And so ends another chapter in the ongoing saga of Eldrick Woods: The Cult Figure Who Can’t Win The Big One.
I mean, Other Than The 14 Other Big Ones That He Actually Did Win.
Yes, the Masters came and went, and Woods finished with a tainted fourth-place tie (and yes, I meant for that to seem as idiotic as it does). I mean, that’s how silly it gets now. He screws up a rule, some friend of a guy from the PGA rules committee sees it on TV and rats him out, but nobody can decide which rule it is he covered in spit, so he ends up finishing four strokes behind Adam Scott and Angel Cabrera instead of two strokes behind Adam Scott and Angel Cabrera.
The difference is $192,000 in prize money, but now that the applause for Scott and the admiration for Cabrera has subsided, we’re back to Woods, and the fevered overanalysis of his chances of winning the U.S. Open at Merion in June.
So let me preview it. Yes, he’ll be the favorite. No, he won’t win. But he won’t win in less contentious style, so that we can do it all over again at the British Open at Muirfield, and again and again until – Groundhog Day! – he ends up winning a major again in 12 years, a la Jack Nicklaus, with his son on the bag, a la Cabrera.
And then, he’ll just be another lovable old coot flailing one last time at Time Itself, with a wink in his eye and a smile on his face.
Just we’ve always pictured him.
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And why couldn’t it have been Lindsay Vonn’s ex-husband who ratted him out to the PGA? He joked about it on Twitter, which is the first place you go for sober analysis and sentiment, but that would have been the best thing ever.
Which, by the way, is always your cue to remember the Sixth Rule Of Sensible Living: When someone says something is “the best thing ever,” you must as a matter of social convention spit on his or her shoes to remind him or her that, except for the one thing that is the actual “best thing ever,” nothing is the best thing ever.
We’ll send you the other five rules as soon as we figure out how to get this stupid broken cork out of this bottle of Rag Top Red – The Ideal Adjunct To The Breakfast Of Champions.
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Carlos Quentin is, by all accounts of those who know him, a splendid if tightly-wrapped fellow, but that doesn’t prevent us from chastising him from dropping his appeal of the eight-game suspension he got for bull-rushing Dodger pitcher Zack Greinke last week. We were all looking forward to him trying to slip into a game unnoticed in the San Diego Padres’ upcoming series in, yes, Los Angeles.
And I speak for every lousy hateful one of you when I say I hate it when cooler heads prevail.
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It’s Jackie Robinson Day today in Major League Baseball, which is also the day when all 30 major league owners make sure they pay almost zero dollars in taxes. One was indisputably good for baseball, the other is indisputably good for the business of baseball.
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The Arizona Diamondbacks actually have a policy that forbids fans who sit in their prime seats right behind home plate from wearing the opposing team’s gear. I don’t care what their explanation is, either; they should simply be ashamed. If Ken Kendrick, the team owner, wants to make sure that team gear will be worn behind home plate, he should sit in the seats himself. Or pick a lucky Arizona season ticket holder to sit in the seats for each game. Or take the seats out and put in a cigar humidor.
Or in the alternative, stop being Jeff Loria. And yeah, we meant every word of that one.
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And finally, here’s to Doug Collins, who just resigned as head coach of the Philadelphia 76ers, in part because his team missed the playoffs because Andrew Bynum played zero of the available 3,936 minutes the 76ers had given him because of an injury.
That said, if Bynum had played a lot, Collins would have . . . oh, the hell with it. He’d have quit because of migraines. You know it. I know it. Bynum knows it.
In other words, Collins would have quit, or he would have quit. Hardly makes this such a great news story now, does it?