When a hard-charging golf commentator hits the road, nothing is safe--not even his closest friends

When a hard-charging golf commentator hits the road, nothing is safe–not even his closest friends

David Feherty, February 2012
Victor Juhasz

It was January last year when the Feherty boys started to suffer their way through a period of abuse unlike any other. I was home in the garage eyeing my clapped-out air compressor when I decided to give an "I wonder what this does?" turn to a guilty looking knob on the machine. This launched the attached hose like a nut-seeking missile, which led to a couple of unpleasant hours at my local ER while various doctors examined my left Vidalia onion.

In February, my boys had just about equalized when I visited a local school for underprivileged children. I had to wear a Velcro suit while a herd of little nose-miners hit tennis balls at me with oversized clubs. I had just turned to speak to one of the teachers when one of the kids got lucky and hit the shot of a lifetime — a line drive straight into the twins' bullpen.

Refreshed by a quiet, relatively pain-free March, the boys and I headed to Georgia in early April. Lundquist, Kostis and I share a house in Augusta. The first day there I'm floating in the pool, with the twins giddily dipping their toes in the water, when I suddenly hear Lundquist yell "Cannonball!" The resulting tidal wave would have carried me clean out of the pool and into the pines had I not abandoned ship sideways, sending the kids screaming into the cement corner of the Jacuzzi. The bastards at Golf Channel grudgingly supplied me with a titanium codpiece, which made me walk like John Wayne with a pair of cantaloupes and the winning cucumber at the New Jersey State Fair.

In May we flew to Cabo for my stepson's wedding. Two delightful flower children were dropping petals down the aisle and swinging incense thingies, when one of them spiraled up to meet, you guessed it, two and a half men. Something old, something new, and as usual, my testicles were blue. For the next few weeks, I was forced to wear a tiny veterinary lampshade around Frank and the beans.

In June Feherty debuted on the Golf Channel. And Rory McIlroy won the U.S. Open! I was so excited that I flew to Ireland to interview him, where his giant-assed dog mistook one of my marbles for a soccer ball and gave it a playful slap with a grizzlysized paw. "Bring it on!" I squealed, in a frequency that, ironically, only dogs can hear. Not a month later, I appeared on Golf Channel to help with the British Open. While traveling through the Orlando airport, a snot-nosed little turd, apparently mistaking me for Lord Voldemort, tried to impale my wedding tackle with his plastic Gryffindor sword. Fortunately the souvenir was of such bad quality that my now calloused battle-bag repelled the blow easily.

August. Keegan Bradley won his first major, at the PGA in Atlanta, and my gonads and I were looking forward to the Barclays, our final event, and a long break. Tony Romo happened to be in town, and — apparently mistaking me for Michael Irvin (that happens a lot) — playfully zipped me a perfect spiral, which hit me right in the numbers. Boo-yah-odel-ay-hee-tee!

As I write, I've just survived the Presidents Cup, and I'm off to Spain to interview Sergio, be a matador, dance flamenco, and play tennis. What could possibly go wrong? Then I'll emcee the gala at Greg Norman's Franklin Templeton Shootout, and hopefully get to Afghanistan to see the troops just before Christmas. By the time you read this, and barring any other unforeseen mishaps, I'll hopefully be able to look back and sing, "It was a very good year," just like Frank Sinatra — albeit in a strained falsetto.

This article first appeared in the February 2012 issue of Golf Magazine. The February issue is on newsstands and the tablet version is available for free for magazine subscribers on iPad, Kindle Fire, Nook Tablet, Nook Color and Samsung Galaxy Tab. Learn more