The first time I saw Charley Hoffman play, you would not have looked at him twice. That was at the Masters in 2015, where he stopped by the 1st tee box to beg autographs off Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus. He was 38 already, a little tubby, a little schlubby, in a hat that looked two sizes too big and a pair of wraparound sunglasses so tight they gave him tan lines. Then he went and shot a 67. Well, like the old salts say at Augusta, the bars of Chicago are full of people who led majors after one round and Charley finished up tied ninth. But still, after 15 years playing pro golf, it was his first top-20 finish in a major.
Hoffman has seemed to make a run up the leaderboard at almost every other major since, 65 at Augusta National, 67 at Royal Birkdale, 68 at Erin Hills. Usually he slips right back down it again but whatever he is going through he always seems to be wearing the same inscrutable expression. You never saw a sportsman give less away about how he is feeling. Which might be why even my friends who love golf don’t get why I have grown quite so fond of him in the past four years. I think it is because, for a man with such an exquisite iron game, he just seems so ordinary. You would never guess he was an elite athlete, until you saw him play.
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