Besides the fact that CBS waited until after the 9-minute mark of Saturday’s AT&T Pebble Beach Pro-Am broadcast to finally show a PGA Tour player hit a golf shot, being a professional golf fan is pretty darn easy.
I would rank it somewhere just above hosting “Deal or No Deal” and just below being the guy who has to answer this question:
“Would you like to play Pebble today with Gisele Bundchen?”
I bring up Tom Brady’s girlfriend for reasons other than her ability to grab the attention of us commoners.
Actually, Bundchen and I have something in common: We both currently root for the same
GQ cover boy, through good times and, like two weekends ago, bad.
Only one of us was born within 50 miles of what is now Gilette Stadium and only one of us is currently listed in the Guinness Book of World records as “World’s Richest Supermodel.”
But Giselle and I are both Patriots fans, and not once over the next 400 words or years do I expect you to feel bad for us.
All I ask for is understanding. Even from East Rutherford.
• • •
Watching your team lose a Super Bowl is worse than watching baby penguins lose their heads on “Planet Earth.” No matter how many times you’ve won before.
Listen. I’ve sat on my parents’ couch through 1-15 seasons. I’m an absolutely loyal fan, across the board:
• I’m sure Eli Manning is a nice guy, but I’m not happy for him.
• I defend Bill Belichick’s personality.
• I downplay Spygate.
• I don’t have “an NFC team” that I root for.
• When the New England Patriots played the Indianapolis Colts last year during the regular season, I benched Peyton Manning on my fantasy football team and lost.
• Come to think of it, I shouldn’t have even drafted him.
Accordingly, I can’t remember one commercial from last week’s Super Bowl broadcast. I recall some idiot spitting fire at a cat, but not the hawker.
I was too nervous. Too busy nervously eating Tostitos by the two-handfuls, a severely nauseating condition that:
1.) Probably leads to spitting fire at cats.
2.) Golf will never recreate.
The only nerves I felt this weekend were for the nonchalant Pebble Beach spectators who forgot that Dan Marino doesn’t swing as straight as he used to throw. (Why anyone would stand around a green during that tournament without an umbrella or motorcycle helmet is beyond me.)
I don’t really have a favorite golfer. Sure, there are guys I support for various nonsensical reasons, but I don’t remember ever publicly talking trash about Scott Verplank’s Byron Nelson victory last year because I like the way he steps up his game for Ryder Cups and President Cups.
Once Vijay Singh hit the back nine Sunday, I was in his corner. I’d started to convince myself that after Phil Mickelson’s playoff loss last week, it would be “pretty cool” to have the Big Fijian pop up and beat Lefty to the winner’s circle in 2008.
Tiger may even blink, I thought.
Next thing I know, a guy less famous than Danny Gans pitches to 5 feet and makes Vijay say “Uncle.”
Steve Lowery? Hmm. He looks like my uncle. That’s pretty cool. I can definitely shoot free throws better than him. I’m hungry. I wonder if I have any chips and salsa left.
That’s how fast golf fans turn.
I don’t care if you’re the biggest Tiger Woods fan on the planet (and, of course, this theory doesn’t hold for family members, close friends, etc.), when Angel Cabrera ended up winning the U.S. Open last year, there’s no way it ruined your day. You may have even thought, “Wow, Angel looks really happy. Good for him.”
You may have thought, “Why did Jim Furyk hit driver on 17?” and then flipped to the Cubs game.
You may have thought, “Do I really have to wait
another major for him to pass Nicklaus?” and then went out to cut the grass.
What about last year’s British Open? I’ll admit I was rooting for Padraig Harrington, and only because I like Guinness.
But even while Harrington’s Titleists were jumping over bunkers and burns and bridges, my hands weren’t on my head or my stomach. I definitely enjoy watching majors just as much as Super Bowls, but I was probably chuckling.
I probably said, “Wow, crazy.”
If, after Larry Bird stole the ball, Dennis Johnson had actually missed the layup to lose to the Detroit Pistons in Game 5 of the 1987 Eastern Conference Finals, I – or, well, my father – would not have said, “Wow, crazy.”
I wonder what Giselle would have said.
Posted: 2/11/2008
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