The events depicted in this story are true. Only the name has been changed to define the champion.
Nine months after presciently conceiving her nickname, Ju-Yun "Birdie" Kim delivered. From the sands of Cherry Hills Country Club's seemingly impregnable 18th hole, Kim produced a bouncing, bunkered birdie - a miraculous shot and one of the greatest in golf history the moment it fell - to win the mother of all ladies' championships, the U.S. Women's Open. It's Kim's firstborn American victory, and oh, baby, is it a whopper.
A week that commenced with the most popular player in women's golf, Annika Sorenstam, already halfway home toward the Grand Slam ended with perhaps its most anonymous contestant on top of Cherry Hills. In truth, Annika had been upstaged long before Sunday afternoon. A gaggle of teenagers and college kids contending for the holiest of grails in women's golf made the week play more like a slumber party than major championship.
The sports world had conveniently used Annika's Slam quest to get another peek at 15-year-old phenom Michelle Wie, who didn't disappoint but did inspire a fresh layer of hyperbole. Opening with a 2-under-par 69, Wie worked her way into a tie for the lead through 54 holes and onto NBC analyst Johnny Miller's top five list of best swings in all of golf.
Wie has chosen to spend her middle and high school years testing herself against grown-ups instead of taking the critics' preferred path of "learning to win" by beating up on kids her own age. Her ultimate desire is to play against men in major championships. Sunday, Wie proved the plan isn't working by folding with a final round 82. Good players, especially grown men, just don't shoot 82 with a U.S. Open on the line. Instead, they shoot 81s and 84s like Retief Goosen and Jason Gore last week. Had Wie "learned to win" against her peers the way Rookie of the Year lock Paula Creamer did, maybe she would've matched Creamer's Sunday 79.
I say let her play against whomever she wants. Sure, she blew it Sunday while the nation's top-ranked female amateur, Morgan Pressel, hung in 'til the bitter end. But there's a big difference. Pressel, who's taken the conventional route of racking up junior titles, is merely an exceptionally talented young player with Hall of Fame potential. Wie, on the other hand, is from another world and could wind up in another Hall, as in the men's.
Annika, of course, is already in the LPGA Hall of Fame, but she was and is still is interested in transcending women's golf into the pantheon of sports immortals by achieving the Grand Slam. She was in good stead after an opening 71, but three straight bogeys Friday left Annika six shots back and in a major funk. Needing a weekend aggregate of 1-under 141, she instead signed for 73-77 and saw her Grand Slam aspirations fizzle into a pedestrian tie for 23rd. I suppose the fact that Annika left Denver with only two legs instead of three proves she's human after all.
As is so often the case in U.S. Opens, the final round was less about great shotmaking and way more about survival. Which helps explain how Lorena Ochoa came to the final hole at +3, needing a par four to get into a playoff but left having taken twice that many whacks. And why Natalie Gulbis with a birdie could've posted +4 but bogeyed instead for yet another near-miss. And why Brittany Lang, fresh off an NCAA team title with Duke last month, was such an interested spectator when Birdie's birdie fell at the last. Lang was the only player in the final 10 groups to match par, and her chances of at least earning the right to a Monday playoff looked good until Kim lived up to her name.
Pressel played beyond her years, too, though she's been doing that for nearly as long as she's had any years at all. You may recall four years ago she became the youngest to qualify for this championship. Pressel missed the cut then, but now at 17 and a grizzled veteran of three U.S. Opens, she finally proved she's capable of playing on the grandest stage of women's golf and whetted our appetite for the day she'll be out here full-time. And she should take home from Cherry Hills considerable comfort in knowing she didn't lose this U.S. Open nearly as much as Kim won it.
This was a weird event and one reflective of what happens when the USGA plays Marquis de Sade with a classic course. A half dozen of the best players in the women's game had so much to gain and in the end lost a commensurate amount. Annika's Grand Slam bid was left begging. Paula Creamer and Lorena Ochoa both missed opportunities to establish themselves as the best young player in the game. Michelle Wie surrendered 11 too many strokes Sunday and, thus, instant immortality as a 15-year-old major champion. Calendar girl Natalie Gulbis, now starring in her own eponymous reality show on The Golf Channel, could've ended any and all Anna Kourni-komparisons by winning her first LPGA title. Karen Stupples left some wondering which was the fluke: her eagle/double eagle start en route to victory in the final round of last year's British Open or the 78 she turned in Sunday playing with a share of the lead. Pressel could've upstaged Wie. Lang could've been the first amateur champion in nearly 40 years.
But somehow, the player with the least to lose gained the most. Birdie not only hadn't shown signs of being one of the best players on tour, she wasn't even the best player named Kim. She could've quietly shot 77 Sunday, picked up a top ten plus a nice check, and made a lot of people in the press tent happy by not requiring them to actually flip over to the modest half page she occupies in the LPGA media guide.
Instead, Birdie Kim now occupies a place in golf history more rarefied than Denver's mile high air. And that name, prophetically altered, now occupies space on the U.S. Women's Open trophy and may give new birth to the belief that what's in a name matters after all.
by Pulitzer Boone
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Monday, June 20, 2005
Just Maori-ed! New Zealander Campbell Hitches Himself To U.S. Open Title
You can set your watch to it: every 42 years, a New Zealander wins a major championship. In 1963, lanky lefthander Bob Charles won the British Open. And yesterday, Michael Campbell survived the U.S. Open at Pinehurst's No. 2 Course on a day in which most of his opponents looked as if they were playing left-handed.
Of the final four players to tee off Sunday, three couldn't break 80: defending champ Retief Goosen (81), who squandered not only his three-shot final round lead but also a chance to cement his name in golf history; Jason Gore (84), who like his political namesake is likely demanding a recount; and Olin Browne (80), whose Sunday meltdown means Mr. Dutra, winner of the '32 PGA and '34 Open, remains the only major champion named Olin.
Campbell not only broke 80, he beat the U.S. Open's toughest perennial opponent, Old Man Par. A 1-under 69 gave Campbell, a 36-year-old native of New Zealand's Maori tribe, an even par, 280 total for the week and a measure of respect among his peers for staring down Tiger Woods that will last much longer. Tiger's spirited but shockingly fallible charge Sunday left him two shots short of continuing his quest to win all four majors in the same year. Now, he can only divert his Grand Slam aspirations to good friend Annika Sorenstam who's already won the first two legs of the women's Slam and goes for a third this week at the U.S. Women's Open.
In fact, after winning the LPGA Championship last week, Annika text-messaged Tiger, "9-9," to flaunt the fact that she'd matched his major win total at nine. He said his jocular rejoinder to her mobile missive can't be reprinted in polite company, and I'm guessing whatever he was thinking to himself as he stood on the 72nd tee Sunday can't either. No sooner had he clawed his way back from eight shots off the lead early in the final round with birdies at 11 and 15, Tiger bogeyed both 16 and 17. This pair of out-of-nowhere, unforced, eleventh-hour errors - reminiscent of the gifts he often received from would-be challengers down the stretch - would ultimately provide his own margin of defeat.
The name of this course now has new meaning to Tiger: the world's No. 1 player made a big No. 2 out of those two holes and now must wait another month for the British Open at St. Andrews for his 10th title in a Grand Slam tournament. Worse yet, as he waits he must wonder what's happened to his major mojo.
Once a lock in opportunities to win one of the big four, Tiger's fingers seem increasingly buttery. At The Masters in April, owning a two-shot lead on Chris DiMarco with two holes to play, Tiger bogeyed 17 and 18 and needed both DiMarco's birdie pitch to lip out (which it did) and his own dramatic birdie putt on the first playoff hole to drop (which it did) to finally win.
Sunday, after brilliant ball-striking put him in position to win his third Open in six years, Tiger couldn't get up and down from a relatively easy spot on 16 and then three-jacked the 17th to fall three behind Campbell. That remained the margin after Tiger's birdie at 18 was matched by Campbell's clutch 2 at 17.
During a week in which the ghost of Payne Stewart - Pinehurst's Open champion in 1999 - was eerily present, Tiger could only hope the specter from another '99 major would apparate on the 72nd hole. Only a Jean Van De Velde-ian triple could keep Campbell from redeeming the last decade of unfulfilled potential and validating himself as a player worthy of golf's biggest stage.
Instead, just a harmless bogey left Campbell at level par, two better than Tiger and now firmly and forever entrenched as a national hero among his Maori people and all of New Zealand, which is now on the clock with 42 years to celebrate its newest major champion.
Of the final four players to tee off Sunday, three couldn't break 80: defending champ Retief Goosen (81), who squandered not only his three-shot final round lead but also a chance to cement his name in golf history; Jason Gore (84), who like his political namesake is likely demanding a recount; and Olin Browne (80), whose Sunday meltdown means Mr. Dutra, winner of the '32 PGA and '34 Open, remains the only major champion named Olin.
Campbell not only broke 80, he beat the U.S. Open's toughest perennial opponent, Old Man Par. A 1-under 69 gave Campbell, a 36-year-old native of New Zealand's Maori tribe, an even par, 280 total for the week and a measure of respect among his peers for staring down Tiger Woods that will last much longer. Tiger's spirited but shockingly fallible charge Sunday left him two shots short of continuing his quest to win all four majors in the same year. Now, he can only divert his Grand Slam aspirations to good friend Annika Sorenstam who's already won the first two legs of the women's Slam and goes for a third this week at the U.S. Women's Open.
In fact, after winning the LPGA Championship last week, Annika text-messaged Tiger, "9-9," to flaunt the fact that she'd matched his major win total at nine. He said his jocular rejoinder to her mobile missive can't be reprinted in polite company, and I'm guessing whatever he was thinking to himself as he stood on the 72nd tee Sunday can't either. No sooner had he clawed his way back from eight shots off the lead early in the final round with birdies at 11 and 15, Tiger bogeyed both 16 and 17. This pair of out-of-nowhere, unforced, eleventh-hour errors - reminiscent of the gifts he often received from would-be challengers down the stretch - would ultimately provide his own margin of defeat.
The name of this course now has new meaning to Tiger: the world's No. 1 player made a big No. 2 out of those two holes and now must wait another month for the British Open at St. Andrews for his 10th title in a Grand Slam tournament. Worse yet, as he waits he must wonder what's happened to his major mojo.
Once a lock in opportunities to win one of the big four, Tiger's fingers seem increasingly buttery. At The Masters in April, owning a two-shot lead on Chris DiMarco with two holes to play, Tiger bogeyed 17 and 18 and needed both DiMarco's birdie pitch to lip out (which it did) and his own dramatic birdie putt on the first playoff hole to drop (which it did) to finally win.
Sunday, after brilliant ball-striking put him in position to win his third Open in six years, Tiger couldn't get up and down from a relatively easy spot on 16 and then three-jacked the 17th to fall three behind Campbell. That remained the margin after Tiger's birdie at 18 was matched by Campbell's clutch 2 at 17.
During a week in which the ghost of Payne Stewart - Pinehurst's Open champion in 1999 - was eerily present, Tiger could only hope the specter from another '99 major would apparate on the 72nd hole. Only a Jean Van De Velde-ian triple could keep Campbell from redeeming the last decade of unfulfilled potential and validating himself as a player worthy of golf's biggest stage.
Instead, just a harmless bogey left Campbell at level par, two better than Tiger and now firmly and forever entrenched as a national hero among his Maori people and all of New Zealand, which is now on the clock with 42 years to celebrate its newest major champion.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Something About Mary
Knowing that Annika is a big fan of the boone box, I'd intended to keep the recap of the LPGA Championship at the top of my blog until she'd had a chance to read it. But circumstances compel me to submit the following post. (Annika, scroll down to the next story to see how I fumbled all over myself trying to describe how great you are.)
Our dear friends, Scott and Emily Glisson and their four children, have given up their little slice of the American dream to live in a Ugandan nightmare. Two years ago, the Glissons left everything - family, friends, SUVs, 401(k)s, normalcy - and moved to Mbarara, Uganda to join a small group of Americans who are serving the natives there through medical help, education, and friendship. No quid pro quos. No insistence that the locals come to church if they want help. Just lots of love in very tangible ways, including being the hands, feet - and as you're about to read - the arms of Christ.
