These aren’t battles players should want to win.
After Collin Morikawa had a close call at Bay Hill earlier this year, he didn’t stop to answer questions. He got into hot water the next week when he tried to explain, “I don’t owe anyone anything,” and then later doubled down with, “I don’t regret anything I said.” I felt for Collin. I understood what he was trying to convey, but he was fighting a battle that doesn’t need to be fought. As a PGA Tour player, I’ve learned that dealing with the media isn’t combat; it’s a dance.
We didn’t face this attention and scrutiny in college like the football and basketball players did. Media coverage on golf’s minor tours is practically non-existent. When suddenly we get to the PGA Tour, and microphones and recorders are being shoved in our face, it takes time to adjust and learn who we can trust. Often, we only learn who’s trustworthy after being burned.
Five years ago, after a disappointing round, a writer asked what I thought about the course. I was honest but casual: “Yeah, this isn’t my favourite. Feels like they had to overcompensate for some of the course’s shortcomings.” I even added a self-aware joke at the end: “Ask me tomorrow if I shoot 66,” acknowledging how we players tend to get whiny after bad rounds. Three hours later, I’m finishing dinner when my phone lights up with frantic texts from my manager. He’s sent a link to a story with a blaring headline claiming I had “ripped” the course. My nuanced comments had been reduced to clickbait, my self-deprecating humour completely erased. That moment changed me. I became much more guarded, aware that anything I said could be stripped of context and weaponised.
Watch the video of Morikawa’s interview at the Players Championship, not just read the transcript. His tone and facial expressions tell a completely different story. His mistake wasn’t what he said; it was attempting to defend himself rather than simply falling on the sword. His perceived combativeness only amplified the situation, making him appear petulant and ungrateful, which reinforced all the worst stereotypes about professional golfers.
I know Collin well. He’s nothing like how he came across in that moment. He’s incredibly generous with his time compared to most guys out here. Yes, he might have limited patience for uninformed questions, but engage him about something substantial, and he’ll talk golf with you for hours.
The stretch of time that I wanted nothing to do with media obligations coincided, ironically, with some of the best golf I’ve ever played. This meant interview requests were constant. I fulfilled them, but my reluctance was evident in both my terse answers and closed-off body language. It wasn’t about disrespecting journalists – I simply felt I had everything to lose and nothing to gain. Then my game cooled off, and the interview requests dried up. I’ve never admitted this publicly, but I actually started to miss the attention. Those media requests, I realised too late, were validation that I mattered in this sport. My declining performance was already bruising my ego, but being dropped from the pre-tournament interview schedules delivered an extra helping of humble pie.
Now I engage with the media more frequently and with genuine openness. I’ve learned to recognise the reporters who want to tell an authentic story versus those hunting for controversy. When I sense someone fishing for an inflammatory quote, I defuse it with deliberately bland responses.
Even as my game rebounded and I’ve slipped back safely inside the top 50 of the world ranking, a new reality holds my pride in check. I’ll never forget walking into a media centre for my scheduled session right after Jordan Spieth had finished his. Jordan’s 15 minutes had drawn a standing-room-only crowd of reporters. When I took the same seat moments later, only four remained. That stark contrast led to a new goal: make sure I play well enough next season so that every one of those seats is filled.
