Vijay And Me

In which our writer spends nine days stalking golf's most enigmatic star-and learns to love him (okay, respect him)

My editors assured me that there were worse assignments than stalking Vijay Singh. The World Toenail-Biting Championships came to mind, followed by anything involving gymnasts with ribbons on sticks. Nonetheless, the planet's No. 1 golfer didn't strike me as much of a treat.

I've got proof from my research right here. Singh is the guy who sat for two years after signing an incorrect scorecard on the Asian Tour. He's the guy who pretty much threw Annika Sorenstam under a Tour courtesy car prior to her PGA debut in 2003. He's the guy whose caddie ditched him--even though Vijay earned a record $10 million on Tour last year--rather than lug Singh's Cleveland bag one more yard.

Put another way: Singh is a jerk, colder than dry ice, formaldehyde for blood. That's the yardage book on the Veej, right?

So I'll be spending nine days in close pursuit of an alleged cheater, a sexist and golf's version of Montgomery Burns. As an added bonus, Singh's rep at the all-powerful IMG agency, Clarke "Dr. No" Jones, says the Veej is off-limits for one-on-one interviews during tournament weeks.

A story outline begins to take shape. Vijay Singh: the world's oldest-living heart donor, an enigma wrapped in dimpled urethane. Just color inside the lines, snag a few quotes and I've got my story.

DAY 1
FBR Open, Scottsdale, Ariz., Qualifying Round
No sign of the Veej. His personalized parking space, a flop-wedge away from the clubhouse, is empty. The bag-room attendants haven't seen Singh, his caddie Paul Tesori or his good friend and strength coach, Joey Diovisalvi.

Diovisalvi is an interesting dude. He looks like the guy you'd meet in the casino parking lot after a pit boss catches you counting cards: a walking muscle whose workout-and-diet regimen has helped turn Singh into a 42-year-old hard body.

Singh, who has expanded the gym at his oceanfront house in Ponte Vedra Beach, Fla., works out three hours a day, six days a week. He's 6'2" but looks thicker than the 198 pounds listed in the Tour media guide. No surprise that back when he was a nobody, Singh earned extra cash as a bouncer.

That's what you have to remember about Vijaynobody gave him a thing. He grew up in Fiji, of Indian descent (he speaks English, Fijian and Hindi), one of six children in a family whose Dad, an airplane technician and part-time golf instructor, provided the necessities but little more. There were no private country club lessons for little Vijay.

Singh caddied for a dollar a day at Fiji's Nadi Airport Golf Club, just across the runway from where his father worked. He quit school when he was 16, and six years later he wound up a club pro in Borneo, some 4,500 miles from Fiji and not exactly the Pine Valley of Oceania. His students were often oil-rig workers, who paid $4 for a lesson from the bespectacled Fijian. And when Singh wasn't giving lessons, he was beating range ball after range ball, refining his homemade swing and immersing himself in the solitude of the game.

This really is the Cinderella story Bill Murray was mumbling about in Caddyshack—former caddie turned best golfer in the world, a global grinder with victories in Malaysia, France, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, Morocco, Zimbabwe, Singapore, Spain, Germany, England, South Africa, Sweden, Taiwan, Canada and the United States. And the PGA's first $10 million man, with 25 Tour wins, including nine in 2004 alone.

And yet his longtime caddie dumps him, then napalms him in a Scottish newspaper? Who is this guy? I walk toward the range-and there's Vijay, smiling. Alas, it's only a picture of him fluttering on a flagpole banner, one of many highlighting past FBR champs. I make a quick loop by the range, putting green, clubhouse and parking lot. Still no Veej. Time to split; Arby's awaits.

DAY 2
FBR Open, Practice Round
Nine golf bags, each the size of a dorm-room fridge, are stuffed with demo clubs near the back of the practice range. Rows of green ball bags, each holding about 60 freshly washed Nike X'sor Titleist ProV1s or Callaway HX Tours-are lined up on a nearby table. An army of club reps, agents, swing instructors and visiting tournament directors turns the roped-off area into a golf ant colony.

Chris DiMarco, a past FBR Open winner, stops to rave about Singh's conditioning and commitment. DiMarco's mood changes when I ask how Vijay is perceived by his peers. "He's well-liked and wellrespected," DiMarco says. "I don't know why everybody thinks he's not. He's probably one of the nicest, funniest guys you'll meet out here."

But the fear of having a comment taken out of context is why "he doesn't do it around you guys," DiMarco says. "You guys," meaning the media. Meaning me. At the very least, Singh is suspicious of the press. At the very most, he would like to see the majority of reporters drown in Rae's Creek. Associated Press golf writer Doug Ferguson quoted Vijay saying he hoped Annika Sorenstam missed the cut at the 2003 Colonial, and Singh (who says his quote was taken out of context) hasn't spoken to him since.

The Veej can hold a grudge. You're either with him or against him. Tournament directors are with him because he played 29 tourneys last year, as opposed to 19 for the world's No. 2 golfer, Tiger Woods. But given a choice between Vijay and Tiger, there isn't a director in the world who would pick Singh.

