Here in this hotel room at Riviera Country Club, Patrick Cantlay is in his natural state: poised, considered, purposeful. He sits with exquisite posture. His face is clean shaven, his sweater neatly pressed, his hat brim perfectly curved. He appears at peace, almost meditative. Typically stoic.
Except for one tell.
He’s tapping his feet on the carpet.
“Some enjoy this more than others,” he deadpans.
Throughout his golf life he’s preferred to speak more with his Vokeys than his voice, but don’t mistake his reticence for reluctance. Never has he possessed a bigger microphone than this very moment, as the reigning PGA Tour Player of the Year heading into the Tour’s flagship event, The Players Championship. And he’s prepared, as usual, to wield that power wisely. To unapologetically be himself.
The outline of Cantlay’s unprecedented career has been well-documented – the promise and injury, the heartbreak and recovery – but he and those closest to him rarely mention the tragic parts anymore. To them, a fuller portrait has emerged, his story built around trust, process and connection. Those values explain how he’s healed from unimaginable trauma. Why he’s thrived in this era of parity. And why, on the cusp of his 30th birthday, he’s embracing his new platform.
“I’m definitely a different person than I was, having gone through those experiences,” Cantlay says, “and I like who I am now.”
The pitter-patter stops as he contemplates one of the final questions: What’s been the most satisfying part of your journey?
For six seconds, he exhales and glances downward, then licks his lips. Finally ready to offer a glimpse into how his unique mind works, he gives a wry smile.
“As weird as this sounds,” he says, “the most satisfying part is doing something that is so entertaining and difficult and every day it’s a new challenge. Being able to apply yourself and lose the concern of the rest of the world and just play the best possible golf – that’s one of the great joys that I have in my life.”
DURING A RECENT PRACTICE round, Jamie Mulligan and Cantlay reflected on a more innocent time. His swing coach since age 7, Mulligan had been on Cantlay’s bag for the 2011 U.S. Open, the week when Cantlay earned low-amateur honors and launched his star. Looking back, Cantlay was in the sweet spot: no professional obligations, a carry bag, as many on-course Snickers bars as he wanted.
“It was kinda fun watching him go into that world and wondering what he was gonna do,” Mulligan says. “I always knew that he was going to be a Tour player – and I also knew that he was going to be a great player.”
Raising Cantlay amid the Tour player culture at Virginia Country Club in Long Beach, California, their close bond had been forged over thousands of hours on the range, and from countless more discussing politics, books and music. Mulligan’s relationship evolved from teacher to big brother to friend, but those titles don’t fully grasp his influence and impact, for he has helped heal Cantlay both physically and emotionally, through traumatic life events no young adult should endure.
In February 2016, just weeks after being told that he needed to rest an entire year because of a stress fracture in his back, Cantlay was in Newport Beach when his best friend and caddie, Chris Roth, was killed while crossing an intersection. Less than 10 feet away, Cantlay witnessed the accident, called 911 and spoke to officers while still covered in blood.
As they were driving home that night, Cantlay, then just 23, asked Mulligan: “What am I going to do with this?”
“You’re not going to do anything with this,” Mulligan replied. “It’s never gonna go away. These things are permanent. You can’t change them.” He spoke from personal experience, having lost both his brother and father too young.
So Mulligan and the crew at Virginia tried to keep things light, natural, honest. Mulligan encouraged Cantlay that, physically, he was healing, and that valleys lead to peaks. He invited Cantlay over to the club to play gin with the guys. Some nights they grabbed dinner and chatted for hours. When the majors were on TV, they plopped down on the couch and assumed the role of armchair analysts, chiding players over poor shots and costly decisions.
When it came time for Cantlay to make his own competitive return, Mulligan was entrusted with easing the strain on his pupil’s brittle back. For Cantlay’s 6-foot frame he has extra-long arms and fast, powerful hips, so Mulligan worked to take torque off his back and make his swing more level. The tweaks didn’t take long to meld, and the result was astounding: Since returning in 2017, Cantlay has top-tenned in nearly 35% of his starts, finishing in the top 25 in 68% of them.
“We’re economists,” Mulligan says. “We’re trying to become more and more efficient. I look at my job like I’m in the detail business. You’re detailing the car, and you want it to keep coming out looking shiny and new.”
