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 A Whole New Skins Game?
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 April 2006 |
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The naked truth about reality television By DAVID FEHERTY
Contributing Writer, GOLF MAGAZINE The race for TV ratings seems
like a silly business, but what
human beings find entertaining
hasn’t changed for centuries: a
dash of public humiliation or triumph is
best, with risk of serious physical or
mental injury tossed in. Not that long
ago, we gathered in droves to toss rotten
vegetables at some poor sod who’d been
locked in the stocks for, say, playing the
lute really badly. For the average poxaddled
villager, an opportunity to mock
the fallen warmed the cockles the same
way that American Idol does today.
Please, don’t try to tell me that show is
about winners. It relies almost entirely on
stupid people who have either no friends
or mean friends. (“Hey dude, I think I
can sing, d’ya think I should try out?”
“Go for it!”)
We’ve had a couple of reality shows
in golf, but so far none of them has had
enough of the old squirmage factor to fit
into the Idol category. I have high hopes
for The Daly Planet, the first episode of
which airs as I write. Big Johnny should
leave a trail of rich white trash behind
him that’s visible from space, covering
the humiliation aspect, and the guy’s just
brilliant enough to win another major.
Now I have a shot myself. I’m hosting
the St. Joseph Pressure Challenge (May 14
and 20, 2 p.m. EST, CBS, just prior
to telecasts of the Byron Nelson and
the Colonial), produced by this very
magazine, and I intend to inflict suffering
of biblical proportions upon the Regular
Joes therein. Verily, there shall be
pestilence from above and heckling from
beside these poor souls as they attempt
to make pars for increasing amounts of
cash. If they make nine in a row, they win
$250,000. But there’s a Who Wants to Be
a Millionaire catch: After
each par, they can pocket
the money, or risk losing
it all with a bogey on the
next hole. While the
contestants will view this
as their chance of a
lifetime, I’m thinking of it as a useful
outlet for all the pent-up vitriol I have up my kilt after 10 years of watching the pros. The problem with covering the Tour is that I never get to see crappy golf. It’s always right at the flag or the middle of the green. I’m bored.
Which leads me to wondering how
much the world of golf might change
when everything on TV is packaged like
a reality show—a couple of seasons from
now, I mean. The sweet spot seems to be
humiliation combined with maximum
bare skin, and since golf already has
plenty of the former (whiffs, whoopsies,
shanks, duffs, flinches, flubs, etc.) right away we’d have to start getting the tackle off. It’d be a whole new kind of skins game: For every bogey, the naughty golfer would have to remove an article of clothing. “Tiger, 4-over with three to play, is one shot away from the leopard skin
plum-smuggler, but now let’s go to the
third where big John Daly is playing his
11th shot! Dear God, he’s going to have
to shed his spinnaker!” It wouldn’t be
pretty, but neither is The Biggest Loser.
Victor Juhasz
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And I see good things here for the
LPGA, equal-opportunity-wise. With the
trend toward physical fitness spreading
into the women’s game, and players
getting younger and better-looking by the
minute, the ladies suddenly might give
the men a run for the ratings on Sunday
afternoon. Advertisers know that until
someone makes me a pair of underpants
with opposable thumbs, I’m never going
to stop putting my hands in my pockets
to adjust my coin purse, and doing all the
other guy things guys do, like looking at
attractive females, which is, admittedly,
disgraceful. On behalf of the 99 percent
of the men who are reading this and feel
exactly the same way (author’s estimate:
probably a little low) I apologize. But the
bottom line is this: If I need to see a
triple-chinned, wobbly breasted salad
swerver attempting an athletic endeavor,
I’ll play golf with Roger Maltbie.
Would it work? Well, the closest
thing we have to reality-based golf today
is the AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-
Am. Never mind which pro is in the lead,
what people want to see is Kevin Costner
looking windswept and magnificent with
his tie tucked into his vest, topping one
off the cliff at the eighth, and George
Lopez refusing to rake bunkers in one of
his frightening argyles. Now if we could
just throw in Kevin James, one duff away
from his birthday suit, maybe that would
give Fear Factor a run for its ratings.
If you've ever wanted to send David Feherty a question or comment, here's your chance! David is putting down his mike to answer your E-mails in his mailbag column for GOLFONLINE.
Click here to send him your best question or comment. (Note: Letters may be edited for clarity and length).
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