June 6
Hi Amy,
Just wanted to tell you about the last couple of days I’ve had - - good ones for sure, but crazy busy…
The hospital called and said that there was an abandoned baby that needed a short-term foster home - - effective immediately. Our family has been SO interested in doing that and I usually go to the hospital on Fridays just to check in and to see if there is any way our family can help with those babies, but today was the first day the actually needed us.... Our kids were so excited about our first foster baby (we all were!) and I hoofed it over to the hospital to check it all out. Well, the baby is sick, so very sick. Her mother died this morning and there were no relatives to take the baby back home (and how do you even find them with small villages dotting the map?). She has pneumonia, malaria and is severely malnourished, and even though she is 8 months old, she looks like an alert newborn. It is so sad! She is not ready to be discharged yet, due to her ailments.... So we’ll just go and check on her every day (taking clothes, blankets, maybe even milk??) until she is released. And then we will love on her for a short time and help her get back on her feet before we deliver her to an orphanage an hour and a half away. On my walk back home, I kept thanking the Lord for such an awesome privilege to care for a baby who has absolutely nobody in this world thinking about her tonight. And I prayed for that anonymous lady who died all alone this morning. Who was she? What was her story? And does anybody even know that she is now gone?
Tonight, my four little ones are snug in their beds and I’m feeling exhausted physically....and a little melancholy for those babies who just don’t ever have a chance…
Love,
Emily
June 14
Hi there,
What really has me sad is our poor baby….she is the saddest thing you have ever seen! We call her “Mary” even though we don’t really know her name. Her mom was Mbabazi, and that seemed too hard for our kids to pronounce. She is 8 months old, but can’t sit up or even control her head very well b/c she is less than 8 tiny pounds! Her arms are the size of my index finger – just a poor little bag of bones. Anyway, I’ve been going up to the hospital once or twice a day to feed her or take her medicine (the hospital ran out) since she doesn’t have anyone to take care of her. One day last week, I held her for a long time outside in the sunshine and sang little songs to her, changed the sheets on her bed, gave her a sponge bath with my WetOnes antibacterial wipes, sat with her during her blood testing, and fed her some high energy milk. I was hopeful – I was seriously thinking about bringing her to my house to ensure that she has good feeding and care since the nurses just don’t have time. (There are 100 children and only 2 nurses!) I figured I could always go up there once or twice a day to get her injections and just keep her at home, setting my alarm to feed her every 2-3 hours. BUT when I went back the very next day, she looked absolutely awful…and she was gray and cold. Not a good sign. While I was there, the doctor moved her immediately to critical care and we started feeding her through a feeding tube in her nose since she was literally on her death bed. It broke my heart. (And then I passed out, which was not a pretty sight right there in front of 50 traditionally dressed Ugandan mamas and their snotty nosed kids.) And when I went back that afternoon, they had removed her from critical care and taken the feeding tube out of her nose and completely given up hope – she was in the last stages of AIDS. And so, she has moved even further down the line of priorities at the hospital. It has been a hard week as I contemplate the “whys” and “what nows” of life, and of baby Mary’s life specifically. But even then, I have felt a tremendous sense of fulfillment caring for this baby in her last days. No baby deserves to die alone. The last few days I have been dosing her up really good on Children’s Tylenol, and we all are praying that she rests peacefully and dies quickly. Did she ever have a mama who loved her – who delighted in her smile? Or has she been wimpering and moaning for her entire existence?
When the hospital called me on Saturday, I assumed they were calling to say that Mary had passed away. So I braced myself. But they were actually calling to say that there was ANOTHER abandoned baby who needed some TLC, and to please come quickly. This one was only a week and a half old and her mother had died of pneumonia the day before. This tiny baby is just that – tiny!! She seems to be in perfect health, but she weighs only 2 pounds. I fed her with a syringe in one of the rooms in the hospital while stomping my feet to keep the rat who was running from wall to wall away from me! When the doctor opened an official file on the baby, he asked me what her name was. Well…? I had just met her five minutes before and wasn’t really planning to name a baby that day…but I named her “Grace”. And I am praying that the Lord gives her plenty of it as she struggles to grow and thrive in this fallen world. After what feels like a million trips to the hospital over the weekend, I was able to bring baby Grace to our home yesterday afternoon. She is very alert and sweet and did I mention – tiny?? We aim to feed her 1 ounce of formula every 3 hours and she fits nicely inside a shoe box! I’ll have to send you pictures…
Meanwhile, I’m delivering baby Mary to the orphanage on Thursday. I know the Catholic sisters who run the place and I know they will give her lots of love and attention in what may be her last days. She is so sick and yet she knows my voice; when I sing to her over her bed, she reaches for my hand to pull closely to her face; her stiff and severely malnourished body relaxes completely when I hold her in my arms….I will never be the same after loving on her. Please pray for all of us as we make that tearful transfer on Thursday.
Love and Miss you,
Emily
June 16
Our sweet Baby Mary passed away last night…Of course, I am sad. But I am also so very thankful that she is now completely out of her pain and with the Lord Jesus - - his arms are much more tender than mine.
Thank you for your prayers.
Emily
Our dear friends, Scott and Emily Glisson and their four children, have given up their little slice of the American dream to live in a Ugandan nightmare. Two years ago, the Glissons left everything - family, friends, SUVs, 401(k)s, normalcy - and moved to Mbarara, Uganda to join a small group of Americans who are serving the natives there through medical help, education, and friendship. No quid pro quos. No insistence that the locals come to church if they want help. Just lots of love in very tangible ways, including being the hands, feet - and as you're about to read - the arms of Christ.
June 6
Hi Amy,
Just wanted to tell you about the last couple of days I’ve had - - good ones for sure, but crazy busy…
The hospital called and said that there was an abandoned baby that needed a short-term foster home - - effective immediately. Our family has been SO interested in doing that and I usually go to the hospital on Fridays just to check in and to see if there is any way our family can help with those babies, but today was the first day the actually needed us.... Our kids were so excited about our first foster baby (we all were!) and I hoofed it over to the hospital to check it all out. Well, the baby is sick, so very sick. Her mother died this morning and there were no relatives to take the baby back home (and how do you even find them with small villages dotting the map?). She has pneumonia, malaria and is severely malnourished, and even though she is 8 months old, she looks like an alert newborn. It is so sad! She is not ready to be discharged yet, due to her ailments.... So we’ll just go and check on her every day (taking clothes, blankets, maybe even milk??) until she is released. And then we will love on her for a short time and help her get back on her feet before we deliver her to an orphanage an hour and a half away. On my walk back home, I kept thanking the Lord for such an awesome privilege to care for a baby who has absolutely nobody in this world thinking about her tonight. And I prayed for that anonymous lady who died all alone this morning. Who was she? What was her story? And does anybody even know that she is now gone?
Tonight, my four little ones are snug in their beds and I’m feeling exhausted physically....and a little melancholy for those babies who just don’t ever have a chance…
Love,
Emily
June 14
Hi there,
What really has me sad is our poor baby….she is the saddest thing you have ever seen! We call her “Mary” even though we don’t really know her name. Her mom was Mbabazi, and that seemed too hard for our kids to pronounce. She is 8 months old, but can’t sit up or even control her head very well b/c she is less than 8 tiny pounds! Her arms are the size of my index finger – just a poor little bag of bones. Anyway, I’ve been going up to the hospital once or twice a day to feed her or take her medicine (the hospital ran out) since she doesn’t have anyone to take care of her. One day last week, I held her for a long time outside in the sunshine and sang little songs to her, changed the sheets on her bed, gave her a sponge bath with my WetOnes antibacterial wipes, sat with her during her blood testing, and fed her some high energy milk. I was hopeful – I was seriously thinking about bringing her to my house to ensure that she has good feeding and care since the nurses just don’t have time. (There are 100 children and only 2 nurses!) I figured I could always go up there once or twice a day to get her injections and just keep her at home, setting my alarm to feed her every 2-3 hours. BUT when I went back the very next day, she looked absolutely awful…and she was gray and cold. Not a good sign. While I was there, the doctor moved her immediately to critical care and we started feeding her through a feeding tube in her nose since she was literally on her death bed. It broke my heart. (And then I passed out, which was not a pretty sight right there in front of 50 traditionally dressed Ugandan mamas and their snotty nosed kids.) And when I went back that afternoon, they had removed her from critical care and taken the feeding tube out of her nose and completely given up hope – she was in the last stages of AIDS. And so, she has moved even further down the line of priorities at the hospital. It has been a hard week as I contemplate the “whys” and “what nows” of life, and of baby Mary’s life specifically. But even then, I have felt a tremendous sense of fulfillment caring for this baby in her last days. No baby deserves to die alone. The last few days I have been dosing her up really good on Children’s Tylenol, and we all are praying that she rests peacefully and dies quickly. Did she ever have a mama who loved her – who delighted in her smile? Or has she been wimpering and moaning for her entire existence?
When the hospital called me on Saturday, I assumed they were calling to say that Mary had passed away. So I braced myself. But they were actually calling to say that there was ANOTHER abandoned baby who needed some TLC, and to please come quickly. This one was only a week and a half old and her mother had died of pneumonia the day before. This tiny baby is just that – tiny!! She seems to be in perfect health, but she weighs only 2 pounds. I fed her with a syringe in one of the rooms in the hospital while stomping my feet to keep the rat who was running from wall to wall away from me! When the doctor opened an official file on the baby, he asked me what her name was. Well…? I had just met her five minutes before and wasn’t really planning to name a baby that day…but I named her “Grace”. And I am praying that the Lord gives her plenty of it as she struggles to grow and thrive in this fallen world. After what feels like a million trips to the hospital over the weekend, I was able to bring baby Grace to our home yesterday afternoon. She is very alert and sweet and did I mention – tiny?? We aim to feed her 1 ounce of formula every 3 hours and she fits nicely inside a shoe box! I’ll have to send you pictures…
Meanwhile, I’m delivering baby Mary to the orphanage on Thursday. I know the Catholic sisters who run the place and I know they will give her lots of love and attention in what may be her last days. She is so sick and yet she knows my voice; when I sing to her over her bed, she reaches for my hand to pull closely to her face; her stiff and severely malnourished body relaxes completely when I hold her in my arms….I will never be the same after loving on her. Please pray for all of us as we make that tearful transfer on Thursday.
Love and Miss you,
Emily
June 16
Our sweet Baby Mary passed away last night…Of course, I am sad. But I am also so very thankful that she is now completely out of her pain and with the Lord Jesus - - his arms are much more tender than mine.
Thank you for your prayers.
Emily
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Upper Crust
America's secondary education system is clearly failing us. Neither Michelle Wie, a sophomore at Honolulu's Punahou Academy, nor the newly-minted graduate of Pendleton High in Bradenton, Florida, Paula Creamer, could get closer than three shots to Annika Sorenstam at the McDonald's LPGA Championship. Then again, neither could anyone of drinking age. Sorenstam won her third straight Mickey D's, even though they switched venues from DuPont Country Club to Bulle Rock (pronounced "bully," as in what Sorenstam's doing to the rest of the LPGA).
Another Anni-kakewalk, her 6th in 8 tournaments this year and 62nd of her career, puts Sorenstam halfway toward her ultimate goal of winning women's golf's Grand Slam. And the fact that her closest competitors aren't old enough to know how to use a cassette tape irrefutably reveals just how wide the gap is between Annika and everyone else.
It's not unlike Tiger's run from 1999-2002 when he racked up 7 of his 9 majors while none of the rest of the best were playing at a consisently high level. For sure, Annika would be getting her fair share of trophies no matter how anyone else was playing. But this eye-popping stretch of 39 wins in the last 4 1/2 years and five victories in the last ten majors has either caused or coincided with a downturn in the careers of what had been her chief challengers: Karrie Webb, Se Ri Pak, Meg Mallon, and Juli Inkster. Each has managed a major or two during Sorenstam's streak, but none has posed a consistent threat.
That's actually a very interesting question to ponder. Has Annika merely taken advantage of her peers' less-than-peak performances since 2001 or were those players simply unable to respond when Sorenstam took her game and her body to a higher level?