When it is mentioned that the four-win 2020-21 campaign was a “breakout season,” both player and coach scoff. It’s an insult to their decades-long process. It implies that it happened accidentally. That each deliberate session together wasn’t building toward these highlights.
“There was no leap,” Cantlay says. “Nothing crazy different.”
Late last year, Cantlay and Mulligan were hosting a dinner at Virginia when Cantlay was asked what he was thinking during that torrid three-month summer run, when he hoisted three trophies, banked $20 million and keyed a historic U.S. Ryder Cup rout.
Cantlay couldn’t really answer it.
They tried Mulligan.
“It just felt groovy,” Mulligan said.
“Yeah,” Cantlay said a few moments later. “I guess groovy.”
Now, together, they were in the sweet spot: comfortable, confident, under pressure but without angst. Only this time the stakes were higher and the achievements more exceptional. Four months after Cantlay was voted the Tour’s top player, Mulligan was honored as the PGA’s Teacher and Coach of the Year.
“We went on one run, and now we want to double down on being better,” Mulligan says. “We want to keep taking it to the next level and becoming more efficient. We’ve done this for long enough to realize that we don’t need to say as much, we don’t need to do as much. We have a formula. We’re just continuing to make it better and better and better.”
WHEN CANTLAY’S REPS CALLED, Matt Minister was on the couch, having recently been dumped by Chris Kirk.
Minister knew only the top-line items of Cantlay’s résumé: decorated amateur, 60 at the Travelers, the personal heartbreak. He wasn’t scared off by a post-injury partnership in February 2017 because, well, he needed a job.
“I figured, Why not?” he says.
Their first tournament together was at Pebble Beach, Cantlay’s first appearance since his life was upended 3 ½ years earlier. Shorter, weaker, 30 pounds lighter – he bore little resemblance to the polished, well-constructed athlete he is now. Visibly nervous in front of friends and family, he scraped it around and made two late bombs just to make the cut.
Two weeks later: Cantlay was unrecognizable.
Poised and precise, he fired a pair of 66s to vault into the final pairing at the Valspar Championship. “It blew my mind,” Minister says. “It was like, Oh my gosh, this guy is ready to win!”
But with a chance late to capture his first Tour title, Cantlay bogeyed two of the last four holes and finished a shot back. Playing on a major medical extension, Cantlay had satisfied his requirement in just two starts, freeing him up for the rest of the season. But afterward, he was in no mood for consolation prizes.
“I was one of the first to pat him on the back and say congrats on being a Tour member, and it was ... not well received, let’s say that,” Minister says with a laugh. “But I thought it was incredible. I was blown away. The way he talked, the way he thought, it was unlike anything I’d seen.”
The shock factor soon wore off. Armed with one of the Tour’s most complete games (he was top 25 in nearly 50 statistical categories), Cantlay rarely suffered any extended dips in performance. With a greater understanding of his body’s needs, there was little wasted energy. Each start was optimized. There was an efficient, workmanlike quality to their days: Arrive, work, depart.
“There’s no grab-ass or anything going on,” Minister says. “It’s all business the entire time we’re out there. He’s just unbelievably focused. Everything he does is calculated. There’s no stone unturned. His whole life is about trying to become No. 1, and he’s doing literally everything he possibly can to be the best golfer he can be. All his time is spent with an intent focus on that.”
To match Cantlay’s intensity, Minister has changed the way he’s prepared. Responsible for relaying every bit of information (wind, hole locations, breaks in the green) to Cantlay, he does hours of homework early in the week and again at night. He knows: If there’s a mistake, he’ll get an earful.
“I really have to be on my game,” Minister says.
All the world’s best are serious about their craft, but still Cantlay separates. “His mental game,” Minister says. “Being able to block out everything and execute the shots, he does that as well as anyone in the game.”
A prime example came last year at the Tour Championship. Standing in the 18th fairway, coming off a soft bogey, Cantlay led by one with world No. 1 Jon Rahm in pursuit. “The second that ball came off Jon’s 5-iron on 18, Pat goes, ‘Wow,’” Minister recalls. Rahm’s approach danced around the cup and settled 18 feet away for eagle. Game on.
“He recognized that amazing shot,” Minister says, “and then stood there, went through his normal routine, got into his mind space and executed the shot.”
