Thursday, May 21, 2020

Getting to Know the FGR - Part 2

Nothing says it's time to write about stupid illegal shit you did in high school like a pandemic Sunday morning with a Catholic mass playing on the television in the next room. Having never been to church on consecutive Sundays, I never knew how much they like to hammer home the message through repetition. It's kind of like having the Golf Channel on in the next room. Just replace swing path with life path and commercials for the Square Strike chipper with readings from the Holy Gospel According to John . . . both of which could help me immensely if I didn't refuse to embrace them out of pure spite (way to keep it light). 

This was the face of gang violence
in Annapolis during the 80's.

(Note: This is not me)
As I'm sure you remember vividly from Part 1, I was raised in a fairly affluent neighborhood on a fairly affluent river in the fairly affluent city of Annapolis, Maryland where the two favorite pastimes are sailing and acting like you don't live 25 miles from Baltimore. Seriously, walk-up to someone in downtown Annapolis, ask them for directions to Baltimore and they'll either say "Baltimore? . . . never heard of it" or they'll start blowing a whistle while dialing 911 and trying to wack you with a Topsider.*

When I was growing-up back when people didn't care whether kids lived or died, you didn't have to be of a certain age to drive a boat. The primary reason for this was that the authorities didn't want to discourage children from driving their drunk parents which made sense considering that the average home in Annapolis had 2.37 alcoholics when you included the deadbeats still living in their parents' basements. 

That meant that us kids were like aquatic Uber drivers in a society unburdened by laws to prevent petty crimes like open containers, drunk in public and child neglect. This arrangement did have its perks. At the age of 14, I was free to roam up and down a river almost unchecked and the great thing about being on the water is that it makes you feel invincible because hey, it's just water and hey, no cops and hey, there's always a bathroom. Did we do stupid shit under these false pretenses like make the boats go really fast and then jump-off the sides to feel like flying or drive at a dock full speed in an unwinnable game of chicken against an inanimate object? Um, maybe. But hey, it was a simpler time and we're the better for it. At least those of us who survived.

At 16 we graduated to cars and then things really got stupid. Everyday was a new version of the Smokey and the Bandit bet** (more on this later) or the car race from Against All Odds. In one particularly ill-advised version of the latter, we were racing from school to Rocco's Pizzeria at lunch and got stuck behind someone who didn't get the memo to clear the streets for us. I was then running in second place and about to lose under a caution flag situation so I decided to avail myself of the left lane which had been designated by the authorities for oncoming traffic only as evidenced by the wide grass dividers that separated one direction from the other. 

As I flew down my newly created passing lane with a wave and a grin to the sucker I was racing, my victory celebration was cut short because the driver of the car in front of him turned to face me in horror and I immediately recognized her as my first grade teacher. Didn't see that one coming. At that point I was fully committed to the maneuver so there was really nothing to be done but go get some pizza and see where the chips fell when I got back. 

And man they fell hard as she was waiting for me in the parking lot and, to her full and everlasting credit, unloaded on me with the passion of a naval air traffic controller who just got his tower buzzed again (yes there will be a Top Gun reference in every one of these entries). Good thing my high school was so laid-back and crunchy that our mascot was a gluten free pizza in the shape of a peace sign which meant there were no real consequences. After all, consequences would have only jeopardized the delicate learning environment of my mind and we couldn't have that.

Back to the Smokey and the Bandit bet. One rainy night I was out skulking around with that guy from high school who racked-up points on his driving record like it was a fucking pinball machine. (The point system was apparently less of a deterrent for the hard-scrabble boys from P.G. County). After some aggressive driving on a wet and winding road, we found ourselves in a full spin that didn't end until we had miraculously come to rest in between two brick pillars at the end of a driveway. After cackling at our good fortune, we sped-off in search of more lurking death.

Fast forward a couple hours and we're sitting around a random kitchen when someone reaches for a cigarette and discovers the pack is empty. Suffice it to say we knew just the guys to remedy that situation. Especially when the challenge of "I'll give you guys $5 if you can make the run in 5 minutes" was laid on the table. After quickly doing the math . . . 2 miles to the 7-Eleven at 60 mph on another wet and windy road left us a full minute to run in and buy the smokes . . . challenge accepted!