You could argue that Inkster, 44, and Mallon, 42, are a tick or two past their primes and, thus, unable to keep up with one of the most dedicated athletes, male or female, in all of sports. But the Webb and Pak cases are more curious.
Webb's still just 30. She was narrowly but decisively #1 from 1999 through the summer of '01, racking up 15 victories during that span, including five majors. But she's won only four times since, and none of those were majors.
Pak's even younger, just 27. She burst onto the LPGA stage in 1998 when she made the LPGA Championship and U.S. Women's Open her first two career victories, as a 20-year-old, no less. But after consecutive five-win seasons, Pak's won just four LPGA events (no majors) since 2003, which is great...unless you're one of the best players in the world.
It's an impossible question to answer, but I'd suggest Annika's work ethic has at the very least contributed to the others underachieving. Consider that in 2000, Sorenstam had won five times but had been upstaged by Webb's seven Ws, two of which were majors. That's when Sorenstam decided to take matters into her own hands, feet, abs, traps, delts, quads, etc.
Her first event of 2001 was the Takefuji Classic in Hawaii, which I happened to be broadcasting for The Golf Channel. We'd heard about Annika's off-season conditioning program and how she'd been in one, continuous abdominal crunch all winter. When I interviewed her on the putting green at Kona Country Club the day before the tournament started, I jokingly referred to the then-30-year-old Sorenstam as a "crusty veteran." As with most mentally stable people, she didn't get my joke. She quizzically countered, "Crusty? Why do you call me crusty? I'm not crusty." Oops.
Since that interview, Annika's been relentless, with me and more importantly with the rest of the LPGA. While never letting me live that dubious question down, she's hardly let other players up. Sorenstam has completely reshaped her physique - from skinny to sleek to superwoman - and her game, adding power to her trademark precision and making a conscious decision to hang out with her friends on the PGA TOUR, most notably Tiger Woods, to see what she could learn from them, which she has admitted was a lot. Now, she's without a doubt the most complete player in all of golf, men's or women's. And, yes, I'm including Tiger.
Annika gave Webb, Pak, and the rest of the LPGA her best shot, and no one's had a counterpunch. It tends to be a bit demoralizing when you know the best player in the world is also the hardest worker.
The only hope for the rest of the LPGA may be for Annika to quit pushing herself or for me to quit asking her dumb questions. I wouldn't bet on either.
Another Anni-kakewalk, her 6th in 8 tournaments this year and 62nd of her career, puts Sorenstam halfway toward her ultimate goal of winning women's golf's Grand Slam. And the fact that her closest competitors aren't old enough to know how to use a cassette tape irrefutably reveals just how wide the gap is between Annika and everyone else.
It's not unlike Tiger's run from 1999-2002 when he racked up 7 of his 9 majors while none of the rest of the best were playing at a consisently high level. For sure, Annika would be getting her fair share of trophies no matter how anyone else was playing. But this eye-popping stretch of 39 wins in the last 4 1/2 years and five victories in the last ten majors has either caused or coincided with a downturn in the careers of what had been her chief challengers: Karrie Webb, Se Ri Pak, Meg Mallon, and Juli Inkster. Each has managed a major or two during Sorenstam's streak, but none has posed a consistent threat.
That's actually a very interesting question to ponder. Has Annika merely taken advantage of her peers' less-than-peak performances since 2001 or were those players simply unable to respond when Sorenstam took her game and her body to a higher level?
You could argue that Inkster, 44, and Mallon, 42, are a tick or two past their primes and, thus, unable to keep up with one of the most dedicated athletes, male or female, in all of sports. But the Webb and Pak cases are more curious.
Webb's still just 30. She was narrowly but decisively #1 from 1999 through the summer of '01, racking up 15 victories during that span, including five majors. But she's won only four times since, and none of those were majors.
Pak's even younger, just 27. She burst onto the LPGA stage in 1998 when she made the LPGA Championship and U.S. Women's Open her first two career victories, as a 20-year-old, no less. But after consecutive five-win seasons, Pak's won just four LPGA events (no majors) since 2003, which is great...unless you're one of the best players in the world.
It's an impossible question to answer, but I'd suggest Annika's work ethic has at the very least contributed to the others underachieving. Consider that in 2000, Sorenstam had won five times but had been upstaged by Webb's seven Ws, two of which were majors. That's when Sorenstam decided to take matters into her own hands, feet, abs, traps, delts, quads, etc.
Her first event of 2001 was the Takefuji Classic in Hawaii, which I happened to be broadcasting for The Golf Channel. We'd heard about Annika's off-season conditioning program and how she'd been in one, continuous abdominal crunch all winter. When I interviewed her on the putting green at Kona Country Club the day before the tournament started, I jokingly referred to the then-30-year-old Sorenstam as a "crusty veteran." As with most mentally stable people, she didn't get my joke. She quizzically countered, "Crusty? Why do you call me crusty? I'm not crusty." Oops.
Since that interview, Annika's been relentless, with me and more importantly with the rest of the LPGA. While never letting me live that dubious question down, she's hardly let other players up. Sorenstam has completely reshaped her physique - from skinny to sleek to superwoman - and her game, adding power to her trademark precision and making a conscious decision to hang out with her friends on the PGA TOUR, most notably Tiger Woods, to see what she could learn from them, which she has admitted was a lot. Now, she's without a doubt the most complete player in all of golf, men's or women's. And, yes, I'm including Tiger.
Annika gave Webb, Pak, and the rest of the LPGA her best shot, and no one's had a counterpunch. It tends to be a bit demoralizing when you know the best player in the world is also the hardest worker.
The only hope for the rest of the LPGA may be for Annika to quit pushing herself or for me to quit asking her dumb questions. I wouldn't bet on either.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Black Bart Steals The Show
CBS spent the better part of its broadcast of The Memorial golf tournament promoting "the funniest new reality show on television," Fire Me...Please! (It's apparently based on Gary McCord's performance at the 1994 Masters when he said about the 17th hole at Augusta National, "they don't mow this green, they bikini wax it," thus ending his Masters broadcast career.)
Still, the best reality show going is the PGA TOUR, itself. Impossible to predict week to week (now that Tiger is susceptible to kryptonite). And certainly no scripts, as evidenced by Bart Bryant's improbable victory at the Memorial in Columbus, Ohio.
If a reality show is hosted by, say, Jeff Probst, producers have some control over the outcome. With Jim Nantz, no way. Otherwise, everyone else would've been voted out of Muirfield Village except Fred Couples, Nantz's best bud and former teammate on the University of Houston golf team. But Freddie was sent packing in the tournament's final 45 minutes when he: missed a short eagle putt, couldn't get up and down from a greenside bunker at 16, missed a makeable birdie attempt at 17, and blew his approach to 18 halfway to Palau.
Couples is the gallery's most beloved player among those still active, but Tiger Woods is still the most captivating. And he had his chances, too. Three straight birdies put him within two of the lead until he double bogeyed a short par 3. That left him no room for error coming down the stretch, such as the bogey he made at 14 that left him with his pockets full but his trophy case undisturbed.
One by one, storylines the fans and media hoped to see develop never did. David Toms, humble and preppy, imploded. Jeff Sluman, the smiley veteran playing with borrowed credibility having been granted a sponsor's exemption by tournament founder and host Jack Nicklaus, faded. Even Bo Van Pelt would've sufficed. Unknown by most, for sure, but at least his dad played in the NFL. And they like their football in the land of The Ohio State University. But Bo still don't know winning on the PGA TOUR after splashing his approach to the par 5 15th and bogeying 18 when a birdie would've given him the clubhouse lead.
When it came to dotting Is and crossing Ts, no one was more efficient coming home than Bryant. His front nine scorecard looked like an argyle sock with three red numbers, three green, and three black. But an inward 32 - capped by a soggy, scrambling par at 18 after his tee shot found the creek - was enough by one to earn him his second TOUR title but his first with anyone paying attention. Bryant's maiden victory at last year's Texas Open happened opposite the Ryder Cup, which no one was watching on Sunday either, come to think of it.
As scripts go, Bryant certainly wouldn't have wished the one written for him the last 15 years on anyone. A native of Gatesville, Texas, about two hours east of nowhere, the 42-year-old Bryant has had as many injuries and operations as full seasons on TOUR. Hogan was said to have dug his success out of the dirt. Bryant's previous claim to fame was an older brother, Brad, known as "Dr. Dirt." Hardly the champion pedigree for the graycoats and bluebloods at Muirfield.
In fact, you'd sooner peg Bart as a plumber than PGA TOUR player. And he'd lived on similar wages for most of his career. But that par putt he drained on 18 earned him both a $990,000 first prize and a firm handshake from Nicklaus as he walked off the green. Talk about your pipe dreams.
As Bryant has discovered the hard way, sometimes reality bites. Give a guy credit when he bites back. And be glad the TOUR doesn't always work off the script we want. Bart Bryant is a real Survivor.
---
Congratulations to Annika Sorenstam. Her victory at the ShopRite Classic yesterday was not only her fifth of the year and 61st of her career, it also gets her halfway to the Grocers' Grand Slam. With a win at the Safeway in March already in the bag, Annika turns her attention to the Wegman's later this month and the second Safeway event in August in Portland. Remember Annika, more than 10 wins and you can't use the Express Checkout Line.
---
Finally, the Kansas City Royals got all hot and bothered Sunday when Texas Rangers' reliever Francisco Cordero glared into their dugout and grabbed his crotch after getting the final out of an 8-1 win. They thought he was showing them up after they'd complained about his hitting one of their batters in the 9th inning. But my sources tell me Cordero was merely showing his support to Michael Jackson, who'll find out this week if he'll be sent to the showers.
Still, the best reality show going is the PGA TOUR, itself. Impossible to predict week to week (now that Tiger is susceptible to kryptonite). And certainly no scripts, as evidenced by Bart Bryant's improbable victory at the Memorial in Columbus, Ohio.
If a reality show is hosted by, say, Jeff Probst, producers have some control over the outcome. With Jim Nantz, no way. Otherwise, everyone else would've been voted out of Muirfield Village except Fred Couples, Nantz's best bud and former teammate on the University of Houston golf team. But Freddie was sent packing in the tournament's final 45 minutes when he: missed a short eagle putt, couldn't get up and down from a greenside bunker at 16, missed a makeable birdie attempt at 17, and blew his approach to 18 halfway to Palau.
Couples is the gallery's most beloved player among those still active, but Tiger Woods is still the most captivating. And he had his chances, too. Three straight birdies put him within two of the lead until he double bogeyed a short par 3. That left him no room for error coming down the stretch, such as the bogey he made at 14 that left him with his pockets full but his trophy case undisturbed.
One by one, storylines the fans and media hoped to see develop never did. David Toms, humble and preppy, imploded. Jeff Sluman, the smiley veteran playing with borrowed credibility having been granted a sponsor's exemption by tournament founder and host Jack Nicklaus, faded. Even Bo Van Pelt would've sufficed. Unknown by most, for sure, but at least his dad played in the NFL. And they like their football in the land of The Ohio State University. But Bo still don't know winning on the PGA TOUR after splashing his approach to the par 5 15th and bogeying 18 when a birdie would've given him the clubhouse lead.
When it came to dotting Is and crossing Ts, no one was more efficient coming home than Bryant. His front nine scorecard looked like an argyle sock with three red numbers, three green, and three black. But an inward 32 - capped by a soggy, scrambling par at 18 after his tee shot found the creek - was enough by one to earn him his second TOUR title but his first with anyone paying attention. Bryant's maiden victory at last year's Texas Open happened opposite the Ryder Cup, which no one was watching on Sunday either, come to think of it.
As scripts go, Bryant certainly wouldn't have wished the one written for him the last 15 years on anyone. A native of Gatesville, Texas, about two hours east of nowhere, the 42-year-old Bryant has had as many injuries and operations as full seasons on TOUR. Hogan was said to have dug his success out of the dirt. Bryant's previous claim to fame was an older brother, Brad, known as "Dr. Dirt." Hardly the champion pedigree for the graycoats and bluebloods at Muirfield.
In fact, you'd sooner peg Bart as a plumber than PGA TOUR player. And he'd lived on similar wages for most of his career. But that par putt he drained on 18 earned him both a $990,000 first prize and a firm handshake from Nicklaus as he walked off the green. Talk about your pipe dreams.