Unfazed and unflinching, Cantlay one-upped him, throwing a 217-yard dart of his own to 11 feet – a ruthless knockout. With one swing he essentially claimed the Tour’s $15 million prize and sealed the Player of the Year award.
“In that moment, with everything on the line, it was unbelievable,” Minister says.
Early on in their partnership, Cantlay asked Minister why he thought he’d be a good player to stick with, long term.
“Because of the way you think,” Minister told him. “Because of the things you say, the way you go through your shot process. For a guy who hadn’t played in three years, it’s why you’re as good as you are.”
FOR MORE THAN A dozen years, Cantlay and Preston Valder (pictured above, second from left) have been side by side.
As 5-foot-nothin’ runts trying to take down their high school rivals in Southern California.
As teammates on a gifted UCLA squad.
As grieving friends hoping to find comfort.
And now, as a player-and-agent duo navigating a rapidly changing pro landscape.
“We’ve had a lot of shared experiences that way,” Valder says, “and we’ve grown close spending so much time together over the years.”
They first bonded as similarly ambitious and skilled leaders for Servite High in Anaheim, for whom they lost fewer than five matches in three years and captured multiple state titles, alongside their friend and teammate, Chris Roth. A year behind, Valder followed Cantlay to UCLA, where in their lone season together, in 2011-12, the Bruins reached the NCAA quarterfinals.
Just as memorable to them were the post-match dinners and the road trips to visit Roth at Arizona, during which Valder became one of the few who penetrated Cantlay’s inner sanctum. “He was definitely quiet,” Valder says, “but when you were in his circle, or one of his close friends, he’s comfortable and driving the conversation.”
Shortly after graduating college, Valder underwent ankle surgery and was sidelined for six months. That was the same time Cantlay was in the midst of his own health issues, flying across the country (and, once, even to Germany) to meet with therapists and spine doctors and chiropractors in search of relief. With little to do, they ate lunch, watched football and binged the “Lord of the Rings” series. “You just wanted to fill your day with something, to take your mind off of it,” Valder says.
When Roth died in early 2016, they grew tighter still. For Cantlay, especially, losing a member of his tight-knit crew was life-altering. “It affected me demonstrably,” Cantlay says. “At the time, no real bad things had happened in my life. Yeah, some setbacks and things weren’t great. But this was the first real monumental sadness I had ever felt. It put everything in perspective, because everything I thought was very important, obviously, in light of something like that, became completely irrelevant.”
“We probably ended up closer through that experience, a shared point of view of what it’s like for that to happen to you at that age,” Valder says. “More than anything, it just feels like you really got the short end of the stick on something. That stuff isn’t supposed to ‘happen.’ But it happens. You deal with it, and you move on. You remember all the positives, and you try to enjoy what you have now.”
United in grief, their pro careers diverged. While Cantlay became a winner in his comeback season, Valder languished on the Canadian tour for a few years. Sensing his pal needed a fresh start, Cantlay reached out with an opportunity to join his support team in summer 2019. A week later, after a T-28 paid out just $1,360 Canadian, Valder quit the tour and never returned.
As Cantlay’s day-to-day manager, Valder, 28, now handles everything from facilitating travel to media obligations to being a second set of eyes while practicing in Jupiter, Florida. “Basically,” Valder says, “I’m taking care of everything else so the only things Pat has to worry about are golf and training.”
From a golf perspective, Valder sees his former teammate in complete control, realizing his immense potential, continuing to make minor tweaks – the car detailer. But personally, Valder sees little change in his now-famous friend. Cantlay’s core group (about eight to 10) remains a collection of elementary, high school and college buddies who text frequently and try to get together at least once a year, if their schedules align.
“He gave me an opportunity in an industry that can be really hard to get into,” Valder says, “but most importantly to me, we’ve been able to remain friends through it. That means a lot to me because I didn’t want our friendship to change. He’s a friend who has been there for me for a long time, is there now, and is going to be around for the rest of my life. He’s a good person to have in your life.”
THEIR FIRST INTERACTION WAS awkward. Maybe even a little embarrassing.
Xander Schauffele was a raw freshman at Long Beach State when his team was paired with powerhouse UCLA at the 2011 Gifford Collegiate Championship. Wanting to see how Schauffele stacked up against the world No. 1, his coach pitted him against Cantlay in Round 1.
It turns out: Not well.
