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The Daly Program seems to be, Trust yourself. Failing that, Trust your friends. Like Allison, Daly's extra-large ex-drinkin' buddy, who owns a liquor store in Morrilton, Ark. He was Daly's roommate when Daly was at his worst, fresh off the failure of his first marriage, depressed about his golf, getting outside some serious Jack. "Hell, now that John's quit drinkin'," Allison says, "business hasn't been worth a damn."
Bettye isn't so sure about having old cronies like Allison around John, but she shouldn't fret. The other day John, in a moment of weakness, said, "God, Blake, I really need a beer."
Allison looked up from a cold one and said, "If you do it, I'll kill you."
"Good," said Daly, sinking back in his chair. "Kill me. Go ahead and kill me. 'Cause in five years, I'd be dead anyway."
Hell, that wouldn't be much of a surprise. The surprise is that he isn't dead already.
Hard? Hard is having fans treat you like Mount Rushmore, like you don't have ears.
At the Masters, in Augusta, a fan not six feet from where Daly is putting is heard to say, "What'd Daly get busted for, alcohol or drugs?"
"A li'l bit of everythin', I reckon," says another fan.
At TPC, in Ponte Vedra, Fla., Daly is about to step up to an impossible shot when a fan is heard to say, "Right about now, he's wishin' he had a Scotch in his bag."
"Yeah," says another. "Or a wife to punch."