As Bryant has discovered the hard way, sometimes reality bites. Give a guy credit when he bites back. And be glad the TOUR doesn't always work off the script we want. Bart Bryant is a real Survivor.
---
Congratulations to Annika Sorenstam. Her victory at the ShopRite Classic yesterday was not only her fifth of the year and 61st of her career, it also gets her halfway to the Grocers' Grand Slam. With a win at the Safeway in March already in the bag, Annika turns her attention to the Wegman's later this month and the second Safeway event in August in Portland. Remember Annika, more than 10 wins and you can't use the Express Checkout Line.
---
Finally, the Kansas City Royals got all hot and bothered Sunday when Texas Rangers' reliever Francisco Cordero glared into their dugout and grabbed his crotch after getting the final out of an 8-1 win. They thought he was showing them up after they'd complained about his hitting one of their batters in the 9th inning. But my sources tell me Cordero was merely showing his support to Michael Jackson, who'll find out this week if he'll be sent to the showers.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Red (Shirts), White, and Blue
Monday was Memorial Day. Said so on my 365 Days of Dave Barry calendar, so it must be true. Memorials, of course, are more memorable when you actually remember the person you're commemorating.
For example, I noticed my 6-year-old son, Nicholas, reading my t-shirt at breakfast this morning, the one emblazoned with "That Pat Boone Is A Lovely Man," an actual quote from Sharon Osbourne (wife of Ozzy) on that family's TV show in reference to their former neighbor and my still-current uncle. Here's how the conversation ensued:
Nicholas: "Where did you get that shirt?"
Me: "Mommy got it for me at Dillard's a couple of years ago."
(pause)
Nicholas (incredulously): "Is Uncle Pat famous?"
Me (credulously): "Yes. In fact, he's a very famous singer."
Nicholas: "You mean like Kira?" (the yellow ranger who fronted a garage band in the TV series Power Rangers Dino Thunder...but you knew that already)
Me: "Well, she's a TV character. Uncle Pat is a real singer, one of the most famous ever."
(As I tried to make a connection, I realized he never listens to the radio and has virtually no clue what a recording artist even is.)
Me: "Have you ever heard of Elvis?"
Nicholas: "No."
Me: "How 'bout The Beatles?"
Nicholas: "Are they the ones who wear red shirts?"
Me (puzzled): "I think you're thinking of The Wiggles."
Nicholas: "No, they wear different colored shirts."
Me: "Oh, yeah."
Nicholas: "Are most of The Beatles dead?"
Me: "As a matter of fact they are."
Nicholas: "I think I saw them singing one time, and they all had on red shirts."
I'm sure the extant Beatle, Paul, would be pleased to know his group's legacy is secure with the next generation: the mostly-dead band with red shirts.
I hear a growing number of God-folk who are convinced war is summarily evil and that Bush is either the Antichrist or at the very least next of kin because he sent so many Americans and others into battle. I have serious concerns, myself. But there are those in uniform who actually believe it is the essence of Christ to defend the defenseless, even to the point of giving up their lives.
Better than a token "thank you" to those selfless souls, I hope all of us can celebrate this holiday by giving up our lives for someone else. No matter what they're wearing.
For example, I noticed my 6-year-old son, Nicholas, reading my t-shirt at breakfast this morning, the one emblazoned with "That Pat Boone Is A Lovely Man," an actual quote from Sharon Osbourne (wife of Ozzy) on that family's TV show in reference to their former neighbor and my still-current uncle. Here's how the conversation ensued:
Nicholas: "Where did you get that shirt?"
Me: "Mommy got it for me at Dillard's a couple of years ago."
(pause)
Nicholas (incredulously): "Is Uncle Pat famous?"
Me (credulously): "Yes. In fact, he's a very famous singer."
Nicholas: "You mean like Kira?" (the yellow ranger who fronted a garage band in the TV series Power Rangers Dino Thunder...but you knew that already)
Me: "Well, she's a TV character. Uncle Pat is a real singer, one of the most famous ever."
(As I tried to make a connection, I realized he never listens to the radio and has virtually no clue what a recording artist even is.)
Me: "Have you ever heard of Elvis?"
Nicholas: "No."
Me: "How 'bout The Beatles?"
Nicholas: "Are they the ones who wear red shirts?"
Me (puzzled): "I think you're thinking of The Wiggles."
Nicholas: "No, they wear different colored shirts."
Me: "Oh, yeah."
Nicholas: "Are most of The Beatles dead?"
Me: "As a matter of fact they are."
Nicholas: "I think I saw them singing one time, and they all had on red shirts."
I'm sure the extant Beatle, Paul, would be pleased to know his group's legacy is secure with the next generation: the mostly-dead band with red shirts.
I hear a growing number of God-folk who are convinced war is summarily evil and that Bush is either the Antichrist or at the very least next of kin because he sent so many Americans and others into battle. I have serious concerns, myself. But there are those in uniform who actually believe it is the essence of Christ to defend the defenseless, even to the point of giving up their lives.
Better than a token "thank you" to those selfless souls, I hope all of us can celebrate this holiday by giving up our lives for someone else. No matter what they're wearing.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Air Pollution
I may have to give up my hip hop music. The lyrics are getting quite bawdy.
This should be of great interest to those of you considering a romantic relationship with a rapper. He may not be willing to make a long-term commitment if the words of Ludacris in 2004's Song of the Year, Yeah!, are any indication:
Forget about game, I'm a spit the truth
I won't stop 'til I get 'em in they birthday suits
For those of you without street "cred," let me interpret. That last line includes not only disturbingly poor pronoun usage but also a not-so-veiled reference to nudity, a condition that afflicts all of us at some point and an attribute many "rappers" actually look for in filling out a "posse."
Yet these hip hop stars, what with their "bling bling," seem never in want of "shorties." Perhaps these women are the same ones who're attracted to the guy with the naughty mudflaps or the amateur mammographer. Don't say I didn't warn you if some night you ain't cuttin' and he puts you on foot patrol. Do you understizzle, my shizzles?
---
Move over, Bill Shakespeare. You've got company, and it's coming from an unlikely source: that's right, country music. Specifically, Gretchen Wilson. Her poetic genius abounds in this tasty lick from her hit song "Homewrecker":
Now, honey, I'm a Christian
But if you keep this up
I'm gonna go to kickin'
Your pretty little butt
Credit where credit's due.
---
I've held off on this next supposition for a long time. But having spent the better part of the last four months in airports, I'm finally ready to say it.
There are two kinds of men in this world: those who wear red pants, and those whom women find attractive.
Controversial? Perhaps. Accurate? Absolutely. Moving on.
---
Speaking of airports, it's always awkward to witness customers berating innocent employees, but the behavior of a woman I encountered at DFW the other day was especially appalling and merits public censure. Upon deplaning, this woman - 60ish and obviously not from around here - began badgering an American Airlines agent. She was all, "I'm flying to Zurich, but they told me my bags had been sent to Frankfurt!" Calm down, lady. Zurich, Frankfurt, what's the difference? Be glad you were among the fortunate few to step foot in the greatest country God ever made. The same American ingenuity that lost your luggage also rid the world of an evil dictator, who was probably plotting an invasion of Zurich or Frankfurt or wherever your luggage is erroneously headed. A lost bag is a small price to pay. In case you haven't noticed, we're still at war here. America is tightening its belt, such as opting for the Grande Latte over Venti at Starbucks and refusing to reduce our gasoline consumption despite the fact that it's roughly equivalent to the minimum wage. How 'bout a little sacrifice on your part?
---
The best commercial on television right now is the one in which the family tries to save its collective cell phone minutes by speaking fast, like an auctioneer. Very funny.
And it brings to mind some of my favorite songs about auctioneers. There's "The Auctioneer" by Leroy Van Dyke (no relation) and..."The Auctioneer" (instrumental version) on the flip side of that 45, just to name two. Good stuff.
---
America - nay, the world - will have its newest American Idol by night's end. It's down to the lead singer from Krokus and the girl who looks like a melange of each of the last 15 one-hit divas. Methinks Bach isn't nervous about losing his legacy.
You have to admit Idol is exceptionally emblematic of America, circa 20-aught-5. Let's sit around doing nothing except deciding who among those who actually got off the couch long enough to audition best tickles our big, fat fancy and who should go back to their jobs as cooks at a mini golf course. We've as a nation become the dudes from Mystery Science Theater 3000.
---
Finally, I've tried to get into Tejano music. I really have. But I think my inability to speak Spanish is a hindrance. Guess it's just not my "thing." Maybe some of the Tejano singers could rap! Then they could say whatever they wanted, and I wouldn't be offended.
This should be of great interest to those of you considering a romantic relationship with a rapper. He may not be willing to make a long-term commitment if the words of Ludacris in 2004's Song of the Year, Yeah!, are any indication:
Forget about game, I'm a spit the truth
I won't stop 'til I get 'em in they birthday suits
For those of you without street "cred," let me interpret. That last line includes not only disturbingly poor pronoun usage but also a not-so-veiled reference to nudity, a condition that afflicts all of us at some point and an attribute many "rappers" actually look for in filling out a "posse."
Yet these hip hop stars, what with their "bling bling," seem never in want of "shorties." Perhaps these women are the same ones who're attracted to the guy with the naughty mudflaps or the amateur mammographer. Don't say I didn't warn you if some night you ain't cuttin' and he puts you on foot patrol. Do you understizzle, my shizzles?
---
Move over, Bill Shakespeare. You've got company, and it's coming from an unlikely source: that's right, country music. Specifically, Gretchen Wilson. Her poetic genius abounds in this tasty lick from her hit song "Homewrecker":
Now, honey, I'm a Christian
But if you keep this up
I'm gonna go to kickin'
Your pretty little butt
Credit where credit's due.
---
I've held off on this next supposition for a long time. But having spent the better part of the last four months in airports, I'm finally ready to say it.
There are two kinds of men in this world: those who wear red pants, and those whom women find attractive.
Controversial? Perhaps. Accurate? Absolutely. Moving on.
---
Speaking of airports, it's always awkward to witness customers berating innocent employees, but the behavior of a woman I encountered at DFW the other day was especially appalling and merits public censure. Upon deplaning, this woman - 60ish and obviously not from around here - began badgering an American Airlines agent. She was all, "I'm flying to Zurich, but they told me my bags had been sent to Frankfurt!" Calm down, lady. Zurich, Frankfurt, what's the difference? Be glad you were among the fortunate few to step foot in the greatest country God ever made. The same American ingenuity that lost your luggage also rid the world of an evil dictator, who was probably plotting an invasion of Zurich or Frankfurt or wherever your luggage is erroneously headed. A lost bag is a small price to pay. In case you haven't noticed, we're still at war here. America is tightening its belt, such as opting for the Grande Latte over Venti at Starbucks and refusing to reduce our gasoline consumption despite the fact that it's roughly equivalent to the minimum wage. How 'bout a little sacrifice on your part?
---
The best commercial on television right now is the one in which the family tries to save its collective cell phone minutes by speaking fast, like an auctioneer. Very funny.
And it brings to mind some of my favorite songs about auctioneers. There's "The Auctioneer" by Leroy Van Dyke (no relation) and..."The Auctioneer" (instrumental version) on the flip side of that 45, just to name two. Good stuff.
---
America - nay, the world - will have its newest American Idol by night's end. It's down to the lead singer from Krokus and the girl who looks like a melange of each of the last 15 one-hit divas. Methinks Bach isn't nervous about losing his legacy.
You have to admit Idol is exceptionally emblematic of America, circa 20-aught-5. Let's sit around doing nothing except deciding who among those who actually got off the couch long enough to audition best tickles our big, fat fancy and who should go back to their jobs as cooks at a mini golf course. We've as a nation become the dudes from Mystery Science Theater 3000.
