At a Tour stop in New Orleans, a plastered fan is heard to holler, "C'mon, John! We're going to Pat O'Brien's!"
"We're on your tab!" says another.
This is the hard part now: trying to make it. Not caring what they think. Being 27, suddenly rich and trying to figure out a way to get off the roller coaster without getting killed.
In his rented home in Augusta, Daly rises out of his Barcalounger like a doomed man, takes another handful of the hated peanut M&M's and smushes them into the top of a piece of double-chocolate cake. He plops down again, disgusted with himself. "If I don't stop eating these goddam things, I'm going to look like the Goodyear blimp," he says. "Seriously, I'll bet you any amount of money I never eat another peanut M&M...after this." Upon which he shoves a chunk of the cake into his face.
"Bg gddm ft slb," he says.
Lord have mercy on the most human man in golf. He hits big, succeeds big and fails big. The only things as big as his heart are his weaknesses. But he is trying to lick them, one demon at a time.
"Make sure you write one thing," he says, washing down a monster glob of cake with a river of Diet Coke. "These people who write me to tell me to stop smoking—by god, I quit drinking. I ain't gonna quit smoking, too. This is hard enough."
On the living room big screen Daly's idol, Jack Nicklaus, is being interviewed about his opening-round 67 in the Masters, which tied him for the lead.
Jack, how can you possibly do this at 53?
"Well," Nicklaus says, "I realized that I had to get in better shape. Today's players are hitting the gym after every round, doing push-ups, sit-ups, working out, eating the right foods."