It should be noted at this point that we were attempting this in a Renault Alliance, a French car manufactured in Wisconsin with an emphasis on fuel economy and faux prestige. . . not performance. Or safety. Imagine a tin can with four wheels that's powered by a wound-up rubber band with the handling of a mule cart. This car would lose a race to that contraption.

I can assure you that no one bought
this car to impress a woman.
We made the outward run and picked-up the package right on schedule. With just a couple turns to go before the finish line we had it. WE FUCKING HAD IT MAN!!! Suffice it to say that we didn't have it. This time we spun and slammed backwards into a ditch. After a moment to check the functionality and connectivity of our limbs, we surveyed our situation and realized that we were both in a reclined position with the seats tilted to one side like that psychotic Simpsons ride at Universal Studios that scarred my kids for life. Nervous laughter ensued.

When we got out to survey the damage, it was bad. Really really bad. Unfortunately we couldn't just spray paint "DIE RIDGEMONT" on it and leave it in the school parking lot because (a) our school wasn't called "Ridgemont", (b) we didn't have a football team, and (c) no one would trash a car over a lacrosse game. Especially not one of ours. 

I'm not sure what we did next but I assume we walked the rest of the way and delivered the cigarettes along with the story. I do know that we stood there looking at the car with my dad a few hours later and he said "damn you idiots were lucky" (a line I would repeat almost verbatim to my own son under very similar circumstances some 32 years later . . . ah the circle of life). I also remember him saying it with a bit of a wistful jealous tone. 

The following summer or the summer after that I found myself in the passenger seat with the same guy driving a faster car on the way to the beach because he definitely learned his lesson right? We had a group of friends in a car following us and at some point we thought it would be fun for me to lob empty beer cans out of the sunroof with the goal of trying to kill them I guess. After the sixth or seventh can, a third random car entered the picture and came flying-up next to us and it was a guy and his wife which didn't make any sense until he flashed his badge at us. Hmmm. Didn't see that coming. (I'm detecting a trend). 

We were probably doing about 85 mph in the eastbound lane at the time and I can still feel the centrifugal force of the hard left turn that bounced us across the grass median and "hey look we're headed west now." Boom. We ducked into a neighborhood, had a couple more beers while we waited for the coast to clear and an hour later we were Hans fucking Gruber sitting on the beach earning 20%. (You're a year too early on that reference . . . dad).     

(TO BE CONTINUED)      

Footnote

* Topsiders are really uncomfortable leather shoes. Their two fashion missions are to show people that you (a) are too cool for socks and (b) hate your fucking feet. 

** The Smokey and the Bandit bet was $80,000 if Burt Reynolds and Jerry Reed could drive from Atlanta, Georgia to Texarkana, Texas, pick-up 400 cases of Coors beer and get it back to Atlanta in under 28 hours. Car chases, wrecked police cars and hilarity ensue. Seriously. It's a good time. I have no idea how it holds-up today but my poor kids are probably about to find out.  

Email the Fantasy Golf Report at fgr@fantasygolfreport.com

Friday, April 17, 2020

Getting to Know the FGR - Part 1

Now that we have this involuntary break in the golf action, I thought it might be a good opportunity for us to take some time to get to know each other and by that I of course mean that I'm just going to tell you a bunch of stuff about me. This was originally intended to be a regular feature and I started writing it four weeks ago when I figured we were all going to be quarantined indefinitely with an unlimited amount of time to write our memoirs that no one would ever want to read. 

What I didn't realize at the time and what I am still trying to come to grips with now is that my quasi-essential job which I can normally do (and have done ) hungover in my sleep while taking the "occasional" afternoon off to play golf and swim and write and binge watch Deadwood suddenly got really fucking essential when this virus hit. It turns-out that even the greatest autopilot system in the world (which I thought I had designed) won't help you when a flock of fucking seagulls flies into all four engines just as your copilot tells you he decided to try ecstasy for the first time an hour before takeoff and that he loves you. No really. He loves you.    

Then I started wondering whether anyone would really want to read this crap I wrote so I began to doubt the idea of publishing it but THEN I remembered that when you write a self-indulgent blog about fantasy golf, you've already made a conscious decision to avoid any conceivably defined target audience so who cares what you write? Here goes nothing. 

Let's start at the beginning and highlight some of the geological events that contributed to the character formation of a brazen self-righteous dickhead with anger management issues who loves people while at the same time despising people.    

