Certain Phil Mickelson truths are self-evident.
For one thing, Mickelson’s victory at the 2021 PGA Championship — the sixth major championship of his career, and the first for any 50-year-old — cements his place as the second-greatest player of his generation, and as perhaps the most durable of the all-time greats. His stature in history, at this point, is nearly impossible to overstate.
For another thing, Mickelson is not a nice guy. He has skirted federal law, flirted with murderers, lamented the burden of multi-millionaires, and humiliated his peers. And that’s all just in the past decade — which, in a pro career that now spans nearly 30 years, is saying something.
Yet when Mickelson raised the Wanamaker Trophy following a two-shot win at Kiawah Island’s Ocean Course, Mickelson’s reception was that of a conquering hero. Mickelson’s smiling face and chummy thumbs-ups have always been surrounded by cheers — but even by the standards of one of history’s most popular players, the scene of the raucous, unbound mob trailing him up the 18th fairway was a metaphor gone literal.
That Mickelson’s triumph was met with cheers is no mystery. The why, though, remains inexplicable.
It is no stretch to say that Mickelson embodies the qualities of a sociopath. To be sure, reaching the heights of professional golf requires an uncommon psyche, and Mickelson is not his profession’s only selfish personality.
But therein lies the mystery of Mickelson’s popularity.
When Matt Kuchar stiffed a local caddie after winning the Mayakoba Classic in 2018, his carefully curated reputation as one of golf’s “nice guys” went in the toilet. He has never recovered. Similarly, most pros with relatable physiques and extraordinary recovery skills would be fan favorites after nine wins and a major championship — but Patrick Reed’s long history of misbehavior seems certain to keep him in fans’ doghouse. Moreover, neither player has wallowed in the public’s disdain: but Kuchar’s and Reed’s unpopularity endures despite marked efforts to rehabilitate their images.
For Mickelson, though, fans have always been willing to turn a blind eye.
Perhaps the difference in treatment is due, in part, to the fact that Mickelson’s transgressions — many and sordid though they are — have not violated any of golf’s cultural mores. Golf is a game of rules, written and unwritten: you always tip your caddie, and you play the ball where it lies; break those rules, and penalties are suffered. Off the course, though, golf has usually been more forgiving (although the response to Tiger Woods’ infidelity raises the question of whether Mickelson would be treated differently if he were Black). It’s not as if Mickelson is the first golfer to do business with criminals, or to take money from bad people. But those transgressions haven’t implicated the norms of a sport that, to put it mildly, is not normal.
It seems at least as likely, though, that Mickelson’s enduring popularity has a simpler explanation: Mickelson is a manipulator, and he’s good at it. From a distance, Mickelson is charming: jovial, smiling, always playing to the crowd. His ugliness only appears when one scratches at his surface. And human beings are prone to wanting to believe what we want to believe; we want to believe that the man who acts likable is indeed likable. So we like him.
By now, there is little point in litigating it. Mickelson’s place in history, and in the hearts of his fans, is unshakable. But the perplexing willingness of fans to lionize Mickelson while overlooking his sins is also part of history’s judgment — not only of Mickelson, but of us.
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