---
Finally, I've tried to get into Tejano music. I really have. But I think my inability to speak Spanish is a hindrance. Guess it's just not my "thing." Maybe some of the Tejano singers could rap! Then they could say whatever they wanted, and I wouldn't be offended.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Garden Variety
Sports weekends like this one are why people garden. Let's recap:
*Tiger Woods, in his first appearance since that epic Masters title, flopped at the Wachovia Championship. Tiger tied for 11th but never contended, his weekend lowlighted by an approach to the 14th Friday which landed just past the hole...and promptly spun left, off the green, and into the water. The winner was Vijay Singh, second to Tiger in the world rankings and about as popular with golf fans as a rash in one's nether regions. Of course, Vijay, himself, arose to stardom from golf's nether regions, namely Fiji, which helps explain why he's not especially interested in yukking it up with galleries or kissing babies...though he did extend that now-famous invitation following his 2000 Masters victory, "Kiss my (nether regions), everybody." He just keeps laughing all the way to the bank, which in this case was sponsoring the tournament. Saved him a trip.
*Meanwhile, on the tour distaff, Annika Sorenstam could've set a new LPGA record for consecutive victories had she won in Williamsburg. But instead of making history, she was history after an opening 76 (her first over par round since the Clinton administration). She never got closer than 7 shots all weekend to eventual winner, Cristie Kerr, whose Extreme Makeover 5 years ago included the elimination of 60 L.B.s and the addition of a bunch of "oh, boys!" When Kerr contended at the '01 U.S. Women's Open, NBC analyst Johnny Miller could hardly contain himself and kept drooling, "Cristie Kerr is so fffffff...it." It was like he wanted to say, "FFFFine!" or "FFFFFFFun to look at!" or "FFFFreaking hot!"
Still, Kerr's visage was merely a consolation prize. We wanted to see history, and the best Williamsburg could give us was the dudes with muskets in the colonial costumes.
*At the track, Giacomo (pronounced "giacomo") won the 131st running of the Kentucky Derby in an upset of epic and (to the bluebloods in Louisville) dyspeptic proportions. A 100-to-1 shot, as highly esteemed as Mr. Ed among the horse racing cognoscenti, Giacomo's victory ranked right up there with the great party crashers of all-time. This was Billy Carter as America's First Brother. John Daly winning the PGA. Fonzie at the country club with new love interest, Adriana, and her friends. (Snob to Fonzie: "A leather jacket. How gauche." Fonzie to Snob: "Yeah, well how gauche it with you, too"). The caddies storming the pool at Bushwood. After Giacomo crossed the finish line first, you could actually hear Churchill Downs denizens screaming, "Doody in the pool!" It's always good fun to see a little mud splatter on the rich and famous.
*And finally, the suits at TNT must've been thrilled to see both of their NBA first round Game 7s decided by roughly 426 points. The Pacers and Mavs both won blowouts, then were routed themselves in the opening games of their respective second round series Monday night.
TNT says, "We know drama!" So do we, and this weekend we didn't get it. Of course, you may have loved what you saw on the sports tube. And if that's the case, I'll gladly retract all of this and admit, like The Fonz, "I was wrrrrrr...I was wrrrrr..."
*Tiger Woods, in his first appearance since that epic Masters title, flopped at the Wachovia Championship. Tiger tied for 11th but never contended, his weekend lowlighted by an approach to the 14th Friday which landed just past the hole...and promptly spun left, off the green, and into the water. The winner was Vijay Singh, second to Tiger in the world rankings and about as popular with golf fans as a rash in one's nether regions. Of course, Vijay, himself, arose to stardom from golf's nether regions, namely Fiji, which helps explain why he's not especially interested in yukking it up with galleries or kissing babies...though he did extend that now-famous invitation following his 2000 Masters victory, "Kiss my (nether regions), everybody." He just keeps laughing all the way to the bank, which in this case was sponsoring the tournament. Saved him a trip.
*Meanwhile, on the tour distaff, Annika Sorenstam could've set a new LPGA record for consecutive victories had she won in Williamsburg. But instead of making history, she was history after an opening 76 (her first over par round since the Clinton administration). She never got closer than 7 shots all weekend to eventual winner, Cristie Kerr, whose Extreme Makeover 5 years ago included the elimination of 60 L.B.s and the addition of a bunch of "oh, boys!" When Kerr contended at the '01 U.S. Women's Open, NBC analyst Johnny Miller could hardly contain himself and kept drooling, "Cristie Kerr is so fffffff...it." It was like he wanted to say, "FFFFine!" or "FFFFFFFun to look at!" or "FFFFreaking hot!"
Still, Kerr's visage was merely a consolation prize. We wanted to see history, and the best Williamsburg could give us was the dudes with muskets in the colonial costumes.
*At the track, Giacomo (pronounced "giacomo") won the 131st running of the Kentucky Derby in an upset of epic and (to the bluebloods in Louisville) dyspeptic proportions. A 100-to-1 shot, as highly esteemed as Mr. Ed among the horse racing cognoscenti, Giacomo's victory ranked right up there with the great party crashers of all-time. This was Billy Carter as America's First Brother. John Daly winning the PGA. Fonzie at the country club with new love interest, Adriana, and her friends. (Snob to Fonzie: "A leather jacket. How gauche." Fonzie to Snob: "Yeah, well how gauche it with you, too"). The caddies storming the pool at Bushwood. After Giacomo crossed the finish line first, you could actually hear Churchill Downs denizens screaming, "Doody in the pool!" It's always good fun to see a little mud splatter on the rich and famous.
*And finally, the suits at TNT must've been thrilled to see both of their NBA first round Game 7s decided by roughly 426 points. The Pacers and Mavs both won blowouts, then were routed themselves in the opening games of their respective second round series Monday night.
TNT says, "We know drama!" So do we, and this weekend we didn't get it. Of course, you may have loved what you saw on the sports tube. And if that's the case, I'll gladly retract all of this and admit, like The Fonz, "I was wrrrrrr...I was wrrrrr..."
Monday, April 25, 2005
Butt Darts and Long Knockers
Now that I've let the cat out of the bag (or the darts out of the, well, you know), I'm hoping you're all paying closer attention when sportscasters speak with forked tongue. Did you catch the latest example during Sunday's final round of the Houston Open?
As John Daly waited near the scoring trailer to see if his scintillating 67 would be good enough to get him into a playoff with Vijay Singh, the CBS cameras zoomed in to a tight shot of Daly in his bright orange shirt that prominently featured a Hooters logo on - where else? - his left boob. Anchor Jim Nantz, dubbed "The Prince of Puns" by his CBS cohorts, chose that exact moment to remind us that Singh and Daly are a couple of "long knockers."
Coincidence? Yeah, and guys go to Hooters for hot wings. Less surreptitious but equally funny was Nantz's line about the CBS Sunday night movie, Locusts: "If this movie is a success, you can expect a sequel in another 17 years." He was on fire, and I was absolutely eating his heart out.
I once had a friend encourage me to keep my on-air yuks to a minimum during Golf Channel telecasts. In critiquing some of my particularly comedic commentary, he said, "Jim Nantz would never say that." Well, that was several years ago. Is there any chance that Nantz is the one who changed, that he was inspired by my unique style to add a little extra levity to his play-by-play? Any chance at all?
Whaddya say we discuss it over lunch? I hear that Hooters place is famous for wings...
As John Daly waited near the scoring trailer to see if his scintillating 67 would be good enough to get him into a playoff with Vijay Singh, the CBS cameras zoomed in to a tight shot of Daly in his bright orange shirt that prominently featured a Hooters logo on - where else? - his left boob. Anchor Jim Nantz, dubbed "The Prince of Puns" by his CBS cohorts, chose that exact moment to remind us that Singh and Daly are a couple of "long knockers."
Coincidence? Yeah, and guys go to Hooters for hot wings. Less surreptitious but equally funny was Nantz's line about the CBS Sunday night movie, Locusts: "If this movie is a success, you can expect a sequel in another 17 years." He was on fire, and I was absolutely eating his heart out.
I once had a friend encourage me to keep my on-air yuks to a minimum during Golf Channel telecasts. In critiquing some of my particularly comedic commentary, he said, "Jim Nantz would never say that." Well, that was several years ago. Is there any chance that Nantz is the one who changed, that he was inspired by my unique style to add a little extra levity to his play-by-play? Any chance at all?
Whaddya say we discuss it over lunch? I hear that Hooters place is famous for wings...
Friday, April 22, 2005
Mass Hysteria
Two questions about the new pontiff:
1) Does he take immediate ownership of the Popemobile, and, if so, does his newfound infallibility clep him out of waiting in line at the Vatican DMV to sign it over to his name?
and
2) Are we 100% sure this isn't Leslie Nielsen? 'Cause this is exactly the sort of thing he'd do for a gag.
---
Equally blasphemous was my failure to include the chorus from Spinal Tap's smash hit "Big Bottom" in my recent post about mudflaps:
Big bottom
Big bottom
Talk about mudflaps
My girl's got 'em
As fans of the cult classic "This Is Spinal Tap" are aware, no discussion of mudflaps should exclude that epic reference. Mea culpa...which, by the way, is also an excellent name for a rock group.
---
On the topic of car accessories, I noted a window decal the other day that must've been hatched from the same Casanova that gave us the nude silhouette-encrusted mudflaps. On the back window of a Toyota pickup was the caricature of a grinning, would-be Romeo with both hands extended and cupped above the words, "Free Breast Exam." Again, I'm trying to conjure up images of the kind of woman who would be wooed by such festoonery...
"Grandma, tell me how you met Gramps."
"Well, honey, I was on the 101, trying to find a decent public restroom, when I spied your Grandpa and his truck. He had me at 'Free Breast Exam.'"
---
And while we're on the subject, can anyone simply affix to his/her vehicle a random and rectangular piece of cardboard with the words "Temporary Tag" or "Tag Applied For" chicken scratched in magic marker, colored pencil, etc.?
I see this two or three times a day, but I ask, have you ever known anyone to be pulled over and have his/her makeshift tag challenged? This could literally save you thousands of dollars over the course of a lifetime.
And if that works, why stop there? How about, "About to fix dangling muffler." Or "Bilious exhaust fumes probably not hazardous." Maybe walk into a bank vault wearing a sandwich board that reads, "Not really stealing this money. It belongs to my cousin with the dangling muffler."
I encourage everyone to try this and report back to me. If you get in trouble, let me know and I'll have Leslie Nielsen absolve you of any eternal repercussions.
1) Does he take immediate ownership of the Popemobile, and, if so, does his newfound infallibility clep him out of waiting in line at the Vatican DMV to sign it over to his name?
and
2) Are we 100% sure this isn't Leslie Nielsen? 'Cause this is exactly the sort of thing he'd do for a gag.
---
Equally blasphemous was my failure to include the chorus from Spinal Tap's smash hit "Big Bottom" in my recent post about mudflaps:
Big bottom
Big bottom
Talk about mudflaps
My girl's got 'em
As fans of the cult classic "This Is Spinal Tap" are aware, no discussion of mudflaps should exclude that epic reference. Mea culpa...which, by the way, is also an excellent name for a rock group.
---
On the topic of car accessories, I noted a window decal the other day that must've been hatched from the same Casanova that gave us the nude silhouette-encrusted mudflaps. On the back window of a Toyota pickup was the caricature of a grinning, would-be Romeo with both hands extended and cupped above the words, "Free Breast Exam." Again, I'm trying to conjure up images of the kind of woman who would be wooed by such festoonery...
"Grandma, tell me how you met Gramps."
"Well, honey, I was on the 101, trying to find a decent public restroom, when I spied your Grandpa and his truck. He had me at 'Free Breast Exam.'"
---
And while we're on the subject, can anyone simply affix to his/her vehicle a random and rectangular piece of cardboard with the words "Temporary Tag" or "Tag Applied For" chicken scratched in magic marker, colored pencil, etc.?
I see this two or three times a day, but I ask, have you ever known anyone to be pulled over and have his/her makeshift tag challenged? This could literally save you thousands of dollars over the course of a lifetime.
And if that works, why stop there? How about, "About to fix dangling muffler." Or "Bilious exhaust fumes probably not hazardous." Maybe walk into a bank vault wearing a sandwich board that reads, "Not really stealing this money. It belongs to my cousin with the dangling muffler."
I encourage everyone to try this and report back to me. If you get in trouble, let me know and I'll have Leslie Nielsen absolve you of any eternal repercussions.
Monday, April 18, 2005
...Save A Few For Lefty, Too...
