Phil's Got A New Fan

I've never been much of a Phil Mickelson fan. He's a nice enough fella and a talented golfer, but he's never fired up much enthusiasm in me. 

As of today, I'm a fan.

Yeah, you guessed it. I've been one of the legion of Tigerites, hooked on the prodigious drives, laser-like approaches, and other-wordly putting, but the Masters provided more than enough evidence that when it comes to character, Phil wins in a romp.

Tiger put on his best face, contrite and uncharacteristically warm, and proceeded to put up three good rounds that left him within what would normally be striking range. Okay, I thought, maybe he's turned over a new leaf.

It didn't last.

On the 13th hole Tiger skied his drive and his f-bomb tirade was captured in high definition. On the next hole he

had four feet for birdie that would have left him close to the lead. He missed it, missed the two-foot par putt, tapped in for bogey and stonily walked to the 15th tee. Gone was the warmth, the humanity. All that was left was the greedy child that is Tiger Woods.

Meanwhile, Phil was calmly assessing his chances from the woods on 13, deciding in typical fashion to attempt a 205-yard shot off the pine needles, through the trees, over the pond to the linoleum hard green. Bingo.

The main difference between the two? Tiger was alone. Phil had family. Phil played courageously, emotionally, driven by the memory of truly awful year his wife has had battling breast cancer. 

And when he'd won and reached his wife by the scoring house, Phil took her in his arms and cried. CBS can be forgiven for replaying the tear streaking his cheek in slow motion.

Golf's a mysterious game but I'd dare say this much is true. Every golfer plays not only with his or her talent but with their whole life. Phil had a team. Tiger was alone. It was no contest.

Die Happy by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Glass Houses

Here comes Tiger. What looked to be a lengthy hiatus turned out to be a 144 day look-repentant-and-get-ready-for-the-Masters blip in the TW continuum. Maybe we should have seen it coming. Maybe you did. I didn't.

Yesterday, Billy Payne, master Masters spokesman, gave a press conference which ended with a strange diatribe about Tiger's transgressions. He lectured philosophically about the great disappointment caused, both for this and future generations.

Why is it we feel like this is the stuff of public discourse? Doesn't it make relevant the sexual behaviour of every member of Augusta National? Shouldn't Mr. Payne have to answer to his own fidelity, now that he has called out the one golfer who brings more attention, and dollars, to his organization than any other? What business is it of his?

I love the Masters as much as anyone. I'll watch it end to end. I'll dream of someday playing a round there as I have since first laying eyes on it. I'll defend the place when critics decry its refusal to admit women. But this arrogance is too much. I stopped going to church when the hypocrisy of church leaders became unavoidably obvious and I certainly don't need Billy Payne to step into the void.

Any married person knows the pitfalls of fooling around. We also know the benefits, no matter how great the temptations, of being a faithful spouse.

I'd like to put one question to Mr. Payne. Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife?

Die Happy by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Pace of Play

Golf on television has never been wildly popular. Finding an audience that thrills to the sight of someone measuring a five-foot putt has always been a thankless challenge. Even Tiger, who single-handedly doubles ratings, can't lift them beyond a cooking show, and when he's absent they instantly plunge right back to the bottom of the pool.

Which is why I ask, can the PGA survive Jim Furyk? 

I'll say it for the record. I like old Jim. I admire the strange swing, the slightly grouchy demeanor, and the grind-it-out workingman's approach to the game. He shows up, goes about his business with a minimum of antics, and regularly finishes at or near the top of the leader board.

But this routine that has him eyeballing a putt from both sides, caddy swapping positions like a dance partner, then standing over the ball as if ready to hit it, then stepping away and repeating the entire choreography, then addressing the ball again and then waiting . . . waiting . . .

Excruciating is not too strong a word. Paint dries with more inherent entertainment value. You can almost hear the network pulling out their dwindling gray hairs, the 60 Minutes clock ticking, as he waves his putter three, four, five times beside the ball, seemingly summoning the courage to actually put it in motion.

Tiger's brief self-imposed exile comes to an end in a mere seven days. The unsavory questions will inevitably flow and the camera will, as it does whenever he is within a mile of a tournament, remain on him whether or not he's in contention. And however painful that strange fascination may be, remember, it could be worse.

And please, Jim, could you pick it up a little?

Die Happy by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com