I was born and raised in Annapolis, Maryland. The son of a lawyer from Virginia and a dress shop owner from outside of Philadelphia who met in the middle geographically but nowhere else. Without going into details that no one really wants to relive, let's just say the divorce started when I was about five years old and finally came to fruition fifteen years later. We were kind of the typical nuclear family in that one spilled cup of coffee on the control panel generally led to apocalyptic results.  


My upbringing was pretty standard really. We lived in a big house on the water with a pool and as a kid I became proficient in sailing, tennis and lacrosse which made be a certified green belt in white youth douche athletics. I would later achieve brown belt status after college by adding golf
. I went for the black belt five years ago with a squash lesson but realized I was out of my league when the 4th string goalie from my college lacrosse team walked by in his top of the line goggles and designer headband. I had to accept that I would never reach that level and have been content to reside one notch below truly elite honkeyness ever since. 

My first memory of being the version of me that I would ultimately become was from first grade when my teacher held me back from running-out to recess to tell me that I needed to stop "using the 'F' word on the playground." To the best of my recollection I then kept a somewhat low profile until 5th grade when my mom got a call from the Latin teacher on a Saturday morning to inform her that I was being disruptive. Apparently the inherent comedy of yelling "Screw Caesar" when we were supposed to yell "Hail Caesar" was lost on some (but definitely not all). I also changed the name of my science book from "Investigating the Earth" to "Invest in the Fart" and yes we all did that but did any of you actually cite the textbook as "Invest in the Fart" when answering questions in class? I didn't think so. 

Generally you would only drive this car
in 1981 if you were out on parole. 
I really started blossoming into my future self in 7th grade. At that point I was riding to school and home from lacrosse practice with my insane stunt man wannabe 10th grade neighbor and three other guys in an early 70's two-door Plymouth Volare or something like it. (I'm pretty sure that at least seven of my ten closest brushes with death occurred while this guy was behind the wheel). 

At about the halfway point of our daily commute there was a small gas station with a very congenial proprietor and every single damn time we drove by I would lean so far out of the window that someone had to hold my feet and yell as loud as I could "YOUR PRODUCT GIVES ME GAS!!!" And every single damn time the guy would smile and give us a friendly wave as we howled with laughter and roared off down the street. It was really quite a beautiful exchange when you think about it.

And then that gas station closed. So we picked another gas station because of course we did. And this may not come as a surprise to you but it certainly came as a surprise to us . . . apparently not everyone wants an obnoxious twelve year old doing a drive-by scream at their business like clockwork every single day of the week. (I know weird huh?) 

One day after making our scheduled deposit of goodwill, we noticed a guy in a pickup truck come tearing-out of the gas station after we passed. Immediately recognizing that the jig was up, our driver went full Steve McQueen and started trying to put as much distance as possible between us and the crazed vigilante chasing us. Unfortunately, historic downtown Annapolis at rush hour is not ideally designed for winning a car chase and, though I'm sure the idea crossed his mind, our wheelman chose not to use the sidewalks. And that would ultimately be our undoing.

"Let me at those little
snot-nosed private
school dipshits!"
Eventually we hit a red light and this future MAGA hat rack drove his truck into the oncoming lane, cut in front of us and wedged at an angle to block any escape. As he immediately jumped-out and started charging towards us, it became clear that he was not a small man and he looked like the last time he actually laughed was when one of his cousins set himself on fire while trying to deep-fry a raccoon. Before he got to our car to commence the pummeling, however, one of Annapolis City's finest happened by and stopped. Now we had ourselves a classic Boss Hogg/Roscoe P. Coltrane situation which made us the Dukes so we were good but I don't remember feeling that way initially. Especially as the punk who was the face of this ill-fated enterprise. 

Boss Hogg took the lead as they made their way over to us with the classic confident stride of two morons who just hatched an ingenious plan to put the fear of God into a bunch of teenagers about to "learn their lesson the hard way." As he leaned into the driver's side window, you could almost see his rancid yellow cheese breath. We sat in a mild state of shock as he proceeded to launch into a tirade about the devastating impact we were having on his business. 

