Quibbling about awards invariably centers on who receives them and who deserves them, since they are often not the same people. (See: Kissinger, Henry and the Nobel Peace Prize.)
Golf loves nothing more than touting its values, real and imagined, so every organization in the sport contributes to a healthy disbursement of baubles. Most are bestowed on great players for their accomplishments, and in many cases are named for those folks.
Ben Hogan, Byron Nelson, Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Bob Jones, Harry Vardon, Glenna Collett-Vare, and Louise Suggs all have awards named after them, some more than one. The slew of annual prizes handed out by the PGA Tour mostly acknowledge achievements inside the ropes that are readily supportable by metrics, like scoring averages and cash pocketed. Only one of the Tour’s accolades, the Payne Stewart Award, speaks to what the recipient does after scorecards are signed and the cameras are turned off. Elsewhere in the golf industry, two awards — those named for Bob Jones and Old Tom Morris — also nod to the manner in which honorees have conducted themselves and the imprint they’ve made.
The name of Juan “Chi Chi” Rodriguez is on the latter two trophies as a legatee, but no prize is presented in his honor. That’s because his career record doesn’t belong on the plane of Palmer and Nicklaus. Eight PGA Tour wins and 22 on the senior circuit made him an occasional scene-stealing cameo actor among superstars. Yet he’s in the World Golf Hall of Fame, which hints at a deeper impact not easily summarized via a list of tournament successes. His passing on August 8 at the age of 88 is an opportunity not only to reconsider how to best honor the life of Rodriguez, but to reassess what traits the game ought to highlight and encourage among current and future generations of players.
When sports legends die, it often serves to illustrate how much has changed since their prime. Usually for the better, but sometimes not. So it is with Chi Chi. We see anew how the senior tour became corporatized beyond recognition, even in its rebranding as the PGA Tour Champions. Rodriguez was unceremoniously shown the door a couple decades ago when his scores were thought too undignified. That was the moment when the Tour ceased to view itself as an entertainment product built on exhibiting aged stars and more like an annuity opportunity for journeymen who didn’t play for as much cash in their earning years. The identity of the circuit left about the same time as Chi Chi.
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We’re also reminded of what a character Rodriguez was — engaging, funny, outspoken, performative, exasperating, preachy, and undeniably swaggy. Sixty-plus years ago he stood out among the army of vanilla clones that have always overpopulated professional golf. He would do so even more today.
More than anything, Chi Chi’s passing evokes an era when salesmanship was a required skill set on the PGA Tour, at least for those who wanted to make some coin. Players had to market themselves and their collective product, to give something in return to sponsors, spectators and fans at home. Their job wasn’t just to show up and cash a check, with little more than a cursory nod to the constituents who make that possible. Sure, toreador dancing while brandishing his putter as a sword and placing his fedora hat over the hole were affectations, but still evidence of an effort made.
Almost 20 years ago, I went to meet Rodriguez at his home in Puerto Rico. He was wounded still about being shoved to the sidelines in the Tim Finchem era, but was also warm and gregarious, reflective about past misjudgments. Most of all, he was appreciative of what golf had given him, and even moreso about what he’d been able to give back. The game could use a lot more of that sentiment these days.
Which is why the PGA Tour should add another award to its annual prize-giving: The Chi Chi Rodriguez Medal. Every player would be eligible because every player can meet the requirements — of giving something back to fans, of going the extra mile to engage and entertain those who pay for the product, of offering more than thin smiles and banalities about taking one shot at a time. As we move toward an era when the Tour’s business will require more of its members, it’s a way to drive home that signing a few hats and posing for selfies is the bare minimum they can give of themselves.
Even the most devoted Tour propagandists might struggle to think of more than a couple of viable candidates for such an award, which only highlights the need for it. The attitude embodied by Chi Chi — that players’ obligations extend beyond their bank accounts — has fallen by the wayside in this era of irrational market values. Making the game richer isn’t solely about cash, nor is it a responsibility just for sponsors or the Saudis. It’s on players too. It’s not an easy metric to measure, but we knew it when we saw it with Chi Chi. And we know that we’re not seeing it much now.