Cantlay led after a 63. Schauffele stumbled through a 78.
It was the typical Cantlay round: clean, calculated, laser focused. Apparently, he was so locked-in that he initially had Schauffele down for a 72. “He had no idea what I shot,” Schauffele says. “I still kid him about that.”
From there, they’d go their separate ways: Cantlay into stardom, then the wilderness; Schauffele to San Diego State, then the developmental tours. But they’d reconnect a few years later, after Cantlay found his footing on Tour and Schauffele had splashed onto the scene at the 2017 U.S. Open.
The commonalities were impossible to ignore. During his stint in Long Beach, Schauffele had befriended Mulligan at Virginia and was introduced to that crew. From the amateur scene, he knew Valder, Cantlay’s right-hand man. And through his sponsorship with Adidas, he knew Scott Parkin, who handles Cantlay’s business affairs.
“There are a lot of people on our teams that have intertwined,” Schauffele says.
Cantlay has long preferred the comfort of his inner circle, but those built-in connections allowed even the enigmatic star to break down some of his barriers. It’s an interesting bromance: Cantlay is linear, direct, cerebral; Schauffele sarcastic, nonconfrontational, blessed with Cali chill. But each week on Tour they form their own clique, carving out time for at least a nine-hole practice round.
That familiarity made them a natural partnership at the 2019 Presidents Cup, when they played all four team matches together. At last year’s Ryder Cup, they went 2-for-2 as a pair (and combined for 6 ½ points overall), even after Cantlay’s high-stress run through the playoffs.
“He has this really incredible ability to focus,” Schauffele says. “He just walked straight through the fire, unscathed. That’s some of the hardest, most stressful golf, and he enjoys that challenge.”
Over the past few years Schauffele has become a valued resource in learning what makes the inscrutable star tick, but even Schauffele acknowledges the rarity of their bond. After touring Napa together during a couples’ trip last fall, Schauffele admitted Cantlay is the first player he’s ever spent quality time with away from the course.
“At this level it’s really hard to become friends with people you’re trying to beat all the time,” he says, “but Pat has an ability to relax that you probably can’t see. While we enjoy a lot of competition and push each other to be better, we also just enjoy talking and being low-key, spending time together.”
WHAT WE’RE SEEING NOW is Patrick Cantlay in his prime, in command, in full.
With his profile and platform growing, Cantlay’s press conferences have become mandatory viewing. He isn’t always a willing author of his own personal journey. He lacks Jordan Spieth’s openness and Rory McIlroy’s charm and Jon Rahm’s passion. His transcripts aren’t full of colorful anecdotes and humorous asides. But for those willing to listen, they’re educational, without being condescending. In an era of self-aggrandizement, he speaks only when he actually has something to say.
“I’m not going to grandstand,” he says. “I won’t talk about what I want to talk about. And I also won’t talk about something unless I know what I’m talking about.”
That’s why his 644-word monologue last fall about the state of Bryson DeChambeau – the taunts, the attention-seeking behavior, the Player Impact Program – was so astoundingly thoughtful. Because he’d considered it. For days.
That’s why he’s become a trusted voice on matters pertaining to the PGA Tour. Because he’s pressed commissioner Jay Monahan – repeatedly – on the inner workings of the Tour, yearning to understand it at an operational level.
That’s why burning state-of-the-game questions – slow play, course design, equipment – all have proven to be in his wheelhouse, too.
Those deeper insights aren’t conducive to viral sound bites or clever memes – and it damn sure won’t get him closer to collecting any of that $50 million PIP bonus – but his Q-Rating isn’t the score he thinks is worth keeping.
“I think I’m old school in that respect,” he says.
Back in the hotel room, our allotted time is set to expire. With each query Cantlay has been interested and engaged. Each answer has been honest, each word intentional. And when the topic turns to the future, to his hopes and dreams after the tumult of his past ... well ... he doesn’t even entertain the possibilities. There’s too much work to be done, today.
“The most satisfying and impactful thing I can do is play the best golf I possibly can,” he says. “I’ve been working on it my whole life. I seem to be in the prime of my career. My body is feeling really good. I have a great team around me. And so, I’m not losing sight of the fact that right now is the opportunity for me to play the best golf I ever have.”
Like usual, he means that literally. He thanks the crew, calmly unclips his mic – and then sets off to achieve it.