As he went on and on and on and on, however, our facade of fake respect started to crack and when he barked, "MY KIDS EAT OUT OF THAT GAS STATION!!!" I knew we were in trouble. At that point he ducked-out of the car for a brief follow-up conference after which Roscoe asked, "should we run 'em in?" and you could immediately feel the suppressed hysterics. We were one snicker away from this thing exploding and going completely sideways with someone winding-up in handcuffs. 

Fortunately, this impromptu think-tank figured they had blocked traffic long enough and I guess they thought we had gotten the message because it abruptly ended with some lame final warning after which we were free to go. Less than a minute later, four of us were in tears laughing as we tripped over each other to perfect the impression of "MY KIDS EAT OUT OF THAT GAS STATION!!!" The fifth member of our party sat in frozen terror. Someone definitely would've said "that MIG really screwed him up . . . I don't think he can make it back." Unfortunately, that line wouldn't make sense for another five years. 

(TO BE CONTINUED)   

Email the Fantasy Golf Report at fgr@fantasygolfreport.com. Or don't. Does it even matter anymore?         

Wednesday, March 11, 2020

Fantasy Golf: The Players Championship Preview

I'm not going to get too hung-up on the success of last week's picks because we all know how fleeting that can be let's just note for the haters out there that I did recommend Tyrrell Hatton (1st), Marc Leishman (2nd), Bryson DeChambeau (4th), Keith Mitchell (T5th) and Matthew Fitzpatrick (T9th). Of course the other five guys I recommended either withdrew or missed the cut but good god do I have to do everything around here?!?!

Let us take an extra moment to bask in the glory of those picks . . . and we're done.

Now we move on to my favorite venue of the year because for an acerbic writer who never met an overly hyped fraud he didn't want to mock, The Players is the golf gift that keeps on giving. Just last night as I was drifting off to sleep on the couch next to an unfinished glass of bottom shelf Pinot Noir (again), I could faintly hear the desperate whine of Brandel Chamblee claiming that TPC Sawgrass is a special course because it doesn't favor a certain type of player. And he's kind of right. If that certain type of player it doesn't favor is a great player.


Consider for the sake of friendly discussion that we define a "great" player as one who has won three or more majors in his career. In the last eighteen years, The Players has been won by a "great" player three times - Phil Mickelson in 2007, Tiger Woods in 2013 and Rory McIlroy in 2019. Seems kind of light for a tournament with that supposed level of prestige.* In fact, Rory's win list year was the first time since 2014 that a multiple major winner even finished in the top five (Martin Kaymer won that year and Jordan Spieth finished T4th). I don't really have salient point here. Just noting that great players don't seem to win this great tournament that much.    


But believe it or not, I'm not here to bury The Players this year because it's actually been on a good run since 2012 with only Si-Woo Kim's win in 2017 disrupting an otherwise solid roster of winners including Tiger, Rory, Kaymer, Jason Day, Webb Simpson, Matt Kuchar and Rickie Fowler. That's five major winners and arguably two of the best yet to win a major. Also, top five finishers the last two years have included Dustin Johnson, Xander Schauffele, Tommy Fleetwood, Louis Oosthuizen, Ian Poulter and Day. So for what it's worth, The Players seems to have emerged from its funk of 2002-2010 (pun intended . . . way inside golf joke). 

What it hasn't emerged from, however, is its inferiority complex. They've been playing this thing since 1974 and those with a vested interest in it still just can't seem to accept the fact that it will never be considered a major and treat it for what it is . . . a really fun tournament to watch that pays the winner a shitload of money and gives him a nice "and" on his golfing resume. Rory has won four majors "and" a The Players. Rickie Fowler has played on multiple Ryder Cup teams "and" won The Players. Craig Perks has a winning smile "and" he's won The Players.  

Just accept the fact that we already have all of the major scenarios covered. We've got one at the same course every year, one we let the Marquis de Sade set-up, one we let the British host and one where we invite the poor bastards who have to put-up with us playing five and half hour rounds and destroying golf carts every weekend. We don't need one at a tricked-up resort course four Waffle Houses outside of Jacksonville. So let's just get past all that gibberish and enjoy the next four days of golf's answer to the Bravo Channel.

And now this . . .  

