Two weeks ago, I had the opportunity to interview Jack Nicklaus for our late night show at the Memorial Tournament. Although only 2 1/2 minutes of it made the air, the interview lasted about 20 minutes, and a lot of great answers to some pretty dopey questions went missing. I was interested in his opinion of some of the celebrity fathers we’ve had on tour in recent years, and their very direct involvement with their sons’ careers. It turned out that aside from a few select occasions, Jack prefers to watch his boys from a discreet distance, and offer his advice in a subtle, dignified fashion. Just as well say I, for a mental picture of Jack punching the air and leaping around like a box of frogs is a disturbing one indeed. A dancing bear? I think not.
Living the life of a tour pro and raising good kids at the same time is not an easy task, but Jack and Barbara have done a great job. If I’m half as successful with my gaggle of sprouts I’ll be happy. I just wish I could interest any of them in golf, because at the moment the only competition they enter into is of the ‘who can burp the loudest in the back of the truck’ variety. I suppose it’s better than nothing, but to my mind the perfection of oral flatulence is nothing to strive for, unless you want to go into politics for a living, and heaven forbid that any of them will.
My baby girl, Erin, is one year old today and she views her four brothers’ antics with what appears to be a mixture of shock and amusement. I crank the music up to drown out the bullfrogs in the back, but this only serves to make them try harder. I have no idea where they get this revolting anti-social behaviour from, but I know there is only one way to end the contest. I turn off the music and let fly with a huge, roaring burp that almost shatters the windshield. The boys are stunned into silence. Erin laughs and claps her hands. Maybe I should have been a politician.