I'm saying a preemptive prayer for the Mickelson family tonight. The proverbial fan isn't going to know what hit it.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Nanny Nanny Boo Boo: They Still Can't Catch Tiger
With yet another inimitable display of carpe diem and a barely imitable fourth Masters title, Tiger Woods has ended his post-nuptial major championship winless streak at...zero. In his first appearance in a grand slam event since getting hitched, Tiger slipped on the world's only known coveted Green Jacket six months after slipping a wedding ring on the finger of Jesper Parnevik's former nanny, Elin Nordegren.
Cynosure Sunday, Tiger was far from perfect. In fact, it's hard to fathom the Tiger of the early Aughts when he was winning virtually tournament, major and otherwise, closing with back-to-back bogeys to moonwalk into a playoff. But while his swing isn't as foolproof as it was then, his moxie is, well, moxier than ever. The ability to hit shots and seize moments that other players simply can't helped separate Tiger then, and it's beginning to separate him again.
It's not that no one's ever birdied seven straight holes at The Masters...
Or that no one's ever turned a six-shot deficit into a three-shot lead in a span of 18 holes...
Or that no one's ever had the imagination and skill to play a shot from long and left of the 16th green off that signature slope and into the hole for an impossible birdie...
Or that no one's ever stumbled down the stretch but regrouped to win a playoff...
Or that no one's ever birdied 18 to win The Masters...
It's just that no one's ever done all that between breakfast and dinner. One day. Two unforgettable performances. Chris DiMarco's pluck was better than his luck: if Tiger's pitch had stayed perched on the edge of the cup at 16 and DiMarco's chip at 18 had dipped not lipped, Phil Mickelson could've slipped a Green Jacket on the very guy who gave him the read he needed to sink the winning putt in 2004.
Instead, DiMarco's gritty 68 only prolonged his agony, our viewing, and Mickelson's sartorial duty as defending champion. What a difference a year made for Mickelson. Twelve months to the day after one of the most memorable finishes in Masters history, Lefty found himself in the third to last group with Vijay Singh, who two days prior had played behind Mickelson and afterward accused him of excessively aerating Augusta National's greens with his 8-inch spikes. (Their post-round locker room tete-a-tete was later aerated to the press.) Then to top off the week, Phil had to coat his archenemy in what was surely the most uncomfortable public wardrobe exchange since last year's Super Bowl halftime show.
For all the talk of how his rivals have closed the gap, none of the other Big Four - Vijay, Mickelson, or Ernie Els - posed even the remotest challenge on this most major of weekends. All that talk of how his marriage to the former Miss Nordegren was destined to derail him from his quest to better Jack Nicklaus' record of 18 grand slam titles rings hollow today.
Now halfway toward that magical mark, Tiger gets to have his cake and Elin, too.
Cynosure Sunday, Tiger was far from perfect. In fact, it's hard to fathom the Tiger of the early Aughts when he was winning virtually tournament, major and otherwise, closing with back-to-back bogeys to moonwalk into a playoff. But while his swing isn't as foolproof as it was then, his moxie is, well, moxier than ever. The ability to hit shots and seize moments that other players simply can't helped separate Tiger then, and it's beginning to separate him again.
It's not that no one's ever birdied seven straight holes at The Masters...
Or that no one's ever turned a six-shot deficit into a three-shot lead in a span of 18 holes...
Or that no one's ever had the imagination and skill to play a shot from long and left of the 16th green off that signature slope and into the hole for an impossible birdie...
Or that no one's ever stumbled down the stretch but regrouped to win a playoff...
Or that no one's ever birdied 18 to win The Masters...
It's just that no one's ever done all that between breakfast and dinner. One day. Two unforgettable performances. Chris DiMarco's pluck was better than his luck: if Tiger's pitch had stayed perched on the edge of the cup at 16 and DiMarco's chip at 18 had dipped not lipped, Phil Mickelson could've slipped a Green Jacket on the very guy who gave him the read he needed to sink the winning putt in 2004.
Instead, DiMarco's gritty 68 only prolonged his agony, our viewing, and Mickelson's sartorial duty as defending champion. What a difference a year made for Mickelson. Twelve months to the day after one of the most memorable finishes in Masters history, Lefty found himself in the third to last group with Vijay Singh, who two days prior had played behind Mickelson and afterward accused him of excessively aerating Augusta National's greens with his 8-inch spikes. (Their post-round locker room tete-a-tete was later aerated to the press.) Then to top off the week, Phil had to coat his archenemy in what was surely the most uncomfortable public wardrobe exchange since last year's Super Bowl halftime show.
For all the talk of how his rivals have closed the gap, none of the other Big Four - Vijay, Mickelson, or Ernie Els - posed even the remotest challenge on this most major of weekends. All that talk of how his marriage to the former Miss Nordegren was destined to derail him from his quest to better Jack Nicklaus' record of 18 grand slam titles rings hollow today.
Now halfway toward that magical mark, Tiger gets to have his cake and Elin, too.
Friday, March 25, 2005
TGIF
At age 35, I think I'm finally understanding what it means to be a true follower of Christ. For example, 2,000 years ago this week, Christ went to Calvary to purchase my eternal freedom. Whereas yesterday, I went to Anson to buy a truck. Now I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes: I made sure to get one with a big enough bed to carry my cross.
Anyway, now that I've mastered true discipleship, I give you this from Rick Warren, owner of at least three different Hawaiian shirts (as seen on Larry King Live) and author of "The Purpose Driven Life," "The Purpose Driven Church," "The Purpose Driven Lunch", "The Purpose Driven Home Game," and "The Purpose Driven 2001 Ford Explorer Sport Trac."
Side note: I've noticed that while 15 million people have bought his book and been blessed by his expression of the Gospel story and how it can radically affect one's life, some within the Christian community bristle at his success and then write him off as a huckster propagating religious fluff to sell books and make a buck.
Personally, I was blessed by this offering of his from an interview with someone named Paul Bradshaw. I hope you are, too.
People ask me, "What is the purpose of life?" And I respond, in a nutshell, that life is preparation for eternity. We were made to last forever, and God wants us to be with Him in Heaven. One day my heart is going to stop, and that will be the end of my body - but not the end of me.
I may live 60 to 100 years on earth, but I am going to spend trillion of years in eternity. This is the warm-up act, the dress rehearsal. God wants us to practice on earth what we will do forever in eternity. We were made by God and for God, and until you figure that out, life isn't going to make sense.
Life is a series of problems: Either you are in one now, you're just coming out of one or you're getting ready to go into another one. The reason for this is that God is more interested in your character than your comfort.
God is more interested in making your life holy than He is in making your life happy. We can be reasonably happy here on earth, but that's not the goal of life. The goal is to grow in character, in Christ-likeness.
This past year has been the greatest year of my life but also the toughest, with my wife, Kay, getting cancer. I used to think that life was hills and valleys - you go through a dark time, then you got to the mountaintop, back and forth. I don't believe that anymore.
Rather than life being hills and valleys, I believe that it's kind of like two rails on a railroad track, and at all times you have something good and something bad in your life. No matter how good things are in your life, there is always something bad that needs to be worked on. And no matter how bad things are in your life, there is always something good you can thank God for. You can focus on your purposes, or you can focus on your problems. If you focus on your problems, you're going into self-centeredness, which is "my problem, my issues, my pain."
But one of the easiest ways to get rid of pain is to get your focus off yourself and onto God and others. We discovered quickly that in spite of the prayers of hundreds of thousands of people, God was not going to heal Kay or make it easy for her. It has been very difficult for her, and yet God has strengthened her character, given her a ministry of helping other people, given her a testimony, drawn her closer to Him and to people.
You have to learn to deal with both the good and the bad of life. Actually, sometimes learning to deal with the good is harder. For instance, this past year, all of a sudden, when the book sold 15 million copies, it made me instantly very wealthy. It also brought a lot of notoriety that I had never had to deal with before.
I don't think God gives you money or notoriety for your own ego or for you to live a life of ease. So I began to ask God what He wanted me to do with this money, notoriety and influence. He gave me two different passages that helped me decide what to do, Corinthians 9 and Psalm 72.
First, in spite of all the money coming in, we would not change our lifestyle one bit. We made no major purchases. Second, about midway through last year, I stopped taking a salary from the church. Third, we set up foundations to fund an initiative we call The Peace Plan - to plant churches, equip leaders, assist the poor, care for the sick, and educate the next generation. Fourth, I added up all that the church had paid me in the 24 years since I started the church, and I gave it all back. It was liberating to be able to serve God for free.
We need to ask ourselves: Am I going to live for possessions? Popularity? Am I going to be driven by pressures? Guilt? Bitterness? Materialism? Or am I going to be driven by God's purposes for my life?
When I get up in the morning, I sit on the side of my bed and say, "God, if I don't get anything else done today, I want to know You more and love You better." God didn't put me on earth just to fulfill a to-do list. He's more interested in what I am than what I do.
That's why we're called human beings, not human doings.
Anyway, now that I've mastered true discipleship, I give you this from Rick Warren, owner of at least three different Hawaiian shirts (as seen on Larry King Live) and author of "The Purpose Driven Life," "The Purpose Driven Church," "The Purpose Driven Lunch", "The Purpose Driven Home Game," and "The Purpose Driven 2001 Ford Explorer Sport Trac."
Side note: I've noticed that while 15 million people have bought his book and been blessed by his expression of the Gospel story and how it can radically affect one's life, some within the Christian community bristle at his success and then write him off as a huckster propagating religious fluff to sell books and make a buck.
Personally, I was blessed by this offering of his from an interview with someone named Paul Bradshaw. I hope you are, too.
People ask me, "What is the purpose of life?" And I respond, in a nutshell, that life is preparation for eternity. We were made to last forever, and God wants us to be with Him in Heaven. One day my heart is going to stop, and that will be the end of my body - but not the end of me.
I may live 60 to 100 years on earth, but I am going to spend trillion of years in eternity. This is the warm-up act, the dress rehearsal. God wants us to practice on earth what we will do forever in eternity. We were made by God and for God, and until you figure that out, life isn't going to make sense.
Life is a series of problems: Either you are in one now, you're just coming out of one or you're getting ready to go into another one. The reason for this is that God is more interested in your character than your comfort.
God is more interested in making your life holy than He is in making your life happy. We can be reasonably happy here on earth, but that's not the goal of life. The goal is to grow in character, in Christ-likeness.
This past year has been the greatest year of my life but also the toughest, with my wife, Kay, getting cancer. I used to think that life was hills and valleys - you go through a dark time, then you got to the mountaintop, back and forth. I don't believe that anymore.
Rather than life being hills and valleys, I believe that it's kind of like two rails on a railroad track, and at all times you have something good and something bad in your life. No matter how good things are in your life, there is always something bad that needs to be worked on. And no matter how bad things are in your life, there is always something good you can thank God for. You can focus on your purposes, or you can focus on your problems. If you focus on your problems, you're going into self-centeredness, which is "my problem, my issues, my pain."
But one of the easiest ways to get rid of pain is to get your focus off yourself and onto God and others. We discovered quickly that in spite of the prayers of hundreds of thousands of people, God was not going to heal Kay or make it easy for her. It has been very difficult for her, and yet God has strengthened her character, given her a ministry of helping other people, given her a testimony, drawn her closer to Him and to people.
You have to learn to deal with both the good and the bad of life. Actually, sometimes learning to deal with the good is harder. For instance, this past year, all of a sudden, when the book sold 15 million copies, it made me instantly very wealthy. It also brought a lot of notoriety that I had never had to deal with before.
I don't think God gives you money or notoriety for your own ego or for you to live a life of ease. So I began to ask God what He wanted me to do with this money, notoriety and influence. He gave me two different passages that helped me decide what to do, Corinthians 9 and Psalm 72.
First, in spite of all the money coming in, we would not change our lifestyle one bit. We made no major purchases. Second, about midway through last year, I stopped taking a salary from the church. Third, we set up foundations to fund an initiative we call The Peace Plan - to plant churches, equip leaders, assist the poor, care for the sick, and educate the next generation. Fourth, I added up all that the church had paid me in the 24 years since I started the church, and I gave it all back. It was liberating to be able to serve God for free.
