In Texas, they have a description for guys who look and act like authentic cowboys and ranchers but in reality, aren’t: All hat, no cattle.

 

Yesterday, I played 18 holes behind golf’s answer to that: All routine, no game.

 

No kidding, to look at the one guy in the threesome ahead of us, you’d swear he must have been a PGA Tour pro.  He was all decked out in a form-fitting shirt and a pair of those tight nylon-looking pants favored by so many European Tour players.  His visor was pulled down low, with his deliberately mussed-up hair sticking out the top in all directors, making him look vaguely like Fredrik Jacobson.  Of course, the look was finished off by a week’s worth of stubble.

 

From a distance, judging from his swing, you’d figure he was a decent player.  From his routine, you’d figure he had to be no worse than a scratch player, more likely some kind of touring pro.  He clearly took golf very seriously.

 

I mean, on every shot and every putt, he had a full, minute-long routine, which he painstakingly repeated over and over.  It was the kind of routine one can only develop from watching hours and hours and hours of golf on TV.

 

On every shot, this guy would stand behind the ball, eying his line or the projected flight ball of the ball.   He’d do a false start or two, like Sean O’Hair, then he’d step into the shot and take a couple of full, careful practice swings.  Finally, he’d look up once or twice, dialing in on his target.

 

It was all very understandable and mesmerizing, right up to the point that he would lay sod, or smash a pull-yanked OB left, or foozle another stone-cold top.

 

When he would hit another crappy shot, which he did pretty much every shot we saw, his head would drop in disappointment and befuddlement, and he would look to his playing partners for some explanation.   How could such a perfectly calibrated swing by such a skilled player as himself have produced such a rancid result?

 

Hey, you can pull that off once or twice a round, but after every shot?

 

My friend Tim and I, who were in a twosome, first noticed the guy on the second or third hole, because we were waiting on every shot.  After watching him chunk a 75-yard approach shot into the marsh, Tim said, "I think this guy thinks he’s a better player than he is."

 

With all the waiting time on our hands, and to amuse ourselves, we began to watch him more closely. By the 5^th hole, we were referring to him simply as Tour Player.

 

On one hole, he pulled his tee shot into the trees left of the fairway.  That was followed by an exhaustive examination of his recovery options, like something you’d expect to witness in the final pairing of the U.S. Open on Sunday.  Naturally, he topped his next shot, advancing the ball perhaps 20 yards; his third shot appeared headed OB left.

 

Next hole: tee shot OB right.

 

At the 8^th, a par 3, Tour Player once again laid sod, sending his tee ball into the deep junk.  He dropped on the forward tee, then plunked his 3^rd shot into the front bunker, needing two tepid efforts to escape the sand; that was followed by a three-putt – a stylish quad by my count.

 

Believe me when I say that none of the carnage dissuaded Tour Player from an excruciating repetition of his routine on each shot. Toward the end of the round, Tim’s and my impatience with Tour Player had turned into enjoying his comedy of errors play out.  How bad could it get?  How bad could he get?

 

After the round, as we were head for the parking car, Tour Player walked by with his bag slung over his back.  It was all I could do to resist saying, "Yo, bro, do us all a favor and watch less golf on TV."

Every now and then, something happens in golf that makes you wonder, what is wrong with this picture?  One of those things just happened.

 

It hit home for me as I was reading today’s story by Doug Ferguson of the Associated Press about Phil Mickelson yearning to win this week’s the Memorial Tournament, where living legend Jack Nicklaus is the host.  Other than the U.S. Open, the Memorial is about the only significant title in golf on American soil that Mickelson has yet to win.

 

Deep down in the story, we are reminded that ever since Tiger Woods arrived on the scene, Mickelson has been relegated to the second most-dominant player on the PGA Tour, perhaps the world.  He has 39 PGA Tour titles and four majors.  Nobody else is even close.

 

Yet,  for all his accomplishments, Mickelson has never won a money title, never been voted Player of the Year and never been the No. 1 player in the world golf rankings.

 

We note this on the very week when the new No. 1 player in the world is Luke Donald, a nice man and fine player, but one who has never won a single major and won only three times on the PGA Tour and three times on the European Tour, most recently the BMW PGA Championship in Wentworth.

 

I note this not so much to disrespect Donald or to criticize the methodology of the world golf rankings; Donald has, in fact, been a hot and steady player in the past year.

