Well, it seems the golf gods, in their infinite and frankly bizarre wisdom, decided to toss a lifeline to Eric Larson, a man whose career as Harris English’s caddy was, shall we say, slightly complicated by a drug-dealing conviction from about thirty years ago. This little hiccup had been acting like a particularly stubborn slice, keeping Larson from crossing the pond for the hallowed turf of the British Open. You might think a past like that doesn't exactly scream "gentleman's game," but here we are, staring at the odd spectacle of presidential clemency meeting birdie hunts.
Larson, a spry 66-year-old who presumably has a sharp eye for both tricky pin placements and the finer points of federal law, was getting pretty fed up with the UK’s rather tight immigration rules. A recent change, requiring electronic authorization for travelers – a document you definitely don't get with a thirty-year-old conviction – had effectively put him on permanent timeout from accompanying English to what would have been a rather lucrative gig. Honestly, the thought of Larson missing out on a cool £126,000 from English’s runner-up finish at the last Open must have sparked the kind of outrage usually reserved for a shanked chip shot.
But the news didn't arrive via carrier pigeon or a hushed word from the R&A. Nope. It came through a much more modern, and let's be honest, more powerful channel: a presidential phone call. President Trump, a man who fancies his golf game (and let's be honest, who doesn't?), apparently decided to grant Larson a pardon, smoothing over this rather significant roadblock. This act of grace, landing just before the President’s own golf pilgrimage to Ireland, hints at a foreign policy that’s, well, rather golf-centric.
English, the man whose bag Larson carries, understandably gushed, noting Larson "can have his rights back." I imagine the feeling is mutual; it’s a whole lot less stressful having your trusty bagman by your side when you’re trying to navigate the treacherous fairways of St. Andrews. The philosophical implications are, of course, massive. Can a man truly savor the exquisite beauty of a perfectly struck iron if he can't, for reasons entirely of his own making and then, thankfully, forgiven, witness it live on foreign soil? That’s a question that would make even the most stoic philosopher sweat.
Larson himself, who insists he never actually touched the illicit substances he once helped move, is keen to point out he went through official channels for his pardon. That’s a detail of no small importance, I’d wager, when you’re dealing with both presidential favor and legal tidying-up. One can only hope this newfound freedom lets Larson concentrate on the truly pressing matters of the game, like battling that pesky left-to-right wind on the 15th, rather than the lingering ghosts of his past.