We need to ask ourselves: Am I going to live for possessions? Popularity? Am I going to be driven by pressures? Guilt? Bitterness? Materialism? Or am I going to be driven by God's purposes for my life?
When I get up in the morning, I sit on the side of my bed and say, "God, if I don't get anything else done today, I want to know You more and love You better." God didn't put me on earth just to fulfill a to-do list. He's more interested in what I am than what I do.
That's why we're called human beings, not human doings.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Anatomy (And The) 101
We, 35 and 34, finished potty-training Anna Claire, 3, just in time for a spring break trip to southern California. After five straight days of airplane toilets, public restrooms, and port-o-johns, I'm strongly considering having all of us switch back to diapers.
Heading up the 101 during rush hour Monday night, Anna Claire made it clear she needed to use the facilities. Being new to this routine, she remains under the impression that sanitary lavatorial options are always at hand.
(Helpful travel tip: references to freeways in SoCal generally include both a noun marker, e.g. the 101 or the PCH, and copious profanity, "Go, @#$%&*! This isn't a @#$%&* parking lot, it's the @#$%&* 405!")
So we pulled off the next exit, which just so happened to be Sunset Boulevard where everyone who's anyone in Hollywood has gone pee pee or, in the case of Hugh Grant, worse. There are roughly 10 million people in L.A., 10 million of which are likely to be found on Sunset Boulevard at any given moment, many of them behaving rather roughly. Turns out Anna Claire is not the first person to find herself in urgent need of a public potty. Which explains why the McDonald's/Starbucks/coin-op laundromat where we alighted had only a single uni-john. It had a lock that required a quarter to open and a sign that read,
"THIS RESTROOM IS OWNED BY ALL OF THE COMPANIES IN THIS BUILDING."
After an initial peek and whiff, I felt compelled to scribble the postscript,
"...AND CLEANED BY NONE OF THEM."
That was a week ago, and none of us has contracted anything that a coupla rounds of antibiotics won't cure. But beware. The next time you need to do #2 on the 101, you might want to avoid Sunset and wait for a less noxious exit. Like Portland.
Heading up the 101 during rush hour Monday night, Anna Claire made it clear she needed to use the facilities. Being new to this routine, she remains under the impression that sanitary lavatorial options are always at hand.
(Helpful travel tip: references to freeways in SoCal generally include both a noun marker, e.g. the 101 or the PCH, and copious profanity, "Go, @#$%&*! This isn't a @#$%&* parking lot, it's the @#$%&* 405!")
So we pulled off the next exit, which just so happened to be Sunset Boulevard where everyone who's anyone in Hollywood has gone pee pee or, in the case of Hugh Grant, worse. There are roughly 10 million people in L.A., 10 million of which are likely to be found on Sunset Boulevard at any given moment, many of them behaving rather roughly. Turns out Anna Claire is not the first person to find herself in urgent need of a public potty. Which explains why the McDonald's/Starbucks/coin-op laundromat where we alighted had only a single uni-john. It had a lock that required a quarter to open and a sign that read,
"THIS RESTROOM IS OWNED BY ALL OF THE COMPANIES IN THIS BUILDING."
After an initial peek and whiff, I felt compelled to scribble the postscript,
"...AND CLEANED BY NONE OF THEM."
That was a week ago, and none of us has contracted anything that a coupla rounds of antibiotics won't cure. But beware. The next time you need to do #2 on the 101, you might want to avoid Sunset and wait for a less noxious exit. Like Portland.
Saturday, February 05, 2005
"Beggars Can't Be Choosers" And Other Hogwash
If you've learned anything about me through this blog over the years it's how much esteem I have for the men and women who navigate the nation's highways and biways as truckers. It was this noble vocation, after all, that gave the world one of the finest "Old So-and-Sos Never Die" jokes, to wit: "Old truckers never die; they just get a new Peterbilt." God bless truckers.
One thing, though. I don't get the obscene mud flaps. I've thought about this a lot, and I'm still not sure what message truckers are sending when their flaps are festooned with the silhouetted image of an ostensibly nude woman - and is there anything sexier than ostensibly nude? - in the classic upright and locked position, practically begging...to be splattered with mud.
Is the message for women? "If you're 102 pounds, disproportionately buxom, and ostensibly nude, I'm your man!" Or is it for men? "Hey, fellas. Check out my flaps. This is an accurate representation of what the women look like who regularly throw themselves at me when I roll in to the Stuckey's in Bucksnort, Tennessee at 3 a.m. Jealous? You should be."
I'll keep thinking on this one.
---
You've always heard, "Beggars can't be choosers." Not true. Some of the choosiest people I've met have been beggars. The other day at Sonic, Ellen asked me for some loose change after lifting her shirt to show me a bandaged wound. I offered her the chicken wrap I'd just bought for myself. She declined and reiterated her request for cash, which I was happy to give her.
A homeless woman in Monterey, California told me she never under any circumstances accepted food from people. Too risky, she said. More risky than starvation, I wondered. A guy I met on the corner of LBJ and Preston in Dallas one time told me he'd "made" a couple hundred dollars that day. I said, "You mean you've been given a couple hundred?" He said, "Same thing." He only had one leg.
---
Millions are spent on R & D in the area of kitchen cleaning utensils. There are times, though, when the only thing that'll rid cookware of caked-on crud is your fingernail.
---
The winners of official PGA TOUR events so far in 2005 are as follows: Stuart Appleby, Vijay Singh, Justin Leonard, Tiger Woods, and Phil Mickelson (twice). All are in the top 15 in the world rankings. If Mom was aware of this fact, she'd likely utter her trademark retort to any unusual feat in a sporting event: "It's fixed."
---
There are few times when a mother telling her little boy, "Here's an idea: you be quiet and I won't beat you" is funny. To the woman in 12B on the 6:59 flight from DFW to Abilene February 9: that night was not one of those times.
---
Anna Claire turns 3 next week. She's at a great stage in her language skills when certain words are uttered forcefully, if not accurately. She's all in to princesses right now, and one of her favorites is Sleeping Beauty. Except from her, it comes out "Seeping Booty." Which sounds like either something a contestant in the strongman competition might experience or perhaps a condition that prompted the pose struck by the mudflap floozy.
One thing, though. I don't get the obscene mud flaps. I've thought about this a lot, and I'm still not sure what message truckers are sending when their flaps are festooned with the silhouetted image of an ostensibly nude woman - and is there anything sexier than ostensibly nude? - in the classic upright and locked position, practically begging...to be splattered with mud.
Is the message for women? "If you're 102 pounds, disproportionately buxom, and ostensibly nude, I'm your man!" Or is it for men? "Hey, fellas. Check out my flaps. This is an accurate representation of what the women look like who regularly throw themselves at me when I roll in to the Stuckey's in Bucksnort, Tennessee at 3 a.m. Jealous? You should be."
I'll keep thinking on this one.
---
You've always heard, "Beggars can't be choosers." Not true. Some of the choosiest people I've met have been beggars. The other day at Sonic, Ellen asked me for some loose change after lifting her shirt to show me a bandaged wound. I offered her the chicken wrap I'd just bought for myself. She declined and reiterated her request for cash, which I was happy to give her.
A homeless woman in Monterey, California told me she never under any circumstances accepted food from people. Too risky, she said. More risky than starvation, I wondered. A guy I met on the corner of LBJ and Preston in Dallas one time told me he'd "made" a couple hundred dollars that day. I said, "You mean you've been given a couple hundred?" He said, "Same thing." He only had one leg.
---
Millions are spent on R & D in the area of kitchen cleaning utensils. There are times, though, when the only thing that'll rid cookware of caked-on crud is your fingernail.
---
The winners of official PGA TOUR events so far in 2005 are as follows: Stuart Appleby, Vijay Singh, Justin Leonard, Tiger Woods, and Phil Mickelson (twice). All are in the top 15 in the world rankings. If Mom was aware of this fact, she'd likely utter her trademark retort to any unusual feat in a sporting event: "It's fixed."
---
There are few times when a mother telling her little boy, "Here's an idea: you be quiet and I won't beat you" is funny. To the woman in 12B on the 6:59 flight from DFW to Abilene February 9: that night was not one of those times.
---
Anna Claire turns 3 next week. She's at a great stage in her language skills when certain words are uttered forcefully, if not accurately. She's all in to princesses right now, and one of her favorites is Sleeping Beauty. Except from her, it comes out "Seeping Booty." Which sounds like either something a contestant in the strongman competition might experience or perhaps a condition that prompted the pose struck by the mudflap floozy.
Casting Pearl Before Swine
By now, the Religious Right is on Red (Pink?) Alert over the news that an upcoming episode of a PBS kids show about a cartoon rabbit, Buster, features a same-sex couple engaging in the shamefully lubricious act of - hide the women and women - eating dinner. Personally, I've always felt public television's greatest threat to America's youth was Teletubbies.
As expected, every conservative organization, institute, and alliance from the Whigs to the Illegitimate Daughters of Strom Thurmond have decried this development as the latest incontrovertible evidence that the liberal media is leading America further away from the traditional values of places like Helena, Montana, and escorting our country instead straight to Helena handbasket.
But before we throw the bunny out with the bathwater, take note of the paean paid to Johnny Carson, who died last month. Did you see the footage of Johnny's song-and-dance number with Pearl Bailey? The year was 1964. Black-and-white wasn't just the way people watched TV back then. It was how so many of us lived, certainly when it came to race relations. When Pearl met Johnny that night 40 years ago, white men didn't dance with black women, not in polite company anyway. They just didn't. But there was the fully-integrated Carson - and, mind you, merely a budding comedian with a career to build circa '64, not the undisputed and eternal King of Late Night - gettin' jiggy with Bailey, so talented, so pretty, but so very...you know, black. You can still hear the echo of sets across the Deep South and other pockets of white superiority shutting off en masse at such an abomination.
Indeed while Carson fiddled four decades ago, Christian America still burned with the fire of segregation. Most of our fair schools, synagogues, and churches remained free from the scourge of socializing with Negroes. Christian college students who stayed up late that night witnessed two things on their TV screens they'd never seen on their campus:
1) a white man fellowshipping a black woman
and 2) people of any skin color actually dancing.
Instead of taking the lead in welcoming blacks into a lily-white world, God's people by and large were wallflowers while the entertainment industry asked the African-American community if it could have this dance. The Civil Rights Movement accompanied Carson's derring-duet in the mid-'60s, but here's guessing nothing in Washington had a more profound impact on normalizing integration than what was coming into living rooms outside the Beltway from television studios like Carson's in New York.
As with most of us, the entertainment world often misses the mark (see After M*A*S*H and any of the disasters perpetrated by erstwhile Seinfeld cast members). And it's not as if African-Americans have had it easy in Hollywood. Far from it. But Show Business gets it right a lot, too. Sometimes uncomfortably so. And on that night in 1964, Carson got it right.
For that, the least I can do is join Johnny's inseparable sidekick Ed Mc Mahon in offering a posthumous but hearty "Hi-oooooooooo!"
As expected, every conservative organization, institute, and alliance from the Whigs to the Illegitimate Daughters of Strom Thurmond have decried this development as the latest incontrovertible evidence that the liberal media is leading America further away from the traditional values of places like Helena, Montana, and escorting our country instead straight to Helena handbasket.
But before we throw the bunny out with the bathwater, take note of the paean paid to Johnny Carson, who died last month. Did you see the footage of Johnny's song-and-dance number with Pearl Bailey? The year was 1964. Black-and-white wasn't just the way people watched TV back then. It was how so many of us lived, certainly when it came to race relations. When Pearl met Johnny that night 40 years ago, white men didn't dance with black women, not in polite company anyway. They just didn't. But there was the fully-integrated Carson - and, mind you, merely a budding comedian with a career to build circa '64, not the undisputed and eternal King of Late Night - gettin' jiggy with Bailey, so talented, so pretty, but so very...you know, black. You can still hear the echo of sets across the Deep South and other pockets of white superiority shutting off en masse at such an abomination.
