I've said this before, but the Rules officials on the PGA Tour are tops. The reason I'm reiterating this is that earlier this year George Boutell, one of the best, drove his cart into the sunset with nothing more than a sly wave goodbye.
George was the grandmaster whom apprentices approached with reverence in the hope of gathering a rare crumb of knowledge (or doughnut) that occasionally fell from the box of Krispy Kremes he would freebase in a shady spot near the port-o-lets. Yes, I'm talking about a man who once had a pizza delivered to his cart at a PGA Tour event.
When a player called for a ruling it was a joy to watch George transition from what seemed like a nursinghome coma into a regimentally upright, razor-sharp, starched-white, creaseless, athletic ruling machine.
George was the Gretzky of rulings, the Federer of the fairways, usually invisible, yet always in the right place. I knew of only one man with a similar style, a guy named Jimmy Hemphill, from my early playing days on the Sunshine Tour in South Africa. One day in Pretoria I was paired with Nick Price and called for a ruling because I thought my ball might be embedded. As usual Jimmy was there, faster than a flick of a springbok's tail.
"What's the problem?" he asked.
"Well, Jimmy," I said, trying to keep a straight face as the idiot Price slapped the bark of a nearby gum tree. "We think my ball may be embedded here, but we're not sure."
"Where is it?"
"Uh, I believe you just parked your cart on it," I said, pointing to his front left wheel.
Jimmy looked down at the spot, then said indignantly, "Well then, it was a bloody waste of time calling me, wasn't it? Obviously it's a free drop." And with that, he sped off.
To the best of my knowledge, George never parked on anyone's ball. He applied the Rules to the letter of the law, performing his primary function (which was to protect the interests of the rest of the field), while leaving enough room for common sense and compassion. If there was any doubt he always leaned in favor of the player. He was a grumpy sonofabitch with a legendary hemorrhoid problem. Even if you got him during one of his bouts of pink balloon knots, you knew you'd get a fair shake, even if it did include a graphic description of the current state of his nethermost regions.
When George got himself a little cancer, that merriment was briefly halted. Within weeks, George had a few feet of bowel removed and was back at work, claiming that the only difference was that his farts were now a slightly higher F-sharp.
One reason George retired early was his compassion for the people who sat beside him in coach after a week of dealing with prima donnas who wanted drops from lies where the grass wasn't growing in the right direction, viewers calling in with idiotic rulings, missing and presumed stolen courtesy cars, and frequent cavity searches at airport security.
After years of being seated next to hideously cheerful "Isn't flying fun? What do you do for a living?" nimrods, he knew that eventually he was going to kill and eat one of them. In an age during which professional golf is rolling in cash, Rules officials still have to fly in the back of the airplane.
The Tour is lucky to have such great officials. Despite having recently signed a new five-year deal, they are still underpaid and overworked. Now it seems the ones with the most experience are becoming an endangered species.
It would be easy to go the Al Gore route and blame it on greenhouse gases, to which George contributed more than his fair share over the years, but it is a problem much easier solved. This column should tell readers I really miss him. His departure should tell the Tour they need to look around the world of sports (see the NBA), realize what they've got, pay up, and look happy about doing it.
