Inside the tortured world of reckless gambler Mickelson
American will benefit hugely financially from Saudi ties but moral vacuum behind the bonhomie has been exposed
It was at a Troon curry house in 2016 that Phil Mickelson gave a glimpse into the slick Californian charm so central to his image. Where his fellow American stars would tend at the Open to fly in private chefs to spare them any rough-and-ready local cuisine, the 2013 champion had no qualms, even after shooting a course-record 63, about blending into life in a little Scottish seaside town. “Guys,” he announced, leaving the restaurant with a thespian flourish, “make sure you order the butter chicken – it is superb.”
His amiability has proved a priceless asset. When I asked one spectator at the 2017 Masters who she was supporting, she replied, quick as a flash: “Phil. Great family man.” You could see why: Mickelson, even as a three-time winner, had his Mr Congeniality credentials refined to such a degree that he would eat doughnuts at the Krispy Kreme wearing his Green Jacket.
And yet behind Mickelson’s goofy perma-grin lurks a deeply tortured soul. All the stories about his lavish gratuities acquire a darker hue when he decides Saudi complicity in the murder of journalist Jamal Khashoggi is no deterrent to banking £200million from the same regime. Likewise, the extravagant wagers in his Tuesday skins games look less innocent when he discloses, on the eve of his involvement in the LIV Golf Invitational Series threatening to tear the sport apart, that his gambling addiction drove him to the brink of ruin.
“My gambling got to a point of being reckless and embarrassing. I had to address it,” he said. “I’ve been addressing it for a number of years. And for hundreds of hours of therapy.”
Tales of Mickelson the high-roller are legion. He once played a practice round at St Andrews with Dustin Johnson and Nick Watney, on the understanding that the worst scorer would pay the best $1,000. When it fell to Watney to hand over the cash on the 18th green, Mickelson gave it straight back. “This is Britain,” he deadpanned, “I need pounds.” Sure enough, Watney had to draw out more money to cover the conversion rate.
At “The Match” in 2018, a winnertakes-all, £7.2million Las Vegas cash grab between Mickelson and Tiger Woods, country singer Jake Owen fared even worse. After a few too many drinks at the after-party, Owen yelled to Mickelson that he was owed a refund on his TV subscription, calling the spectacle the “worst golf I’ve ever seen”. Mickelson, his usual decorum deserting
him, wandered over, took one $100 bill from his back pocket and said: “I just won 90,000 of these. Here, have a $100 and go f--- yourself.”
Such stories suggest mischief rather than malice. Indeed, his fellow pros are fond of depicting Mickelson as an idiosyncratic elder statesman, the type of figure who, having belatedly discovered social media, thinks nothing of recording a video at Augusta about what a miserly tipper Matt Kuchar is. But the affectionate tributes have dwindled. Rory Mcilroy, formerly an admirer, called him “naive, egotistical and ignorant” for his comments trivialising the Khashoggi situation. His enthusiasm about the Saudi breakaway has painted him in a far less flattering light, as a man pathologically obsessed with money.
He acknowledges as much himself, reflecting this week on how “gambling has been part of my life ever since I can remember”, adding: “A decade ago is when I would say it became reckless. It’s embarrassing. I don’t like that people know.”
But has he truly changed, or is his insistence about finding renewed “balance” in his life just empty therapy-speak? After all, the appeal of being a shill for the Saudis appears rooted less in his desire to “reshape how the PGA Tour operates” than in his delight at the nine-figure cheque being dangled in front of him. For all that he purports to have undergone “humbling” epiphanies during his three months away, it has not humbled him to the extent where he seems to think about anything beyond the zeroes on his pay slip.
It is a trait that no amount of sessions with a shrink can alter. Seasoned observers of Mickelson will attest that he can be disingenuous to the point of cynical. Nothing illustrated this so vividly as the toe-curling Gleneagles press conference in which, in front of all his team-mates, he blamed the 2014 Ryder Cup defeat squarely on Tom Watson. It was, vice-captain Andy North told Alan Shipnuck for his unauthorised biography of Mickelson: “The worst 30 minutes of my life”.
Except when Mickelson was called out at the time, one reporter accusing him of “throwing Watson under the bus”, he reverted to butter-would-not-melt mode. “Oh,” he shot back, “I’m sorry you’re taking it that way.”
The pattern repeated itself with the incendiary interview confirming his Saudi allegiance. No sooner had Shipnuck’s interview been published than Mickelson frantically sought to claim his comments had been taken out of context.
Mickelson is not an irredeemable phoney. Many of his interactions with crowds convey a warmth that cannot be confected. Where Woods in his pomp would carry the aura of a cold corporate android, Mickelson would happily stay for hours after his round signing autographs.
But there is a Machiavellian dimension to his character, too, a readiness to cut people down with lethal barbs and to choreograph every performance for his own benefit. Financially, he will benefit from his Saudi ties to a level that beggars belief. Reputationally, though, his trademark bonhomie can no longer disguise the moral vacuum beneath.