Dear Readers, were you as thoroughly disgusted with the numbers of commercials that interrupted Sunday's Memorial PGA golf finals as I was? One of the nicest things about watching golf on TV is it's peaceful transitions from the T to fareway to green with few interruption except for the calm and subdued voices of the commentators.
I have recently become a fan of golf playing and watching coinciding with my first feeble attempts at this frustrating sport, and I take back anything I ever said about golf not being a sport. I don't think I have ever seen a golf shot as difficult as the one Tiger made on the 16th to cinch his lead. Let's hope Tiger has finally conquered his demons and will go on to surpass Sam Snead's record of 82 PGA tournament wins. What a great athlete he is.
Speaking of sports commentators. What in the world does Shaq add to the EJ, Kenny Smith, Charles Barkley triumvirate? Sir Charles is far funnier and Kenny more knowledgeable. All I can tell that Shaq does is add to the now interminable guffaws and confusion that prior to Shaq's arrival was manageable and endurable. I haven't heard one interesting insight into the game of basketball yet from Shaq. And all the back and forth between him and Charles is finally annoying and distracting. Adios Shaq and EJ. I'm tuning in to ESPN's Magic, Barry show for real basketball talk.
Despite my desire to see the "old guys" the Celts and Spurs win, I'm fascinated by a Heat Thunder match up. I'll be pulling for the Thunder. I like the steady and smart way they drafted and traded their way to a championship team. Mind you, I'm not against a bunch of good players getting together to play ball, but it's a bit like stacking the deck, isn't it like those playground days when all the best players chose each other so they could kick everybody else's butt and stay on the court.
Lots of ball players heading to the big game in the sky recently: Jack Twyman and Orlando Woolridge. To them I dedicate this poem. Not the most uplifting, but very interesting.
The Advantages of Being a World Class Athlete by Anthony Lacavaro
In the end when the doctors circle around
Like doctors, they can find nothing wrong,
A perfect body they murmur over
And over like a prehistoric discovery,
Nothing wrong, nothing wrong except it's dead.
There will be no reason for this tragedy
Which catapults your death into the world
Of public myth: were you too good
for us, did they take you, or were you not
Of this earth to begin with and just returned.
The results of the tests say nothing about it,
Though one of the doctors speaking
Out of turn, will say softly,
"One foot appears to be larger than the other."
