A couple of winters ago, I was in Hawaii watching a bowl game with a group of players and their wives: good time, relaxed crowd, everyone having fun. At one point I got up to use the restroom, caught my foot on a stool and stumbled. I didn’t fall, just one of those ungraceful half-trips that happen when you’re navigating a crowded room. Someone cracked, “Cut him off.” Everyone laughed. I laughed. I hadn’t had a drink since college.
Over the next two weeks, I received texts from multiple people asking if I was OK. A caddie I barely knew told a mutual friend I’d been “a mess” in Hawaii. A coach apparently had a detailed account of the evening that featured me slurring words. Another version had me being asked to leave. The whole thing was a game of telephone that grew with each call. That’s professional golf for you.
Other pro sports have a clubhouse code of what happens in the circle stays in the circle. It’s a culture enforced by proximity and shared purpose. You’re teammates. You eat together, win and lose together; you need each other.
Golf has none of that architecture. We’re individual contractors. There are 150 of us at any given event, and the week has enormous amounts of dead time: practice rounds, rain delays, waiting to tee off. There’s no locker-room energy keeping things contained. You’re bored, you’re a little anxious, and someone’s telling you something interesting about someone else. The conditions are almost designed for gossip to thrive.
Conventional wisdom is that wives and significant others are the primary engines. I understand the logic—all these spouses with time on their hands, sharing travel and dinners—but it’s wrong. In my experience, most wives and girlfriends are largely indifferent to what’s happening around them. They care about their husbands, their families, their own lives. The idea of them sitting around dissecting some other player’s swing-coach drama or hotel-room situation—not likely. Most are just trying to get through another week in another city in another rental car with child-seat adaptors and Bluetooth settings in different places.
The real culprits are the instructors. Think about the position they occupy: They travel between players. They spend hours one-on-one with guys who are under stress, frustrated and talking freely because they’re paying for the conversation and, therefore, feel entitled to vent. Some coaches can be trusted to hold things in confidence, but too many speak out of school, often for attention. If you’re the guy who always seems to know things, people want to talk to you. Gossip is social currency that some coaches spend carefully. Others spend it like they’re on a hot streak.
Caddies and media can be gossipy, too, but not as bad as us players. Here’s something I didn’t expect coming out on tour—the veterans gossip more than the young guys. Not in a mean way, but more like how your dad’s friends talk at a backyard cookout. These older guys are mostly just trying to connect with players 10 and 15 years younger. They’re comfortable in their own skin, they’ve seen everything, and they genuinely enjoy shooting the breeze. The younger guys, when they come out, are almost always inward facing. They’re grinding, they’re nervous, they’re trying to figure out where they belong. The last thing a 23-year-old who just got his card is thinking about is what’s going on with someone else’s life. Give him five years and a few million and watch how that changes.
Also, nowhere is gossip worse than in Jupiter, Fla. Why should it be more of a problem there than in Scottsdale or Vegas? Somehow, everyone in Jup knows everyone’s business faster than seems physically possible. A guy on tour told me a story last year about how he went out on a date—dinner first, then a bar afterward—and by the time he walked into the bar, he had three text messages asking who his new lady was. He hadn’t recognized a single person at dinner.
Most gossip is harmless. It’s someone’s funny story about a playing partner making a faux pas in front of a sponsor—think wrong name, wrong product, wrong moment. Or stuff from a guy’s home club. Also football talk, specifically who has suite hookups and can get tickets to the good games. Occasionally, it edges into someone’s personal life, but honestly, most guys out here are very respectful. There’s an unspoken floor. It’s usually the same gentle roasting you’d do among your own friends—the kind where if the subject heard it, he’d roll his eyes and laugh, too.
That said, it does go wrong. Not long ago, a former Ryder Cup player hit a rough patch on the course. From what I heard—through his ex-caddie, which tells you something about the routing—part of what derailed him was an embellished story about his tipping. It cut him deep and threw him off for a good month. I know how that sounds. How can a grown man, a pro athlete, be rattled by a little story about a cheap tip? But I’ll push back. You’ve been hurt by gossip in your own life, too, something small that landed wrong and didn’t reflect who you actually are. It’s not always easy to keep the personal and professional separate, and out here, where so much of the job is mental, the wrong story at the wrong time can do damage.
My Hawaii story eventually died, but it took longer than it should have. I don’t lose sleep over it, but I think about it more than I’d like to admit, like when I’m in a room with a bunch of players and someone says something that lands a little sideways. You watch the face of the person it’s said to. You can almost see the calculation happening. They’re thinking, Do I store this or let it go?
On our tour the answer more often than not is to store it, just in case. —With Joel Beall
