Best To Never Win a Major. The most unfair list in golf.

Every guy on this list could retire tomorrow and have had a successful career…but let’s face it, no one wants to be there.

In the “HIS Time” series we take a deeper look at the BTNWAM list, and make our case for which ones are going to shed the title in 2018.

First up, the kid from Murietta…

***

PHOENIX

Saturday, February 4th, 2017. Third round of the Waste Management Open.

I remember a few things from that day. My buddies and I were in Phoenix for a golf trip that fell over Superbowl weekend, and it was no accident we also carved out a day to check out the wildest tournament on tour.

I’ve never seen a live sporting event that had a more interesting collection of people than that day in Phoenix. Half the crowd were in Dockers & blue sport coats, looking like they just got off Daddy’s Maryland July 4 yacht trip. The other half? They were wearing speedos with blowup sex dolls attached to their body funneling every beer in sight. Welcome to the Waste Management Open, where the ASU Pi-Kapa-Gama’s and the Harvard Rowing Team are all accepted. The scene at Waste Management was probably not the best PGA viewing experience you’ll find on tour, but the two hundred thousand rowdy fans helped make that Saturday in the desert easily the best golf party I’ve ever been to.

But I digress…

The other thing I remember about that Saturday, was it being the first day I gained real respect for the one and only Rickie Fowler. The “walking billboard” is a somewhat polarizing player among those surrounding the game. On the surface there are the haters that argue he doesn’t win enough (not true), doesn’t deserve all the money & fame he attracts (even less true), and can’t get it done when it matters most (downright criminal). On that Saturday at the Waste Management Open I witnessed firsthand just what it’s like being Richard Flower…

Walking around the grounds that day at TPC Scottsdale was not easy. There are at least double the amount of hospitality tents & grandstands than a typical tournament, making the entire course a labyrinth that would make Hogwarts look simple. Somewhere between beers twelve and eighteen I was following fellow Canadian Adam Hadwin (#mr59), and getting lost in Ollie Schniederjans Beatles like flow. Enjoying the spot our group had carved out near a beer cart, I had no plans on moving, but was suddenly drawn to a massive gallery following a group two holes back.

“Who was in this group?!”…I knew it couldn’t be Tiger Woods, who was either on his couch in Jupiter having a sugar-free popsicle, at Joey D’s activating his glutes, or about to dive in to a Grand Slam breakfast at Denny’s (wink). World #1 Dustin Johnson wasn’t in the field and neither was world #1 bro, John Daly. I was baffled, and had to go over and see what all the commotion was about. My friends and I waded through ten blow up dolls, five layers of fans, and lone behold we had our answer: all 5’4, 125lbs soaking wet (okay fine 5’7, 135lbs) of Mr. Rickie Fowler.

Just watching the next two holes I was amazed. All of the “Rickie, what are Saturday’s for!?.” chirps, the twelve year old boy Puma clones, and twelve year old girls cat calling during his swing like he’s Justin Bieber. Compared that to Hadwin & Ollie? He was playing a different sport.

Of course the best in the game attract this kind of crowd. Spieth, DJ, and of course peak Tiger never had it worse…but there was something about seeing Rickie handle the noise that was just so damn impressive. He never once talked back to the crowd, never once gave anyone cut-eye, and never once got his Caddy Joey Scovron to calm everyone down. Spieth, DJ, JT deal with this kind of noise and make comments about it all the time. It’s one small remark here or caddy call out there. Rickie? He just kept going about his business, feeding in to the frenzy, and knowing full well where his bread is buttered. That’s when I really gained an appreciation for him.

Rickie Fowler, motherf*cking man of the people.

***

ATLANTA

Fast forward seven months. I’m funemployed and fresh off a move to a new city, Atlanta, GA. End of September rolls around and I couldn’t stay away from hitting up The Tour Championship at the Bobby Jones famous course, East Lake GCC, on Thursday’s opening round. I’ve been known to enjoy golf, and had nothing better to do on this hundred degree Thursday in September, so I show up at the grounds at 7:30AM. The gates had just opened, a solid 4.5 hours before the first tee time of this limited-field thirty golfer event.

The Tour Championship is quite simply the antithesis of The Waste Management Open. Have trouble getting around in Scottsdale? East Lake is extremely easy to navigate. Get caught up in crazy drunk crowds in Phoenix? You’ll find respectful, quiet fans lightly sprinkled across the bentgrass in the south. Have trouble finding a Porta-Potty in the desert because there were too many college kids having sex in them? Not to worry because there are luxury trailer bathrooms all over the grounds in Atlanta.

I was having a great time waking up with the golf world, getting my bearings on the course, and checking out where the greenskeepers were placing the pins (#coffeeandpinsheets). I was in the midst of walking up to the clubhouse when I noticed a growing mob of people down towards the range. This time I wasn’t at all confused. I was accustomed to the gallery…

Rickie Fowler had just touched down at East Lake, and of course was beginning his day with a half-hour of signing autographs. This wasn’t the “kids only” section that so many players (and I likely would too) prefer. Rickie was out there with the most degenerate senior citizen autograph chasers, signing everything with a smile before he’d even had a cup of coffee.

