A love note to Bill Murray as he dares to miss the AT&T to work on a movie.

David Schmalz

We need to talk, Billy. The Monuments Men, that little movie whose promotion schedule prevents your AT&T appearance this year, doesn’t need your hype. It’s got Clooney.

We need you here. We need the hope you inspire: that a former caddy can become AT&T Pro-Am champion. You see, when you said in Caddyshack, playing greenskeeper/varmint hunter Carl Spackler as he fantasizes with a putter, “Cinderella story, outta nowhere,” it wasn’t Spackler you were speaking of Bill. It’s you. You are our Cinderella.

But you know that. The title to your book is Cinderella Story: My Life in Golf, which opens with you playing the AT&T: “For one week, I’m on the Princess Cruise of amateur golf,” you write, “having more fun than I will have for the rest of the year. And it’s only the first week in February.” What’s changed, Bill?

Cinderella also recounts the caddying days of your youth, when you and your brothers got busted for giving a blind golfer three hole-in-one trophies. You’ve got heart, Bill. Don’t do this to ours.

My greatest memories of the AT&T are all about you, your antics on the green, your unsolicited smooching of female fans, your off-the-cuff jokes to the crowd. But the memory that stands out most is 2011, when I helped you shoot your best round ever at Pebble and take the team championship with D.A. Points.

I caught up with you early in the day, channeled you positive energy, helping you sink a long, improbable putt. I shouted as loud as I could, above the crowd, “Lovin’ it Billy!” You turned my way, smiling, and pointed at me.

I proceeded to yell it for 16 more holes. Was it a coincidence you dominated?

You’ve always been my favorite actor Bill. You can do it all. Whether it’s the pure comedic (and endlessly quotable) as Spackler: “So, I tell them I’m a pro jock, and who do you think they give me? The Dalai Lama, himself. Twelfth son of the Lama. So we finish the 18th and he’s gonna stiff me. And I say, ‘Hey, Lama, how about a little something, you know, for the effort.’ And he says, ‘Oh, uh, there won’t be any money, but when you die, on your deathbed, you will receive total consciousness.’ So I got that goin’ for me, which is nice.”

Or the unexpected: “Son of a bitch, I’m sick of these dolphins.” (From The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.)

Or the straight gold: “Now, for some of you it doesn’t matter. You were born rich and you’re going to stay rich,” you say as Herman Blume, addressing students in Rushmore. “But here’s my advice to the rest of you: Take dead aim on the rich boys. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything, but they can’t buy backbone.”

Your career is decorated with instant classics (Groundhog Day), underappreciated classics (Kingpin), and surprisingly few crappers. Yet even with the misses – like when you whiff on an easy putt – you retain your humor. Playing yourself in Zombieland, after being mistakenly shot, about to die, you’re asked: “Any regrets?” You think a moment. “Garfield, maybe.”

I regret you won’t be here this year. I was there to carry you to a championship. I need you here for me.

Or I guess I can follow you in my mind, Spackler style, reliving the fantasy, the day you pointed and went on to win.

At least I got that going for me, which is nice.