Robservations: Sure, but I’m not that bad
|
You leave them for five days, and all of a sudden, everybody’s a comedian. Allow me to quote Dale Stubblefield, the Don Rickles of the “B” section, from his Wednesday opinion piece:
“I’m sure Rob has been hitting the course while on vacation, and I’m sure he has left his mark on a few courses around the mid-state this week.”
How nice. The boys are thinking about the ol’ Friendly Neighborhood Sports Editor while he’s away.
But wait! Let me continue:
“Who knows, maybe Rob reached his dream of breaking 100 for 18 holes.”
What? Was that an offhand comment at my expense? By Jove, I believe it was.
Mr. Stubblefield, who hasn’t so much as picked up a club in over a year, is questioning my prowess on the links.
Well, to answer this unprovoked attack, let me tell you how I spent my summer vacation — a vacation diary, if you will.
Saturday: While Dale was figuring out which Security Federal Tennis players would go on which page, I was busy playing in a charity scramble. Granted, I was the “C” player, but still, I helped us card a 9-under 66 and bring home the second-place trophy.
That’s right, a trophy. Where’s Dale’s trophy?
Sunday: Hacked it around at the Smithville Golf Club, while Tiger was capturing his victory at Bethpage Black. Took home a 99, and a stiff shoulder.
By the way, that’s not a misprint. I said a 99.
Tuesday: Got rocked “Like a Hurricane” by Scorpions at Amsouth Amphitheater (with an incredibly good-looking escort, I might add), and found out firsthand Deep Purple really should rest on the laurels of its past hits, and not play live anymore.
(Just an aside here, but why do lead singers of rock bands insist on grabbing a tambourine, or stepping up to the conga drums, or doing some other rhythm-section inspired thing during their concert? I mean, no one can hear them, so what’s the point?)
Anyway, where was I?
Oh, yeah.
Wednesday: Began reading Dale’s piece, thinking it would be a quality column on Tiger Woods, then realizing it was nothing more than a set-up: not meant to praise Woods’ game, but instead to mock mine.
“Why, that dirty so-and-so. I’ll show him,” I thought aloud.
Wednesday afternoon: Back to the Smithville Golf Course, with a new goal — throw a scorecard in Dale’s face.
Wednesday evening: Reflect on my newly-shot 96, and come to a pair of realizations:
One, I’m probably as good as my hacking carcass will ever be; and two, this whole scenario would probably make a good column for the Friday paper.
Well, OK. Maybe not a “good” column. But at least a “darn-near finished” one.
• While we’re on the subject of golf, and since Mr. Stubblefield touched on the topic of dominance in his last piece, let me just say this.
I love, love, love that L.A. won the NBA championship. And I love even more that Tiger Woods held on to win the U.S. Open Golf Championship.
Why, you ask? I’ll tell you.
Because I, like many Americans, find dominance exciting. I love to see just how much better than everyone else the Lakers are, and I love to watch Tiger blow through the field like they weren’t even standing there at a major golf championship.
Why do I love it? Really, there’s only one reason.
I love to see the frustration on the faces of the “also-rans” that compete against these dominant forces. They’re so chapped, because they believed in their hearts they had what it took. Close, but no cigar.
Bless their hearts. I can’t help but wonder, though: Will that be the way Dale feels, when I drag him out on the golf course?