TWEET OF THE WEEK


I'm headed to a somewhat remote destination on Friday. Good luck everyone and please try to have this shit straightened-out by the time I get back. Thanks.**   

SUDDENLY RESURGENT GOLF ANALYSIS

I feel cautiously optimistic about this week's picks as I have thoroughly convinced myself that the champion is going to be a guy who hasn't won a major yet but who everyone is confident eventually will. To me that makes Jon Rahm and Xander Schauffele no-brainers. Especially since Rahm could've won here last year before melting down on Sunday and Schauffele's 2018 performance would've won just about every other year that Webb Simpson didn't lap the field.

And then there is the suddenly intriguing Tommy Fleetwood who we last saw submerging his first PGA Tour win to the right of the 18th green at PGA National. From a purely golfing standpoint, Fleetwood currently reminds me of 2008 Sergio Garcia. Two 29 year old sublime ball-strikers and streaky putters (to put it kindly) who feel very comfortable around Sawgrass at a time when they're battling the perception that the quality of their games should be yielding more impressive results (because they should). I just have a feeling that Fleetwood is going to get part of that monkey off his back this week.  

As for the rest of the picks, I wasn't quite willing to go all-in on my non-major winner theory so I'm recommending Webb Simpson over the likes of Bryson DeChambeau, Patrick Cantlay and Hideki Matsuyama though they would all be fine choices and I would rank them in that order. Collin Morikawa hasn't missed a cut since turning pro and he just ground-out a tie for 9th at the Arnold Palmer Invitational. And you have to pick Matt Kuchar here. That's just a rule and I don't make the rules.   

I waffled a bit on Ian Poulter but, in the end, it came down to him or Billy Horschel for that spot so just pick your preferred enigma and pray he shows-up. And I know I'm jinxing the ever loving shit out of this but I love Matthew Fitzpatrick, Abraham Ancer and Joel Dahmen this week and will be genuinely surprised if at least two of them don't find their way into the top 20. And yes I said genuinely surprised. Not that faux surprise I exhibit after burping like Booger from Revenge of the Nerds

I will say this. It makes for
one helluva television show.
One and Done Pick: Tommy Fleetwood

Other Guy I'd Pick: Jon Rahm 


Sleeper Pick: Joel Dahmen


DraftKings Top Ten Values


Jon Rahm
$11,000
Xander Schauffele
$9,400
Webb Simpson
$9,200
Tommy Fleetwood
$9,000
Collin Morikawa
$7,900
Matt Kuchar
$7,800
Ian Poulter
$7,300
Matthew Fitzpatrick
$7,300
Abraham Ancer
$7,200
Joel Dahmen
$6,600

The Historical Performance Chart is long if not distinguished this week because frankly it has to be to get all the way down to past champion Si Woo Kim and other guys you might want to consider like Brian Harman and Sung Kang. For my last jab, I will say that the shot dispersion of top tens on this chart is not one you traditionally find for tournaments that objective people consider elite (pipe down Brandel).  


