The Women's British Open & Tiger Woods

On Friday I shivered along with the ladies playing golf (working golf?) at Donald Trump’s Turnberry course in the Scottish home of golf. The wind was up near 30 mph, rain was sputtering off and on, and the temps were in the 50’s with the wind-chill probably in the mid-40’s. Brrr! Chattering teeth. The ladies looked like snow bunnies in their winter garb—bulky suits and jackets, ear muffs, mittens, stocking caps and ski masks. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that some of them had Zippo hand-warmers in their pockets. The traditionalists were all scrubbing their hands and licking their lips and chortling to see this links course showing its bloody teeth. “Oy, yis,” they’d purr, “this is how golf should be played. Na trees, na lakes, joost lovely patches a gorst ‘n’ pot bunkers ‘n’ bumps ‘n’ lumps ‘n’ humps. ‘N’ lotsa wind off the Irish Sea. That’s joost the way we like it. Noonna that sissy stuff they have in the U.S. Y’ know, green, tree-lined fairways, mirrored ponds ‘n’ lakes, warm, windless days. Nah, that’s just a game fer sissies.” It seems to me that links golf relies too much on luck to find winners. Who gets the best bounces off those lumps and bumps? Who gets the best tee times regarding the changes in wind and weather? Nah, give me Augusta National or Jack’s Muirfield Village. That’s what golf should be all about. I’m also watching the PGA event being played this weekend, the Quicken Loans in Gainsville, Virginia. Again, we have a Tiger tournament, and millions of us are watching to see if and how and when Tiger spits up on his shoes. He began on Thursday just like he’s begun too many times already, looking like a spastic pussycat, bogeying three of the first four holes. And we all watched the train-wreck carnage beginning to bleed out. And then, miracle of miracles, he pulled it together and looked like the Tiger of old for the last fourteen holes, shooting a respectable 69. He followed that with an even more miraculous 66 on Friday, not only to make the cut but to be within three shots of the lead. Whoa, can this be where he turns it all around and he wins the Quicken Loan to force his way into the WGC-Bridgestone, which he’ll also win, then go on to win the PGA Championship at Whistling Straits? Or will he revert to this year’s version of Tiger Woods, the tired has-been who can’t find any fairways, can’t make any putts, can’t get up-and-down from off the greens? The jury is still out. He still has this crucial Saturday and Sunday to contend with.

I never thought I’d get to use the word “penultimate” in any of my writing, but here it is. This blog post is my penultimate post, my 999th. But it will be my penultimate only if I decide not to write any more, not to write anymore. Isn’t that an interesting pair of words, “any more” and “anymore?” They’re a little like “all together” and “altogether,” enough to drive any sane man completely nuts. I was never completely sane, so I can’t really go completely nuts.