In honor of Luke Donald's incredible year, a modest fantasy based on a smattering of facts and hyperbole. In other words, as Foghorn Leghorn would say, "It's joke, son. a joke."
Turns out Luke doesn't get killed in prison. Instead, a kindly guard took the "rebel" under his wing and taught him how to swing a golf club. Luke was a natural. The kindly guard and his poker buddies decided to see how far Luke could go once he'd been paroled, which finally happened without further incident involving any sort of failure to communicate. Luke evolved into a model prisoner, working in the prison library, where he read constantly. And then he was released, a little wiser, a little smarter. But that didn't last. Never does.
Anyway, the kindly guard/buddies invited Luke to their modest farm, where he hit balls dawn to dusk for more than 18 months. In addition to the practice, Luke began playing 72 holes a week at a nearby course.
Fast forward another 24 months. Luke entered his first event and had his first "taste" of having a gallery. Most of those in Luke's gallery were female and quite attractive. Of course, Luke had been on the farm so long that it didn't take much to attract him. One thing led to another.
Luke made the cut in his first event in spite of getting almost zero sleep. He did get herpes, however, but that didn't bother Luke. He just rolled with the punches.
A grizzled caddie veteran, known only as Daly, who'd been cooking crystal meth in Santa Fe, happened to run into Luke in a coffee shop in Tulsa. Luke and Daly joined forces. By day they played golf, while at night, they sold drugs.
For a while, life was good. Luke entered regional events, and when he wasn't phucked up on crank, he dreamed of playing on the PGA Tour. He was almost 40 years old at that point, but a man can dream, can't he?
Daly got busted in Tucson, and Luke met a waitress named Heather in a Waffle Shop, who not only was quite attractive but also eager to see the world. She begged Luke to let her be his caddy, and after 48 hours at a Motel 6, Luke agreed.
Heather didn't do drugs, nor did she wear underwear. Gotta take the good with the bad.
As luck might have it, Luke and Heather made it on time to Q School. Luke did okay, but on the final day, he needed a great round to have a chance of earning his card.
And so it came to pass. Luke played like vintage Tiger Woods. Like Tiger Woods in the year 2000.
Luke earned his card, and Heather said she was pregnant. One step forward, two steps back.
So, Luke and Heather got married, and as it happened, Heather had a twin sister named Harriet who lived in Seattle. Harriet flew to Houston, where Luke and Heather had rented a trailer. A double wide. Harriet moved in, and oddly enough, one thing led to another.
Harriet got pregnant. Apparently, no one had ever bothered letting Luke know about birth control. Or Heather. Or Harriet.
Luke took a long walk one night, mulling what had happened to him. And suddenly, it all became clear. He would devote himself to his craft – playing golf – and provide for his rapidly expanding family.
Even better when the time came, he'd buy a box of rubbers.
Luke dreamed of becoming the world's number one husband, father, golfer, and lover, but not necessarily in that order. Ah, the wicked ways of the flesh have doomed even the brightest stars.
But Luke had one thing going. He never looked back. He took Satchel Paige's advice literally, and thus kept his eyes on the prize. Actually prizes. Not to mention that he had a "great" relationship with Heather and Harriet.
Luke won his first PGA Tour event and learned that the gravy train now stopped at his trailer. Well, the trailer days were soon over. Luke moved to Orlando, where he purchased a house in Isleworth with a busted tree and fire hydrant in the yard, and Escalade glass still on the lawn. Luke got a pretty good deal, too.
But Luke soon learned that Orlando is no Mickey Mouse town when it comes to ghosts. Apparitions followed Luke like hungry wolves; voices whispered in the wind, and in no time, Luke fell into a burning ring of fire.
In fact, Luke met a Golf Channel reporter who had studied at UNC. She seemed like the girl next door, but in actuality, she was more like the girl next door in the fancy hotel. You might say Luke had stumbled into a win-win-win situation.
Luke's golf suffered, but he had a good time until Heather and Harriet found out about the reporter. Well, let's just say they weren't happy. And, of course, what goes around, comes around. They beat the sheite out Luke and his Suburban in the driveway, using a 3- and a 4-iron. One wag posted on his golf blog that Heather and Harriet suffered from Elin Sindrome. He was right, of course.
Heather got a divorce, and Harriet returned to Seattle with her baby daughter. Luke was left in shambles.
It didn't take long before Luke went to a spiritual retreat in North Myrtle Beach to sort things out. Will he ever return to golf?
It was an Allman Brothers/Eric Clapton moment: You might say that Luke was tied to a whipping post, down at the crossroads. There were at least seven turns on the highway, and for a rambling man devoted to the sunshine of many loves, there were no alibis, no money and cigarettes, and no way out. In fact, Luke felt there was nobody left to run with.
That is, until he met Sweet Melissa.