The John Daly PR Machine Is Coming to a Hooters Restaurant Near You

Notes from the tail end of the FedEx run at the Wyndham Championship in Greensboro.

I really don't think it was unfair to have tremendous expectations about John Daly's appearance Wednesday night at the Hooters in Greensboro, N.C.

He was here, of course, for the Wyndham Championship and he was there, of course, because he's sponsored by Hooters. Or maybe, like every other dude in a wifebeater with a pool cue Wednesday night, he likes women, beer and wings.

Those three wonderful things combined with John Patrick Daly had me envisioning a madhouse scene: Greensboro's upper crust pounding bricks, swinging pool cues, offering to buy Daly shots, showing off inked up mammalian glands, and blowing enough cig smoke to exhume Marge Schott.

So, armed with a digital camera, a Care to Get Nice trucker hat and four cartons of Marlboro Lights -- should such a bribe be necessary to get 15 minutes of Daly's time -- I headed up to Hooters to meet some friends of mine (Mr. Coffin seen above right, Mrs. declined to be photographed at Hooters).

When I parked my car and started walking towards the restaurant -- the Cult's "Fire Woman" blaring from the 100.3 Buzzard-mobile -- I was pretty sure it would be madness inside.

I was way wrong.
Instead of some Southern-styled fiesta, what you see above is what was going on. I would have more pics, but it was too damn awkward to have Daly, sometimes on his cell phone, mostly burning heaters, stare back at me from the rigged up merch/autograph table at the front of the restaurant.

Why is Daly sitting by himself? Mainly, it seems, because he's letting his PR people run the show. Normally, that's fine. But the crew consisted of one surly manager-type guy sitting to one side on a cell phone and two girls that looked like they just got fired from fantasy football video gigs, kind of politely offering to run credit cards.

"Credit cards?" you say. Excellent question. It would seem that they decided to charge for certain merchandise. One, he's not drunk. Witness this exchange between Big John, his manager and a fan:

Fan: "Hey, can I get three of these [picks up glossy, yet cheap photos]? And can you make one out to David and one to Josh for my uncle and brother?"
Daly: "Sure thing, man."
[signs pictures]
Fan: "Thanks, John, good luck tomorrow."
[starts walking away]
Manager: "Hey, hold on, buddy. That'll be 75 bucks."
Fan: "Hahaha"
Manager: [stares, not laughing at all]
Fan: "Wait ... seriously?"
Manager: "Yeah."

Yes, that's right. $25 per photo. Not exceptionally nice photos either, mind you (and the same price as my crappy Lion's head club cover that I used as an excuse to approach him for the third time).

Watching that go down, in addition to Daly having no interest in a brief interview (he quickly declined my offer to hang out afterwards for a little bit), and refusing to wear my trucker's hat ("I've got my own website -- my people would be pissed.") in a photo left me a little teed.

And it's not even getting rejected for an interview -- that happens all the time. It was more of like: "Hey, John. You're in Hooters. In Greensboro." And it's not like being here at Hooters is ruining his preparation for a tournament that he's playing in because of a sponsor's exemption. And the fact that the operation was so geared against the few fans that were there really seemed to defeat the purpose of having it at a C-rate strip club/dining establishment combo. You kind of have to wonder where the hell he's getting his advice these days.

Because, as Ryan pointed out, Daly's rep is as a man of the people. (See: Kid Rock + tall boy + golf ball)

And I don't mean to mock Daly for coming out and fulfilling his contract with Hooters; from what our waitress said it couldn't have been that tough for him to deal with since he was in there both nights before too.

I guess more than anything, the scene was a little sad. Management shut the whole charade down by 7 PM (instead of 8, which they advertised on the sign outside) because, frankly, there just wasn't that much interest. You never had to wait more than two minutes for a photo op or a picture purchase and by the end of the night, the only excitement was the group of three elderly women in Hooters T-shirts who claimed to all be girlfriends (not the platonic kind) trying to lick my face.

I know, I know. Fly honies and all that (my expression doesn't do the shock/awe justice, I promise.)

It wasn't the primal proletarian party I wanted and maybe that's my fault for assuming it would be.

But I still simply refuse to believe that what went down, or what didn't go down, at Hooters last night is Daly's standard public behavior. Hell, I've seen him act far more aloof on-camera, mid-tournament. So I'm just going to pretend like he was tired. Or got some bad advice. Or needed some more beer.

On the other hand, it's entirely possible the scene was exactly what I should have expected all along: a bunch of drunken rednecks, more noise than show, and a room slam-packed full of false hope that never delivered.