad tight. He's wearing a ruffled black-and-gold cheerleader skirt, with matching pompoms. He bounces on a huge Wal-Mart trampoline. To his right — thoooomp! thoooomp! — a man fires a golf-ball gun, beheading a succession of life-size cardboard Fehertys. It looks more like a Fellini film than a Cobra commercial set.
"These underpants are 180 pounds per square inch," Feherty says between hops. The trampoline represents Cobra's new driver, and its pitchman is demonstrating the clubface's bounce. "Couldn't you get Olga Korbut for this? She must have a beard by now." Moments later, he considers his skirt. "I wonder if I can make this ripple." The director praises a take for its "integrity," which Feherty finds hilarious. "If there's one thing I have none of, it's integrity. It's a shame we couldn't do this at Augusta."
Later, his 14-hour workday complete, Feherty slumps into the back seat of a limo for the two-hour drive to Los Angeles, six Cobra spots in the bag. Playing a cheerleader is an odd way to make a buck, but the former wringerouter for a one-armed Belfast window washer will take it. "Somehow," he sighs, "I've managed to never let drinking or depression affect my work. Somehow, I fight it off. I was never drunk on the air, before or during a telecast. The thought of people not liking me or what I do — that terrifies me."
