He turns 42 on April 28. He’s already squandered much of his career, not to mention his earnings. And yet he remains popular. There are a lot of unexplainable phenomena in American life — one doozy just unfolded in New York this week — and Daly’s ability to remain a fan favorite ranks up there. The down-home charisma I get. The tortured soul beneath the cornpone humor and the chubby kisser is also apparent. It’s the utter lack of responsibility and the complete waste of a precious gift that I can quite fathom.

It doesn’t appear that a personal and professional metamorphosis is on the horizon, either. Daly has been this way during his entire stay in the spotlight, save for a brief period or two of sobriety. He has decided to laugh it off, declare that the way he is is the way he is, and go suck down more lager and nicotine. It’s as if he is selling self-destruction.

It’s too bad, because golf needs him. There is Tiger, and then there is everybody else. No one has really stepped forward to challenge for No. 1, or even to lay a half-hearted claim to No. 2. Daly has the talent, and on the rare occasions when he focuses, he’s about as competitive as anyone on tour.

Instead, Daly has answered the game’s call by showing up with gravy stains on his shirt, a cancer stick in his mouth, a brew in his hand, a floozie on his arm and a gambling debt trailing him.

Senator Blutarsky would be appalled.

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