                                      THE FAKE NEWS KILLED MY 401K
                                    HISTORICAL PERFORMANCE CHART


DK Price
2019
2018
2017
2016
2015
Rory McIlroy
$11,700
1st
MC
T35
T12
T8
Jon Rahm
$11,000
T12
T63
T72
DNP
DNP
Justin Thomas
$10,800
T35
T11
T75
T3
T24
Brooks Koepka
$10,200
T56
T11
T16
T35
MC
Dustin Johnson
$10,000
T5
T17
T12
T28
T69
Patrick Cantlay
$9,800
MC
T23
T22
DNP
DNP
Adam Scott
$9,600
T12
T11
T6
T12
T38
Xander Schauffele
$9,400
MC
T2
DNP
DNP
DNP
Webb Simpson
$9,200
T16
1st
T16
DNP
T66
Bryson DeChambeau
$9,100
T20
T37
DNP
DNP
DNP
Tommy Fleetwood
$9,000
T5
T7
T41
DNP
DNP
Rickie Fowler
$8,900
T47
MC
T60
MC
1st
Hideki Matsuyama
$8,800
T8
MC
T22
T7
T17
Justin Rose
$8,700
T8
T23
T65
T19
MC
Sungjae Im
$8,600
MC
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Patrick Reed
$8,500
T47
T41
T22
MC
T24
Jason Day
$8,400
T8
T5
T60
1st
MC
Gary Woodland
$8,300
T30
MC
T75
T28
MC
Paul Casey
$8,200
MC
DNP
T22
T23
W/D
Tony Finau
$8,100
T22
T57
MC
MC
DNP
Louis Oosthuizen
$8,000
T56
MC
T2
T28
T69
Sergio Garcia
$8,000
T22
70th
T30
T54
T2
Henrik Stenson
$7,900
MC
T23
T16
MC
T17
Colin Morikawa
$7,900
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Byeon Hun An
$7,800
T26
T30
DNP
MC
DNP
Matt Kuchar
$7,800
T26
T17
82nd
T3
MC
Shane Lowry
$7,800
MC
T46
MC
T16
MC
Jordan Spieth
$7,700
MC
T41
MC
MC
MC
Viktor Hovland
$7,700
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Marc Leishman
$7,600
MC
T63
MC
T64
T24
Joaquin Niemann
$7,600
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Billy Horschel
$7,500
T26
T37
MC
T28
T13
Scottie Scheffler
$7,500
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Phil Mickelson
$7,400
MC
MC
T41
MC
MC
Tyrell Hatton
$7,400
MC
MC
T41
DNP
DNP
Ian Poulter
$7,300
T56
T11
T2
T57
T30
Kevin Kisner
$7,300
T22
MC
T56
MC
T2
Matthew Fitzpatrick
$7,300
T41
T46
MC
MC
DNP
Matt Wallace
$7,300
T30
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Abraham Ancer
$7,200
T12
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Brandt Snedeker
$7,200
T5
MC
DNP
MC
MC
Daniel Berger
$7,200
T67
T57
T65
T9
MC
Ryan Moore
$7,200
T20
T30
MC
MC
MC
Matthew Wolff
$7,200
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Erik Van Rooyen
$7,200
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Harris English
$7,200
MC
MC
MC
MC
MC
B. Wiesberger
$7,100
DNP
DNP
T12
T49
MC
Charles Howell, III
$7,100
T35
T17
DNP
MC
T56
Chez Reavie
$7,100
MC
T30
T56
MC
DNP
Francesco Molinari
$7,100
T56
MC
T6
T7
DNP
Rafa Cabrera-Bello
$7,100
MC
T17
T4
MC
DNP
Brendon Todd
$7,100
DNP
DNP
DNP
MC
T51
Carlos Ortiz
$7,100
DNP
DNP
DNP
MC
DNP
Adam Hadwin
$7,000
MC
T57
T30
T39
MC
Cameron Smith
$7,000
T56
MC
MC
DNP
DNP
Kevin Na
$7,000
78th
T46
W/D
MC
T6
Lucas Glover
$7,000
MC
T72
T6
DNP
DNP
Graeme McDowell
$6,900
DNP
DNP
T69
T9
T56
Keegan Bradley
$6,900
T16
T7
T60
T35
MC
Russell Knox
$6,900
T35
MC
MC
T19
T17
Talor Gooch
$6,900
MC
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Jason Kokrak
$6,800
T47
T46
MC
W/D
MC
Jim Furyk
$6,800
2nd
DNP
MC
T35
T56
Scott Piercy
$6,700
T56
MC
MC
T23
MC
Joel Dahmen
$6,600
T12
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Keith Mitchell
$6,600
T47
T77
DNP
DNP
DNP
Si Woo Kim
$6,600
T56
T63
1st
T23
DNP
Max Homa
$6,600
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
DNP
Brian Harman
$6,400
T8
MC
T53
T54
T8
Sung Kang
$6,400
T47
MC
T30
DNP
DNP

Footnote

* If you want to try to torpedo my argument, just raise the fact that, by my definition, there are really only four "great" players currently competing at the highest level and that would include Tiger so of course they're not going to win at Sawgrass that often. However, Rory, Spieth and Brooks Koepka have all taken multiple runs at this thing while in their primes with a far lower success rate as measured in wins and top tens than they have at the majors. The same goes for Tiger and Phil Mickelson who have combined for three Players wins and a smattering of competitive finishes compared to their major records. To complete Phil's quote with the unsaid part, "I look at this course . . . I just can't believe I've actually won here (because I hate this place)."   

** For the record, I am only making light of the Coronavirus because that's my job and because I think that you can mock something and simultaneously take it seriously as a threat until you know it's not. You kind of have to take this approach when your favorite team plays the Cleveland Browns twice a year.  

Email the Fantasy Golf Report at fgr@fantasygolfreport.com.