Who figured?
The man who once ran the Sixers all the way to the NBA Finals is walking off the second green. He's playing in a foursome with business associates/friends, in a group just ahead of the one containing Bob Clarke and Steve Coates, who have a regular game. Croce, buff as ever as birthday No. 55 beckons, is in his new element.
Sporting a hat bearing the Masters logo and a shirt from Merion, he enthusiastically introduces his partners and does some quick catching up with a minigolf bud. Then it's go-time. On the tee he meticulously goes through his preshot routine before letting one fly. Solid form. The shot finds the green 115 yards away, 15 feet left of the cup.
"So what did you hit?" someone can't help but shout. "A 7-iron?"
"Yo, bro, that was a wedge," Croce smiles back. "Not bad, right?"
Not at all. Especially for someone who couldn't tell his hybrid from a driver not that long ago.
Up on the green, you can tell Croce can't wait until it's his turn. Finally, it is. He puts a pretty smooth stroke on the ball, but the putt somehow misses anyway. He grimaces. "I really wanted a bird," he allows. "But nothing wrong with par."
Indeed. And he's off, to pursue his latest fix for the next 3 hours or so. Yo, bro.
Pat Croce the golfer? For the longest time, you had a better chance of getting him to sprout some middle-aged paunch.
"I don't like doing something I'm not good at," Croce said. "My ball would go in a different ZIP code, and it bothered me that these fat, out-of-shape guys could just crack it out there. Here I am, training every morning, and I can't do squat. That's frustrating.
