Boss Tim

The spat with Mickelson—and Woods's failure to play good soldier—threw into sharp relief Finchem's complicated relationships with the game's superstars. His decade-and-a-half cold war with Greg Norman has barely thawed, even though Finchem named Norman as captain of the International team for the 2009 Presidents Cup. One of Norman 's primary beefs has been what he considers an institutional unwillingness to share financial information with the players, and Norman continues to toy with a longstanding idea of lawyering up to get the Tour to open its books. "The lack of transparency is baffling," Norman said in a recent interview. "I'll never understand the way the Tour conducts its business. Finchem forgets that he works for the players, not the other way around."

Finchem's relations with the Tour rank and file couldn't have been helped when earlier this year his compensation was made public. For 2006, the most recent year on record, the commissioner earned $5.2 million, which would have placed him third on that year's money list.

The funny thing about Finchem is that he is always in the news but he has somehow remained a stranger, even to those working alongside him. Ogilvie counts the commissioner as a friend and receives an annual Christmas present, which is traditionally some type of fancy kitchen gadget, as Finchem is both an epicure and an oenophile. "Tim, believe it or not, has a personality," Ogilvie says with a knowing laugh. But, he adds, "There is definitely an elusive quality about him, probably because he is always being pulled in so many different directions by so many different constituencies. As much time as I've spent in conversation with him I can't say I really know him. I'm not sure any of us know the real Tim Finchem ."

In golf's time line 1960 is a watershed year, the one in which Arnold Palmer starred in the first color telecast from the Masters and then made his maiden voyage to the British Open, chasing the Grand Slam. Finchem has always been an unabashed Palmer fan, but 1960 was the year he fell under the spell of another American icon, John F. Kennedy . Finchem's grandfather Timothy Kelly was a well-connected pol outside of Chicago , and family dinners were always flavored with robust political debate. When Finchem was 13 his mother, Margaret—"an Irish Catholic saint," he says—instructed him to sit in front of the TV to monitor the Democratic national convention that begot Camelot. Finchem was spellbound by Kennedy 's charisma and idealism. "That set the course of my life for about the next 20 years," he says.

Growing up, Finchem, the second of six children, apsired to be one of the best and the brightest, devouring books on military history with a special emphasis on the Civil War, Russian revolution, World War II and—Norman would love this—Napoleon. He got his intellectual curiosity from his mother; old school discipline was instilled by his father, Harold, a master gunnery sergeant who spent 30 years in the Marine Corps . "I've never thought of my father as a disciplinarian," says Finchem, "but one thing that's always stuck in my mind was the morning I was heading out to school and he pointed out that my shoes weren't shined. I said, 'Ah, Dad, nobody will know.' All he said was, 'But you will.' After that I shined my shoes every morning."

The family home in Virginia Beach had no air conditioning and only three bedrooms—three sisters in one, three brothers in the other. If Finchem wanted to have any fun he had to finance it himself, so beginning at age 11 he took on various jobs to pay for golf, which he had come to love through spirited matches with his father. His home away from home was the golf course at Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek, which he could play all day for about a dollar. In the summers, when he wasn't working, Finchem and his buddies would often squeeze in 54 holes a day.

Finchem played on the golf team as a sophomore at Princess Anne High. For his nine-hole matches he considered 36 a good score, and a few times he went as low as 34. But, he says, "If I was going to go to college I had to have a scholarship. By my sophomore year it was evident golf was not going to be the path." As a junior he gave up competitive golf in favor of the debate team. The Cavaliers won the state championship, and Finchem was the first-place speaker, a double-dip he repeated as a senior. That earned him a full ride to the University of Richmond to compete in its powerhouse debate program. After graduating in 1969 with a political science degree, Finchem matriculated at the University of Virginia Law School, which is home to the prestigious Lyle Moot Court, a cutthroat two-year elimination competition. Finchem and his partner, Virgil Goode, reached the finals, which were judged by Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall. "I know I was intimidated, but Tim seemed very much at ease," says Goode, now in his sixth term representing Virginia 's fifth congressional district. "He and Marshall went round and round."

While in law school Finchem began indulging his passion for politics by doing campaign work, and he continued the moonlighting even after entering private practice. In 1977, having just turned 30, he decided to run for prosecuting attorney in Virginia Beach (the equivalent of district attorney). His idealism was no match for the messy realities of politics on the ground. In the final days of his campaign versus an archconservative incumbent, the local paper ran a front-page story about Finchem's propensity for speeding tickets. "I had five or six speeding tickets over a period of three years, mostly for going 10 miles over the speed limit," Finchem says, plaintively. "None of them were for reckless driving or DUI. The whole thing was overblown."

"What he's forgetting to mention," says Tim Smith , a close friend dating back to their undergrad days, "is that his license had been suspended for 60 days. He was solidly up in the campaign with 10 days to go, then his opponent rolled out this radio ad. I'll never forget it: ' Tim Finchem wants to be the top law enforcement officer in Virginia Beach . We have only one question: Who is going to drive him to work?' It's hilarious now, but at the time it torpedoed his political career."

Losing the election, Finchem admits, "is one of the greatest things that ever happened to me. Otherwise I might still be in Virginia Beach prosecuting cases." Instead, in 1978 he joined the Carter Administration as deputy adviser to the President in the office of economic affairs. Washington was a fresh start in other ways, as Finchem's first marriage had recently ended. On his fourth day on the job he volunteered to chair a committee meeting on inflation. He was 31, lording over the proceedings in the White House 's glorious Roosevelt Room. "I called my mother right after that meeting," he says. "I told her, 'I don't believe I'm doing this.' I was pretty proud of myself. She, of course, was pretty proud too."