Columnist Dean Juipe: Duval may devalue pro golf’s climb

Dean Juipe

Wednesday, April 7, 1999 | 10:06 a.m.

Dean Juipe's column appears Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. His boxing notebook appears Thursday. Reach him at juipe@lasvegassun.com or 259-4084.

And it came to pass that in the final decade of the 20th century of the Gregorian calendar, the world was blessed with a steady flow of rising professional golf stars.

One by one they stepped forward and approached a vacant throne that had last been occupied by the god of clutch shotmaking, the otherworldly Jack Nicklaus.

Trumpets heralded not only the arrival of these eagle-eyed bombers, but also the emergence of a complementary second tier of players who were remarkable in their own right.

The men's pro tour was prospering and the stage was set for much rejoicing.

Artistically and financially, the game had never been in better shape. While the United States was unveiling multi-talented marksmen along the lines of Phil Mickelson and Justin Leonard to compete with and overtake established veterans such as Fred Couples, Davis Love III and Greg Norman, equally gifted standouts such as Ernie Els, Vijay Singh, Colin Montgomery and Steve Elkington were being developed in distant lands.

Competition was seemingly at its zenith when still another bright star appeared on the horizon, one that would redefine the boundaries of the sport. Born Eldrick Woods and nicknamed "Tiger" by his father after a Vietnamese soldier he had known from a conflict that defined America's late 1960s and early '70s global machismo, he debuted with four wins -- including the prestigious Masters -- in 1997.

With his mammoth, never-ending drives and exquisite touch around the greens, sycophants and skeptics alike ordained him king.

But his reign was surprisingly short-lived and he was supplanted by a steely nerved, Darth Vader-like robot who stayed behind wraparound sunglasses and atop the PGA Tour's leaderboards. David Duval earned plaudits for his uncanny abilities and countless wins throughout the 1998 and '99 seasons.

It's said by The Masters that latter year, he was certifiably unbeatable.

Yet, try as they may, the minions who comprise the sport's galleries around the globe found it difficult to warm to his cold, acetic style. While they grudgingly reveled in Duval's fortuitous knack for repeatedly snagging victory from a tidal wave of cowering opponents, his inability to aesthetically connect with the audience left him opulent but the crowd hollowed.

His dominance was such that he demanded respect. But his outward indifference for either a well-played shot or even another check for $500,000 assured that he would never be revered in a traditional, teary-eyed style.

He made winning appear routine. And while he avoided the egocentric trait of flaunting his superior talents, he was unable to demonstrate even the slightest hint of emotion beyond a routine shrug and an occasional, mechanized nod of acknowledgement.

Through no fault of his own he was dry, bland and lacked charisma. And, privately at least, the populace talked of the necessity of having its heroes be receptive to praise and adoration rather than be wary of it.

Recalling an earlier era of showmanship exemplified by robust and engaging players and personalities such as Chi Chi Rodriguez and Arnold Palmer, golf fans pined for a superstar who loved to be loved.

The decade and century ended with those dreams unfulfilled. Duval won seemingly on command and in spite of the stage being set for rejoicing, it was, instead, quite somber.