 

My point is more the absurdity of what has been denied Mickelson over the course of his career.  No golfer has labored in the shadows of Tiger more than Mickelson.  If not for Tiger, no golfer could have won more tournaments, more majors, more money and more respect than Mickelson.

 

At 41, Mickelson is entering a crucial stretch of his career.  He’s still very competitive, but there is no denying that the buzzer has sounded to commence the fourth quarter.  And with distractions such as his own health issues (arthritis) and his wife’s breast cancer, it’s hard to know how much Mickelson has left in the tank.

 

It’s had not to notice that even with Tiger missing-in-action for the past 18 months, Mickelson has been unable to take advantage and finally rise to No. 1 in the world.  If he is ever going to do it, now is the time.

There is a chance I am reading too much into it but the fact that IMG has effectively squeezed out Tiger’s longtime agent, Mark Steinberg, would seem to speak volumes: specifically that the international management company’s sense is that the most famous golfer in the world is now irredeemably damaged goods.

 

IMG, the 800-pound gorilla of sports management companies, had to know that when Steinberg walked, there is a very good chance Tiger would be right behind him.  In fact, no one should be surprised if Steinberg hangs his own shingle starting next week, with Tiger as his first client.

 

If you missed it, the news broke Tuesday that Steinberg, the head of IMG’s golf operations in North America, could not come to terms on an agreement to extend his contract, which expires in June.   Steinberg has been a huge player at IMG for years, with a stable of clients that includes Tiger, Annika Sorenstam and Steve Stricker.   Even more intriguing is that word leaked to a couple of well-connected writers that IMG pretty much offered Steinberg a deal they knew he would refuse.   You know, they wanted him gone. 

 

To appreciate the magnitude of Steinberg’s departure, it would help to have seen him and Tiger interacting at tournaments over the years.  Tiger calls him "Steiny." All smart and smooth, Steiny was never more than an arm’s length away at all times.

 

At press conferences, it was a slight nod from Steinberg that would give the okay to commence the questioning.  Another nod from Steinberg was the cue to bring down the curtain.  He advised Tiger on all things in golf and in life, and his fingerprints are on every endorsement deal Tiger has done for the past 12-plus years.  If Tiger becomes the first billion-dollar athlete, Steinberg deserves his share of the credit. Not surprisingly, he guarded Tiger like a mama guards her cubs, controlling any and all access.  More than a few golf writers thought of Steinberg as "Dr. No."

 

When Tiger’s personal life went into a tailspin, it was Steinberg who managed the damage control from behind the scenes – or at least he tried to.  If anything, it was what many regard as Steinberg’s failure to control any damage, his bungling of Tiger’s sordid crisis, that might have made IMG believe he had become expendable.

 

Even so, when keeping Tiger Woods as a client hangs in the balance, it’s hard to believe that IMG wouldn’t have kept Steinberg on so long as Tiger’s career continued to throw off a steady stream of huge commissions.  IMG is not known for leaving money on the table.  However, with his reputation in tatters and the future of his golf career uncertain because of one injury and ailment after another, the days of Tiger gushing million-dollar commissions for IMG or any other agent might be entering a downward trend.

 

All of this is speculation, of course.  But the fact is, Steinberg has been the golden boy – dare we say the Tiger Woods of IMG -- for the past decade.  If nothing else, his departure is further proof that nothing about Tiger or his career is the same any more.

If you don’t mind, please indulge me for a moment as I promote a very worthwhile charity pro-am of which I happen to be the honorary chairman.

 

It’s called the 2011 Tournament of Champions and it’s being conducted by the Lower Bucks County chapter of the American Red Cross on May 24 at Makefield Highlands GC in Yardley.

 

You’d have a hard time finding an organization anywhere in the world that does more valuable or better work than the Red Cross.  Buy a sponsorship, a spot or a foursome in the pro-am and you can feel like you’ve done something worthwhile.  If you haven’t played Makefield Highlands, you’re also in for a treat of a round.

 

In these tough times, I don’t have to tell you how charities have to struggle to maintain their levels of contributions.  It is not easy for anybody or any organization, including the Red Cross.

 

A bunch of area club pros are pitching in to do their part, offering their time to play.  The list of pros is impressive.

 

I hope to see you at Makefield Highlands on May 24.

I don’t have any great stories about Seve Ballesteros.  I wish I did.