Indeed while Carson fiddled four decades ago, Christian America still burned with the fire of segregation. Most of our fair schools, synagogues, and churches remained free from the scourge of socializing with Negroes. Christian college students who stayed up late that night witnessed two things on their TV screens they'd never seen on their campus:
1) a white man fellowshipping a black woman
and 2) people of any skin color actually dancing.
Instead of taking the lead in welcoming blacks into a lily-white world, God's people by and large were wallflowers while the entertainment industry asked the African-American community if it could have this dance. The Civil Rights Movement accompanied Carson's derring-duet in the mid-'60s, but here's guessing nothing in Washington had a more profound impact on normalizing integration than what was coming into living rooms outside the Beltway from television studios like Carson's in New York.
As with most of us, the entertainment world often misses the mark (see After M*A*S*H and any of the disasters perpetrated by erstwhile Seinfeld cast members). And it's not as if African-Americans have had it easy in Hollywood. Far from it. But Show Business gets it right a lot, too. Sometimes uncomfortably so. And on that night in 1964, Carson got it right.
For that, the least I can do is join Johnny's inseparable sidekick Ed Mc Mahon in offering a posthumous but hearty "Hi-oooooooooo!"
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Rear Passenger
My 6-year-old Nicholas is all boy, which is good seeing as how he's a boy and all. His high testosterone level also helps explain his infatuation with the Strongman Competition that ESPN is currently airing approximately 29 hours each day. When you think about it, those contests aren't that different from a typical day in the life of a lot of 6-year-olds. Find heavy stuff, pick it up, move it somewhere else. In fact, those musclemen are really nothing more than a bunch of little boys. Except for the massive quantities of performance-enhancing drugs coursing through their veins. That and their raging hemorrhoids roughly the size of Paris Hilton...only not as disgusting.
Which brings us to an exchange I had with Nicholas on the way home from a friend's house the other night. (I'd record this always-entertaining backseat banter with my kids if I didn't think they'd grow up and successfully sue me for invasion of privacy.)
Nicholas was going on about how awesome these vowelly-challenged, Eastern European beefcakes were that he'd seen on TV that day. Mind you, he couldn't pronounce a single one of their names. Most of them look like something our 3-year-old, Anna Claire, would concoct if she commandeered the keyboard. In fact, I'm going to type in a bunch of characters right now without looking, and I promise it won't be that different than the names of these strongmen participants:
gjkakr#%#@@9959nq's
Sure enough, that very guy finished third on last night's show.
I told Nicholas and Andrew (who's two years older and interested in much weightier matters in life, such as when the next Power Rangers series will begin) that those guys work really hard to get that strong but that there are some negative side effects. I said, "One of the bad things that happens to some of them is really gross, but I'll tell you if you want to know."
Gross is a relative term, especially if the relative in question is your 6-year-old son. So I proceeded to explain the intense pressure that lifting heavy weights puts on one's digestive system - pressure that's roughly equivalent to the new half pound beef and potato burrito at Taco Bell - and how many of those guys will tell you that when they lift that much, it feels as if their plumbing is about to come out their - ahem - their drains. That led to a rather graphic discussion of hemorrhoids, after which Nicholas said very sincerely, "What's the gross part?"
Exactly. After all, what's a little butt barnacle when you're 6? Blood and poop are practically currency at that age.
And some never grow out of it. Which means you might one day see Nicholas competing in one of those Strongmen contests. Of course, he'll need to come up with a different name, preferably one with no vowels. Where's Anna Claire...
Which brings us to an exchange I had with Nicholas on the way home from a friend's house the other night. (I'd record this always-entertaining backseat banter with my kids if I didn't think they'd grow up and successfully sue me for invasion of privacy.)
Nicholas was going on about how awesome these vowelly-challenged, Eastern European beefcakes were that he'd seen on TV that day. Mind you, he couldn't pronounce a single one of their names. Most of them look like something our 3-year-old, Anna Claire, would concoct if she commandeered the keyboard. In fact, I'm going to type in a bunch of characters right now without looking, and I promise it won't be that different than the names of these strongmen participants:
gjkakr#%#@@9959nq's
Sure enough, that very guy finished third on last night's show.
I told Nicholas and Andrew (who's two years older and interested in much weightier matters in life, such as when the next Power Rangers series will begin) that those guys work really hard to get that strong but that there are some negative side effects. I said, "One of the bad things that happens to some of them is really gross, but I'll tell you if you want to know."
Gross is a relative term, especially if the relative in question is your 6-year-old son. So I proceeded to explain the intense pressure that lifting heavy weights puts on one's digestive system - pressure that's roughly equivalent to the new half pound beef and potato burrito at Taco Bell - and how many of those guys will tell you that when they lift that much, it feels as if their plumbing is about to come out their - ahem - their drains. That led to a rather graphic discussion of hemorrhoids, after which Nicholas said very sincerely, "What's the gross part?"
Exactly. After all, what's a little butt barnacle when you're 6? Blood and poop are practically currency at that age.
And some never grow out of it. Which means you might one day see Nicholas competing in one of those Strongmen contests. Of course, he'll need to come up with a different name, preferably one with no vowels. Where's Anna Claire...
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Cereal Offense
One of the things that makes America great is its dedication to the continued development of new and often sickeningly sugary breakfast cereals. I believe it's been our manifest destiny. Would the great chefs of Europe ever have come up with Mud N' Bugs? When was the last time your kids asked for Muesli? Do I even need to answer these questions?
Yet for whatever reason, only two cereals come in a remotely functional bag: Corn Pops and Smacks, both of which ironically had the word "sugar" in their names many years ago before people were aware of the damaging effects of sugar and also when kids were a lot healthier than they are now.
We can put a man on the moon and Ashlee Simpson in the Orange Bowl halftime show, but we can't get more cereals to use these partially resealable bags?
Listen, if you want to hear Larry James talk about the plight of the inner city or Mike Cope challenge the church to be more Christlike, that's fine. Just know that I'll be here, asking the questions everyone else is afraid to ask. Now if you'll excuse me, Count Chocula is waiting.
Yet for whatever reason, only two cereals come in a remotely functional bag: Corn Pops and Smacks, both of which ironically had the word "sugar" in their names many years ago before people were aware of the damaging effects of sugar and also when kids were a lot healthier than they are now.
We can put a man on the moon and Ashlee Simpson in the Orange Bowl halftime show, but we can't get more cereals to use these partially resealable bags?
Listen, if you want to hear Larry James talk about the plight of the inner city or Mike Cope challenge the church to be more Christlike, that's fine. Just know that I'll be here, asking the questions everyone else is afraid to ask. Now if you'll excuse me, Count Chocula is waiting.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
New Year's Leftovers
Seeing as how my last attempt at posting quotes went so well, here's another. This from Italian philosopher and novelist (The Name of the Rose) Umberto Eco. He's no Dr. Evil, but I found this provocative:
"I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us."
Think about the things you learned from your folks that they weren't necessarily trying to teach you.
My mom taught me that it's never a bad idea to have a couple of show tunes memorized. (If you can remember the choreography, even better.) And that a little chocolate goes a long way. But one of the most important things she taught me was that marriage isn't about getting your way but surrendering your will.
My dad unintentionally taught me that being late doesn't make you virtuous, but it does make you adventurous. He taught me to challenge the biological precepts of food refrigeration and that eating mayonnaise that's been stored in the pantry isn't a death sentence. But more than anything, by leaving show business and devoting the best years of his life to finding safe homes for at-risk kids, he taught me that the underprivileged aren't all there by choice. And that you're probably never too far from the will of God when you err on the side of mercy.
---
In less than 48 hours over Christmas Eve and Day, both Johnny Oates and Reggie White died. One after a long illness, one suddenly in his sleep. Both way too young. I had the privilege of covering both men as a sports reporter. Each was a deeply committed follower of Christ, though White was always more vocal (which perhaps explains why he was chronically hoarse). In an era in which sports figures' faith is so publicly professed, these two backed it up in private. Writing a 1997 article in Wineskins Magazine about Oates' epiphany in the bowels of Yankee Stadium remains one of the highlights of my career as a journalist.
---
Two words I want to use more often in 2005: laureate and shard. Honorable mention goes to mawkish.
---
With so much of the world's attention focused on relief efforts in areas hit by the tsunami, Playboy has announced you'll soon be able to download playmate pictorials directly onto your iPod. We all have to do our part. Thousands dead, millions starving or homeless. At least I have my pocket porn.
---
One of the undeniable joys of Christmas is giving gifts to loved ones that you really would like yourself, then commandeering said gift and playing keep-away. Got the Saturday Night Live Best of Will Ferrell DVD for Amy and can't quit rewinding the skit with Garth Brooks selling his soul to Ferrell's Satan in exchange for a hit song...except Satan keeps coming up with crap, and eventually the deal is scrubbed. Funniest SNL sketch I've ever seen.
Then there's the handheld Tetris game my sister gave Andrew. He's played it twice, me the hourly equivalent of four days. I now speak fluent Russian and suddenly have a taste for borscht, which, by the way, tastes really good after being left unrefrigerated for a couple of days. Thanks, Dad.
"I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments, when they aren't trying to teach us."
Think about the things you learned from your folks that they weren't necessarily trying to teach you.
My mom taught me that it's never a bad idea to have a couple of show tunes memorized. (If you can remember the choreography, even better.) And that a little chocolate goes a long way. But one of the most important things she taught me was that marriage isn't about getting your way but surrendering your will.
My dad unintentionally taught me that being late doesn't make you virtuous, but it does make you adventurous. He taught me to challenge the biological precepts of food refrigeration and that eating mayonnaise that's been stored in the pantry isn't a death sentence. But more than anything, by leaving show business and devoting the best years of his life to finding safe homes for at-risk kids, he taught me that the underprivileged aren't all there by choice. And that you're probably never too far from the will of God when you err on the side of mercy.
---
In less than 48 hours over Christmas Eve and Day, both Johnny Oates and Reggie White died. One after a long illness, one suddenly in his sleep. Both way too young. I had the privilege of covering both men as a sports reporter. Each was a deeply committed follower of Christ, though White was always more vocal (which perhaps explains why he was chronically hoarse). In an era in which sports figures' faith is so publicly professed, these two backed it up in private. Writing a 1997 article in Wineskins Magazine about Oates' epiphany in the bowels of Yankee Stadium remains one of the highlights of my career as a journalist.
---
Two words I want to use more often in 2005: laureate and shard. Honorable mention goes to mawkish.
---
With so much of the world's attention focused on relief efforts in areas hit by the tsunami, Playboy has announced you'll soon be able to download playmate pictorials directly onto your iPod. We all have to do our part. Thousands dead, millions starving or homeless. At least I have my pocket porn.
---
One of the undeniable joys of Christmas is giving gifts to loved ones that you really would like yourself, then commandeering said gift and playing keep-away. Got the Saturday Night Live Best of Will Ferrell DVD for Amy and can't quit rewinding the skit with Garth Brooks selling his soul to Ferrell's Satan in exchange for a hit song...except Satan keeps coming up with crap, and eventually the deal is scrubbed. Funniest SNL sketch I've ever seen.
Then there's the handheld Tetris game my sister gave Andrew. He's played it twice, me the hourly equivalent of four days. I now speak fluent Russian and suddenly have a taste for borscht, which, by the way, tastes really good after being left unrefrigerated for a couple of days. Thanks, Dad.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Ready For The Ball To Drop
With Christmas past and the new year encroaching, these reflections from Dr. Evil on the halcyon days of his youth probably speak to all of us in one way or another:
My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really.
I believe that riff by Dr. Evil in the original Austin Powers movie was inspired by the rarely-sung final stanza in the classic song from The Sound of Music...
Hot Rangoon summers and chilly luge lessons,
Burlap bag beatings in my adolescence,
Making meat helmets whenever it's spring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
This blog has been one of my favorite things in 2004. Thanks for stopping by, San Diego.
Happy New Year!
My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really.
I believe that riff by Dr. Evil in the original Austin Powers movie was inspired by the rarely-sung final stanza in the classic song from The Sound of Music...
Hot Rangoon summers and chilly luge lessons,
Burlap bag beatings in my adolescence,
Making meat helmets whenever it's spring,
These are a few of my favorite things.
This blog has been one of my favorite things in 2004. Thanks for stopping by, San Diego.
Happy New Year!
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