A few hours later, it’s now 11AM and the first tee times are on the horizon. Rickie emerges from the clubhouse to begin his eighty-nine ball warmup routine. Before he even sets foot on the range though, he purposely walks directly by the autograph area yet again, and spends another twenty minutes signing. There’s a good chance half the crowd out there were re-upping from his early morning session, but he doesn’t even hesitate.

Sign, smile, rinse, repeat.

Spieth and JT both took a side door out to the practice area to avoid the crowds before their round. Most other guys either gave a head nod or just kept on walking by. Rickie however? He knew where his Puma, Red Bull, Mercedes-Benz, Farmers Insurance, Zuric, Grant Thornton sponsorships came from (okay I can’t remember them all), so he knew what he had to do…

Smile, sign, rinse, repeat.

***

I spent the better part of the day soaking in as much action as possible across East Lake. I fan-boyed out following Sergio, watched an absolute ball-striking clinic with Xander Schauffele, and even made time to watch Patrick Cantlay’s “American Sniper” like cold-blooded presence assassinate the course. Yet again though, I was captivated most but what was happening with Rickie…

Not because he was playing well. To put it lightly, Rickie sucked that day at East Lake. He battled a two way miss, made a mess around several greens, and pieced together maybe his worst round of what had been a great 2017 season. He was clearly running on empty, and you could see it in his game, but one place you couldn’t see it was his attitude. While John Rham throws clubs, Bubba Watson barrades Ted Scott, JT yells at spike marks, and Spieth feeds verbal abuse to his ball…Rickie just stays stoic. Fifty-nine or seventy-nine, his demeanor never changes.

Fresh off an eighteenth hole grinder bogey, Rickie finally gets off the course. After his card is signed and the standard Todd Lewis interview is complete, he goes straight back to the signing area…fifteen more minutes of penmanship.

Sign, smile, rinse, repeat.

One hour, and a Butch Harmon grinder session later, it’s 6:30PM. The grounds are clearing, and the top players in the world have all scurried in to the clubhouse. Not Rickie though, he’s out there signing, signing every last object put in front of him for the better part of another half an hour.

Sign, smile, rinse, repeat.

One hour after that? There’s barely anyone at the course. I’m waiting by the clubhouse to connect with a Tour support staffer while the grounds got more and more sparse. Everyone had punched-out their time sheet after another twelve hour day at work. Johnny Vegas comes out right beside me to say hi to his wife & daughter. Justin Rose exits the clubhouse to a group of college guys saying they bet on him, he gives them inside info on his elbow injury, a subtle wager tip, then keeps on walking (bro move)…

All the while there’s one stain of a fan lingering around near me. He’s no more than 5’10, bald, at least forty-five years old and at least forty-five pounds overweight…and wearing of all things, a Falcons jersey (to a golf event?!). He’s hitting up every player he can find acting like an absolute savage. The tournament lights are all but off, most staffers had already gone home, and the players were all checked out. Spieth snuck out the back to avoid the scene entirely. Rickie is one of the last to stumble out of the driveway, looking drawn from the sun and exhausted from a rough day on the course. “Buddy”, as I’ll condescendingly call him, sees Rickie slowly walking to his car, both hands full, consoling his girlfriend, Allison Stokke, and clearly just done with this day. Mr. Falcon has the nerve to tap him on his shoulder. While literally every other player on tour would just keep on walking or tell the guy off, Rickie stops. His hands full with belongings, he puts the pen in his mouth, re-arranges everything to give to his girlfriend, and signs the damn jersey.

The camera’s had long since stopped rolling, and no one was around. He’ll get zero attention for it, but it was one of the coolest things I’d seen a person, let alone a golfer, do in a long time.

Sign, smile, rinse, repeat.

***

Rickie Fowler flat out gets it.

I realize I just spent the last fifteen hundred words making a better case for Rickie Fowler to become the next anchor on Morning Drive than to shed the BTNWAM title, but you already know everything else about his credentials…

You know about the T5’s in all four majors, you know about the best short game in the world, and you definitely know about his birdie streak in ’15 to win The Players Championship. Rickie just came off his best statistical year in his eight years on tour, and has all the game to win a major now. He’s had that game ever since he left Oklahoma State and ran through Q School. I’m making a case for Rickie, not because he is any different today than before, the dude just has a shitload of karma on his side. Karma from pretty much doing the right thing since he set foot in the spotlight, and karma from being pound for pound the coolest dude on the PGA Tour. All those good vibes, a short-game that can save him anywhere, and simple law of averages make 2018 Rickie’s year to hoist that first major trophy.

I’m not going to tell you where he’ll do it, because he has the game to do it anywhere. Augusta, Shinnecock, Carnoustie or Bellerive?…he could easily win at each of those tracks, and has the mind to handle moments all of those majors present. In a world where instant stars are infecting every sport and youth is taking over golf, Rickie is turning 29. He’s not that young anymore, but more ready than ever to stop being known for sponsor logos, signing autographs, and being friends with everyone.

It’s time for JT, Speith, ZJ, Bubba, Jimmy and 125 of his other good friends on tour to get in the receiving line on Sunday.

Rickie will finally win a major in 2018, and it may not be just one.

-TH