I walk to a nearby putting green, where a contest involving local celebs (Diamondback Luis Gonzales), PGA pros (defending FBR champ Jonathan Kaye) and Special Olympians is about to begin. The MC asks an Olympian to name his favorite player.

"Vijay Singh," he says into the mike.

As if on cue, Singh cruises by on a golf cart, heading to the first tee for his practice round. By the third hole, his gallery has grown to around 50, and Singh stops for nearly every fan's autograph and photo request. Monday qualifier Matthew Jones joins Singh at No. 10. The two have never met, but Singh goes out of his way to chat with the nervous pro, even offering a couple of swing tips during the round. And then two elderly fans approach the Veej as he walks toward the 15th green. One of the men politely asks for an autograph. Singh signs, then says, "Don't ask me again." The fan, whom Singh has mistaken for an earlier autograph-seeker, is crushed. "First time in my life I ask for an autograph, and I get that?" he says. "Never again."

But at least the Veej talked to him. I'm still 0-for-Singh in quotes.

After the round, I trail Tesori to a courtesy car, where Diovisalvi is waiting behind the wheel. Vijay arrives a few moments later. I stick my hand out, introduce myself and get a quick handshake, as well as (surprise!) an acknowledgment.

"I saw you," he says. "You walked all 18."

I mumble something about watching him prepare for a tournament, but it's too late. He's already in the car, and the door is closing.

DAY 3
FBR Open, Pro-Am Tournament
Unlike some pros, Singh actually yuks it up with the pro-am hacks who are paying $7,500 apiece to shoot their body temperatures in the best-ball tourney. He helps read their putts. He gives minilessons. He doesn't big-time anybody.

On the 13th tee, I introduce myself to tourney volunteer Dan Fox, a senior VP with Smith Barney. I mention I'm following the Veej.

"You know, he putted with my son at the Special Olympics Open last year," Fox says. "People were telling me, `Don't do it. Get anybody else.' But we chose Vijay and he was so nice."

That day, Singh crouched next to 12-year-old Andrew Fox, who was born with Down syndrome, and quietly told him, "You stay right beside me. We're going to get through it."

I tell Fox about Tuesday's putting contest, when one of the kids said Singh was his favorite player. Fox smiles. "That was Andrew."

I duck out a few holes early to meet Diovisalvi at Starbucks. Three items earn asterisks in my notebook: 1) Singh was "somewhat in shock" when his peers voted him 2004 Tour Player of the Year. "I think he believes it was not a unanimous decision," Diovisalvi says, "and it probably wasn't"; 2) Singh's lowest moment came after the Sorenstam disaster. "I watched him struggle a great deal," Diovisalvi says. "He became very reclusive"; and 3) Singh is a big supporter of struggling young pros: loaning money, offering advice, even talking to tournament directors about granting qualifying exemptions. "How late will he hit balls today?" I ask. "Until dark," Diovisalvi says. He's right. Afterward, Vijay heads to the weight room. I head for room service.

DAY 4
FBR Open, Round 1
Singh scratches out par in a blustery opening round, including a did-you-see-that? up-and-down on the final hole that prompts K.J. Choi's caddie, Andy Prodger, to whisper to Tesori, "That's why he's No. 1 in the world." Shortly after the round, Singh retreats to the range. Fellow pro Robert Allenby is practicing nearby. Singh walks over, picks up Allenby's driver, turns it upside down, addresses the ball like a lefthander, then power draws the shot a good 200 yards. Allenby tries it, and the ball dribbles forward about 20 feet. Allenby throws the club in mock disgust.

Later, I see Paul Azinger outside the clubhouse. The Tour vet and ABC analyst gushes about Singh's single-mindedness. "He outprepares everybody every week," says Azinger, who lovingly refers to Singh as Show Pony. But the Veej has a long memory, especially when it comes to Tiger.

"He was pissed at me yesterday," Azinger says.

"I made some on-air comment recently comparing his 2004 with Tiger's. It was no big deal, but he's so sensitive. I told him he's going to make himself miserable. Greg Norman read everything anybody said about him and wound up hating everybody. I don't want that to happen to Vijay."

Meanwhile, Singh began his day with a 4:30 a.m. workout, practiced, shot even-par 71, practiced until dark, trained with Diovisalvi, ate dinner, then returned to his room at 9:30. On TV, the Golf Channel ran a documentary about Woods.

DAY 5
FBR Open, Round 2
Singh shoots 72, makes the cut, but is already 10 shots behind leaders Phil Mickelson and Kevin Na. I spend most of the day trying to track down Dave Renwick, who's done two tours of duty as Singh's caddie, including seven of those nine 2004 wins (Diovisalvi was on the bag for the other two). Renwick quit late last season, returned home to West Lothian, Scotland, then blasted Singh in a January interview in The Scotsman.

"There's only so much of that stuff you can take, no matter how good the money is," Renwick was quoted in the story, citing incidents of verbal mistreatment and a general lack of respect.

