Laura Baugh: a proud pro comes clean on Colonel Sanders, 'bleedouts' and living on two hours of sleep

Golf Digest, Jan, 2004 by Guy Yocom

You might want to skip this part. I quit drinking on May 17, 1996, after my "bleedout." I was drinking so much I started bleeding spontaneously from every place you can imagine. My eyes, fingernails, toenails, ears, mouth, nose, private parts--I was bleeding inside my brain. It was very painful. When this happens, you're dying. The doctors had pretty much given up on me, and people came to the hospital to say goodbye. I was given the last rites. The fact I recovered is extraordinary. I can never drink again, or I'll bleed out again almost immediately and die.

Twenty glasses of wine was nothing to me. Last year I went to a restaurant. A friend asked if I wouldn't like to have just one drink. I looked at the bar for a long time, all the shelves of liquor that were there. I said, "No, thanks. There isn't enough liquor there to satisfy me anyway, so I'll just pass."

One of the beguiling things about drinking is that it can help you play better. Once, in Arizona, there was a rain delay. I went inside and had about six glasses of wine. It was pouring, and I assumed we were finished for the day. Suddenly, the clouds parted, and they called us back out to finish. I thought, "Oh, no." I hadn't drunk on the course before, and now I've got five holes left. So I go out and birdie those last five holes. That was the worst thing that could have happened to me. At that point I saw alcohol as my friend and savior, when in fact it was the devil in disguise.

Seven kids and an alcoholic mother. It sounds terrible, and it was, but only Chelsea, who was 13 when I stopped, remembers the nightmare stuff vividly. E.J. was 7 when I went into rehab, Haley was 6 and Robert was 4. They knew something was wrong around their house but didn't know what. In any case, after I came back from Betty Ford, Chelsea was scared of me, and bitter. It lasted several months, but I persisted in trying to reach her. After 212 years, she said to me one day, "I want you to know that I never respected you when you were drinking. I couldn't talk to you or look up to you. Now it's like you're a different person. I love you, Mom, but more than that, I respect you." You needed a bath towel to soak up my tears.

Thirty years ago, being pretty or sexy was resented, as though it made you something less as an athlete. The attitudes are even more Victorian today. My scorecard was and is blind to the fact I was blonde and wore lipstick. Various parties on the LPGA Tour knew it, however, and didn't like it. It's everyone's loss.

I nursed all of my children, which led to a problem when I went back to playing golf. As the round progressed, my breasts would get larger. And larger. Toward the end of the round, I'd begin lactating. At the McDonald's LPGA Championship one year, I was in contention and was approaching the holes that were televised. My blouse was beginning to spot--the pads women wear only help so much--and I started to panic. What could I do? I walked to the water cooler at the back of the 16th tee and just drenched myself from my neck to my waist. That solved one problem, although there was still the interference. I never did figure that one out.