Get me Missing Persons. This Greg Norman they're trying to palm off on us is a fake. A fraud. A phony.
They're feeding him lines we know he'd never say. For instance, last week at the Masters, this so-called Norman said, "Hey, I'm not in a rush anymore."
Not in a rush? Are you kidding? The real Greg Norman's whole life is a rush! The Ferraris, the G-5, the helicopters! Invite this guy for a barbecue, he parasails over!
So where is he? I mean, whoever this imposter is, he needs work. For instance, last Saturday he came to the 12th hole and became the first leader in Masters history not to be able to find his freaking ball. The real Greg Norman would've strangled two rules officials, drowned his caddie and filed an official grievance with God. This Greg Norman simply turned, walked back up the hill, rehit, sank the 22-foot putt and made an unforgettable 4.
Never, ever would the real Greg Norman play in the final group on Sunday (as usual), lose by a hair (as usual) and tell us he enjoyed himself. "I really did," this Norman said, after finishing three shots behind champion José María Olazábal. "It wasn't even like it was Sunday at the Masters."
Oh, please! The one thing in life the real Greg Norman wants more than anything else was just jacked from him again. He had the lead by himself with an hour to go. That's three seconds and three thirds now. He's Charlie Brown, and the Masters is the football. Give us tears! Give us demons! Give us Goodyears burning out of the Augusta National lot! "I just don't feel the sense of urgency anymore," he said.
Oh (pause) my (pause) god!
"He really has changed," says his wife, Laura.
"I just accept things now," says Norman. "Whatever you hit, whatever you shoot, whatever you do, just accept it."
Well, maybe this is what comes from a lifetime of having safes drop on your head and manholes open under your feet. Maybe this is what comes from getting Larry Mized and Bob Twayed too often. Maybe this is what comes from being stripped naked in front of the world and paraded down a green street of azaleas by Nick Faldo in 1996. Golf may owe you, but you finally realize it's never planning to pay.