 

When I started covering golf full time for The Philadelphia Inquirer, in 1996, the best years of Seve’s remarkable career were already behind him.   He won the last of his three British Open titles in 1988 and the latter of his two Masters in 1983.

 

By the time I began traveling the tournament circuit, Seve wasn’t officially retired but his appearances were few and far between.  As a former Masters champion, however, he did enjoy returning to Augusta to play each year, even if he had become something of a ceremonial golfer.  It was there, at one of his final Masters, that I had my only Seve "enocounter," if you want call it that.

 

I don’t recall the story I was working on that day; all I remember is that I was trying to get a quote from every big-name player I could as they made their way from the Augusta National clubhouse to the first tee or the practice putting green, a distance of about 50 yards.

 

Getting quotes from players can be a dicey business, depending on the player (jerk or not a jerk?), the question (can you tell me about that triple-bogey?), whether they are late and so on and so forth.  Getting blown off by a guy who never breaks stride or pretends not to hear your question is not uncommon.

 

What I remember about that particular day is that I was not having much luck.  I had a few weak quotes in my notebook and a deadline that was looming.  I was starting to get a little concerned.

 

Suddenly, there was Seve coming out of the locker room, headed in my general direction.  As always, Seve had that air about him, that dignity, that look of purpose and he oozed that charisma that made him popular with other players and especially with the ladies.

 

I made my move. "Seve," I said, practically blocking his path.  "Got a second?"

 

He stopped, looked me in the eye and listened as I asked my question.   For a moment, he said nothing, just looked at me.  I thought to myself, oh, great, he’s about to blow me off.  But Seve surprised me.

 

"Walk with me," he said.  "I’m going to putt."

 

We walked together from the locker room, across the back lawn of the Augusta National clubhouse, through the thicket of patrons, all the way to the putting green, with Seve talking every step of the way.  When we reached the practice putting green, Seve paused again, speaking for another minute or two, completing his thoughts and filling my notebook in the process.

 

When he was finished, I thanked him. He smiled and nodded and ducked under the ropes to go putt.

 

I had what I needed.  Elated, I hustled off to the media center.  I remember thinking, What a gentleman, what a class act.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

 

Calling all charity golf events.

 

With the demise of two publications that used to list charity golf events in the region, MyPhillyGolf is trying to do what we can to fill that void.  If you look down the left rail of our home page, you will see a link called Charity Event Calendar.

 

Nothing would make us feel more valuable and useful than to fill that page with a long list events from around the region.  All you need is a charity event and a webpage we can link to.   It’s free, no charge.

 

If you are running a charity golf event, or you know a friend or a colleague with a charity event to promote, please alert to our Charity Event Calendar.

I am sick of rain.

 

I am sick of calling up the weekly forecast on my computer and seeing this:

 

Monday: Thunderstorms

Tuesday: Worse thunderstorms

Wednesday: Intermittent showers

Thursdays: Rain

Friday: Cloudy with afternoon showers likely

Saturday: Ha! Don’t even think about it

Sunday:  You might get in nine holes before it rains

 

No kidding, this is the rainiest spring I can remember in years.  I don’t know that to be an absolute prove-able fact because none of the eight superintendents (they keep charts and graphs) I’ve called in the past 30 minutes answered their cell phones.  My guess is, they couldn’t hear their cell phones over the pumps they were running to try to get their courses in playable for the weekend.

 

I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining when half the South got flattened by tornadoes in the past few days.  And, hey, the forecast for tomorrow (Saturday) looks good.  I’ll believe it when I see it.  Heck, at this point, I’d take Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.

 

Even if I don’t have the actual rain stats at my fingertips, I know I am not imaging this.  Last week I played a round at the GC at Glen Mills with the general manager, Paul Stuhlmiller.  (Naturally, it was spritzing).  At one point, I asked Paul if this spring had been as bad weather-wise as I thought.  He winced like I had touched a nerve and said, "Yes, awful."

 

Thing is, a tee time is a perishable commodity, like fruit or an airplane that takes off full of empty seats.  Courses will never get that revenue back.  Golf courses are used to getting iffy weather in March but not so much in mid- to late April.  We are getting into the meat of their seasons.

 

Of course, most golf course owners, managers and superintendents are as optimistic (na•ve?) as farmers.  It doesn’t matter if rain or drought or a swarm of locusts killed last year’s crop, they are farmers to the bone and they are going to plant again next year.

 

Me, I’ve got tee times Saturday and Sunday.