Duval's golf game is a swing and a miss these days

{image1} When the scores come in on the wire, you rub your eyes and pretend they can't be real.

But they are, sadly, all too real.

There's an 85, 82, maybe 79, on a good day.

These are the golf scores of one David Duval. Also known as the "last man to hold the World's No. 1 ranking before Tiger Woods," Duval has been in a golfing freefall that could strip the heat shields off of the space shuttle.

It is not just how quickly he's fallen. It is not just how far he's fallen. It is the randomness and cruelty that fascinates. In short: what kind of game could do such a thing? A game from hell?

Barring serious injury, virtually every other athlete on the planet gets to enjoy a soft fade into retirement. And while finally saying "I quit" is often tough, at least the writing will have been on the wall for a few years.

Emmitt Smith retired last month with his productivity in noticeable decline, despite one last credible season with Arizona. He was afforded the dignity of a press conference with family, friends and peers. He smiled, he laughed, he cried, he thanked. It was carried on live TV. Bittersweet? Of course, but it was the "sweet" that lingered.

Duval won't get one of these. In fact, nobody will see him leave the game of professional golf on the PGA Tour. The day could come years from now. It could come tomorrow. But it won't be televised, and there will be few smiles.

If scouts existed in golf, the "book" on him would be short. "Can't play."

Can't play tambourine in Springsteen's band, can't play dead in a Western. Can. Not. Play.

Right now, Duval is not hiding behind any injury, although the numbers seem to beg for such an explanation. How else, does one explain why the man who once shot 59 at the Bob Hope, would now have to grind to break 80?

The shorthand for Duval's career could read simply like this: Walker Cup. Presidents Cup. Ryder Cup. Tin Cup.

For those like me, who have grown into Duval fans over the years, we practically beg for a miracle diagnosis that explains all of this. A micro-fracture on his hand. A disc in his back out of alignment. Yellow fever. Something. Anything.

Because if Duval's problems are not somehow physical, the alternate reality is too horrible to fathom. I remember when doctors once thought Jose Maria Olazabal had a foot injury that would force an early retirement from the game.

Thankfully, miraculously, another doctor said "back problem" and he went on to win another Masters. Can we schedule Duval to see just one more specialist? Please?

Duval has become philosophical about his demise, admitting recently that winning the British Open stunted his desire, and nagging injuries played havoc with his timing. But he claims to be healthy now, and eager to play.

There was a time last spring, when Duval didn't even want to load the clubs in the trunk. He didn't play an event last year until the sadistic Open at Shinnecock -- where he predictably missed the cut by a mile, but won over fans affections for the effort.

Then, in the fall, when everyone was watching football, Duval strung a few hopeful events together. Tied for 13th at the Deutsche Bank Championship. A check for 10K at the Canadian Open, another for 16 grand in Vegas, with three rounds in the 60s.

It was a mirage.

I think I speak for a lot of golfers, when I say that I don't want the name "David Duval" to become some sort of "cautionary tale" in the game's lore. We already have "Ian Baker-Finch," and "Bobby Clampett" and "Chip Beck."

We don't need another reminder that golf is the most humiliating mistress on the planet. A game that lives to torment and can vanish in an instant without warning.

If that is the fate of Duval -- if he is truly "done" in a golfing sense -- the loss will be more ours, than his. Duval talks openly about how happy he is with his new wife and kids he inherited through the marriage. He loves to snowboard, fly-fish, workout, read and think. He's not a one-dimensional ball-whacking machine.

Put simply, Duval can live without golf. But it'll be a shame if he does.

Despite the chance he'll be on golf's Mount Rushmore of Flameouts with Baker-Finch, Clampett and Beck, Duval's career will still stand out as a comet of sheer brilliance.

In addition to his one "official" major at the British, Duval also won two "soft" majors in the Players Championship and the Tour Championship. He became the first player since Nick Price in 1993 to win three consecutive starts. He became the first player to win in a playoff in back-to-back weeks on Tour. He won the Vardon trophy for scoring average. He won 11 times in a span of just over 16 months.

He was A-list, star-quality and capable of going low enough to require oxygen tanks.

If this is really it for Double D, I'll still remember the grace notes of his career more than the tragic demise. I'll remember a guy who went into the 1999 Ryder Cup having called it "an exhibition" -- and left with his shirttail out, fists a-blazing in passion.

I'll remember the 2001 Masters, as Duval tore through the front nine on Sunday in chase of Tiger. His 8-birdie 67 was low round of the day, but alas, not good enough. I pulled up an old news story on the '01 Masters. It read, and I quote: "For all the talk of Duval's rustiness, his lack of good play this year due to injury, there he was on the back nine, right on Woods' tail."

Back then, there were injuries too, but also brilliance. When Duval could have ducked behind them, he didn't need to. Now, if he's hurting, he's not really saying. He's become a modern golfing mystery.

If nothing else, he'll always have his validating moment at the British Open later that summer at Royal Lytham. Duval had shed the title of "BPTHNWAM." All the prior accomplishments now had been stamped with "Greatness" as defined by the modern Majors-obsessed golf media. Duval shed his trademark reflector shades for a few minutes on the 18th green, caressed the Claret Jug, and gave a heartfelt victory speech. The man behind the impenetrable wrap-around shades was indeed human.

Graceful and perfect, it would have been a great time to call it a career. Sadly, there are no mulligans on storybook endings.