Singh's current wingman has a different take. "He's always been very gracious to me," says Tesori, now on his second tour with Singh since "taking a break" after a two-and-a-half-year run that began in 2000. "Caddying is like a marriage," Tesori says. "It's like a marriage without the sex."

This latest Tesori-Singh fling is scheduled for six months, followed by a reassessment by both men. But no matter what happens, Tesori will always have a soft spot for Vijay. After all, it was Singh who paid him $500 to spend 10 hours on the range for five straight days back when Tesori was struggling to earn a living as a pro.

"He was trying to teach me how to practice," Tesori says. "But really, he was just trying to help me out."

I eventually track down Renwick having a pint with family and friends at his favorite pub in West Lothian. Vijay stops for nearly all fan photo-op requestseven Dan Marino's.

In our phone conversation, he doesn't dispute the Scotsman quotes, but he says the story "looks bad on my behalf and looks bad on Vijay's behalf. Vijay and I are good friends," the veteran caddie says. "I just wasn't happy working for him."

I ask if reconciliation is possible.

"If he asked, I would be happy to return," Renwick says. "Vijay works very, very hard, and he expects everybody else to work just as hard, and I can understand that."

After five days on his trail, I'm still working hard to understand Vijay.

DAY 6
FBR Open, Round 3
A heckler, beer in hand, staggers from his seat and trails Singh as he walks to the 16th green.

"Cheater! Vijay is a cheater!"

Singh doesn't acknowledge him. In fact, he rarely acknowledges the 20-year-old allegations of scorecard altering at the 1985 Indonesian Open. He has said he didn't knowingly sign an incorrect scorecard, that he had no choice but to accept the two-year Asian Tour ban and, by the way, what's the statute of limitations on an accusation?

The Veej finishes five-under for the day. He remains 10 strokes back with zero chance of
winning this thing, but still returns to the range for an afternoon practice session. Later, Singh spends about an hour helping former PGA champ Bob Tway with his swing.

DAY 7
FBR Open, Final Round
Things you should probably know about the Veej: he rested only two days during the off-season, and even then he sneaked out on Christmas Day to hit a few balls. At his house in Florida, he has a 2,000-square-foot green that runs 13 or 14 on the Stimpmeter. That's like putting on waxed sheet metal. He spends three to four weeks a year working with Sweden-based instructor Farid Quedra, but the rest he does on his own. He says "bro" a lot. He's a sucker for Fleetwood Mac and Elton John. The names of son, Qass, and wife, Ardena, are stitched onto his head covers. He just got his green card from U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services. He's trying to open up. "In some ways," Diovisalvi says, "he's ready for people to understand."

I mention the Dr. No—imposed interview ban. Diovisalvi shrugs. He'll see what he can do.

DAY 8
AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am, Practice Round
I just miss Singh at his Monday tune-up at soggy Pebble Beach. I miss him again at the driving range. My empty notebook mocks me.

DAY 9
AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am, Practice Round
Well, look who's walking with us today: Dr. No! IMG's Jones has overseen Singh's endorsement and business deals since 1993, the golfer's first year on the PGA Tour. He's witnessed Singh's plodding, hell-bent rise to No. 1 firsthand.

"His story is one for the movies," Jones says.

Sure, if they can find a mime to play Singh. I tell Jones I just can't go a full nine days without talking to the guy. He shrugs and says I can take my chances during the practice round and hope for the best. Not much, but something. I make my move as Singh walks toward the 12th tee. But before I can say a peep, Singh turns around, smiles, extends his hand and says, "I'm Vijay. What's your name again?"

And that's how I get my interview with the Veej. Just like that, he agrees to talk to me. Not a sit-down, not a long car ride in the country, but not "no," either. Over the rest of the round, I squeeze in a few questions during each fairway walk.

"Racism?" Vijay says. "Yes and no. Yes, it was out there. But no, it didn't come to a point where I actually had to hear it." I give him an imaginary mulligan, and say he can have one do-over in his career. "Maybe I wouldn't have commented about ladies playing on our Tour," he says.

He admits that he's a loner by nature. "I always grew up doing things on my own," he says. "I've always been kind of the separate one. I've done everything myself. That's what I like about golf. When I'm on the golf course, I'm free."

I ask what he'd write in his own obituary. "I did not leave anything back," he says. "I gave it all I had. And that's the God's honest truth."

I'm pushing my luck now, and Singh knows it. "That's the last question, right, bro?" Right.

Singh misses a birdie putt on 18, loses six bets and hands practice-round opponent Tom Pernice $240 in cash. From a safe distance I watch autograph seekers surround Singh as he walks to the parking lot. "Vijay! Vijay!" they shout. Singh pulls open a Sharpie and says, "That's my name."

So my editors were right. Turns out the Veej isn't such a hard-ass after all. He has a pulse, soft spots and a set of lowers and uppers that form something resembling a smile. And all it took to see any of this was nine days, 108 holes and about 24 miles of walking.

And in the end, that's Vijay: always wanting to make you work as hard as he does.

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