Tiggy Woo handles the competition like loose change

"I've been looking for an excuse to get down to Lemont, Illinois for a couple months now, so this worked out perfectly."


The BMW Championship (a.k.a. The Western Open) was this past weekend at Cog Hill, however it was two weeks ago that my buddy Kurt called me up with news of practice round passes for the Tuesday and Wednesday leading up to tournament play. We decided that the first day would have to be for scouting purposes almost exclusively since we couldn’t get there until noon, so we'd be getting the lay of the land for the Wednesday round. I was initially impressed with intricacies of the PGA Tour presence. It's a symphony of palm pressers and custodians sprawled out on a finely manicured and well respected golf course for a week with millions at stake. However, quite soon afterward, the main attraction becomes the primary interest. The enormity of the talent surrounding each entrant is acutely palpable. Astonishing shots in triplicate and a tap in for birdie on a 600 yard hole happen frequently. To be honest, it takes a while for that to sink in.

We arrived at 12:15pm and started roaming the course immediately since most of the players had already teed off, some off the course altogether. We planned our route for the following morning with a real tenacity. This was our gameplan for the Front 9: Follow Tiger from the 1st hole to his drive on the 3rd, then do a Pincer movement to the bridge in between 4 and 5, watch his drive bounce yards from our feet, then the approach, then cross the 5th fairway and walk to the single pine tree fifty yards in front of the green-side bunker, watch the entire 5th hole from this spot, watch most of the 6th from this same spot, then watch the entire 7th hole from the very same vantage as well, walk out 8 and 9 with the gallery following behind Tiger.


We ended up leaving our scouting round on Tuesday around 3pm, seeing some famous names but mostly getting familiar with the course. Truth be told, Kurt is a virtual PGA Rolodex, naming even the most obscure golfers from 60 yards without any problem. He knew histories, was familiar with individual skill sets and amassed a vast arsenal of anecdotes. He could usually identify a player further than 150 yards out by swing alone. So as you can probably tell, this was a pretty big deal for him. Once he got comfortable, I loved how he seamlessly began fraternizing with professional golfers,

"Good luck this week Charlie."

Charles Howell III looks up from signing his scorecard near the driving range, somewhat surprised to be recognized and acknowledged in such a fashion. He straightens up and with a genuine inflection replies, "Hey, thanks a lot."

Then Kurt gives him that "No worries" shoulder shrug and walks out the frame like he just solved a Rubik's Cube in 45 seconds and tossed it to him.

Cracked me up to no end for some reason.


WEDNESDAY

5:03AM - Kurt and myself park in a 7-11 parking lot across the street from Wrigley. Red Bulls and Big Gulps.

5:45AM- It is decided that although a bag of White Castle sliders my seem appealing at the moment, it would ultimately make us logy for the day ahead.

6:26AM - Arriving at Cog Hill public parking. Walking towards the course as the sun rises and the freshly-cut grass reaches upwards.

7:00AM - Watching the greatest golfer (most likely ever) hit a monster tee shot straight down the fairway into the pale murky ether with only 45 other souls in attendance.

7:01AM - Restating my assumptions.

Watching Tiger Woods play golf in person is an irreplaceable experience. I've played the video games, I've watched Masters on Sunday and I've seen the 60 Minutes special on him. Nothing truly prepares you for an up close examination of the most diligently calibrated golf game ever. I'm used to the intimate feel of a golf course, judging the angles and distances as they pertain to my ability. The lack of pressure whenever I draw the blade back is self apparent, because I can always take a mulligan and unbridled success is never an option. With Tiger, every movement is analyzed and every outcome is weighed. Kurt and I both agreed that PGA Tour golfers are playing a different game than us, but Tiger is on his own plane altogether. They all throw darts at the green, the difference is that Tiger has those titanium Sharper Image darts and all the other professionals have plastic darts jammed in a cork that can be attained by leaving your ID with the bartender.

Since this was a Pro-Am in support of the Evans Scholar program, three amateurs donated $7,500 each for the pleasure of playing a round with Tiger. We quickly decided to give these gentlemen names, personas and back stories:

Hustlin' Hank Kowalski: Orange hat, black shirt and a belly putter. He’s clearly the best amateur with a handicap that's probably in the single digits. Let's just say he owns a couple of lumberyards and leave it at that. He even hit a couple approach shots inside Tiger's ball, although he refrained from goading him on with taunts like, "Somebody’s Closer!". Probably a good move.

Howard Greenberg AKA The Wonder Jew with the One Iron AKA Ho-Jew: A dark blue shirt, a bit of a paunch and a surprisingly adept up-and-down save man. A crowd pleaser with his wily antics, continually attempting to interact with Tiger in varied nonchalant ways. Needless to say, Ho-Jew was easy to root for.

Mustache Steve AKA Momo: Mr. Yips settled down after the first couple of difficult holes to provide a very respectable back nine. We liked Momo because of his underdog status and his exquisitely coifed facial hair. He was undoubtedly the worst of the foursome, but we admired his moxie because we'd be a little thrown off to have Mr. Woods waiting on our shots too.


As the morning progressed, the gallery following Woods grew exponentially. The two dozen or so that walked that first fairway with Tiger grew to about 130 people by the 9th hole. I found the range of the group interesting: Chatty old men who are PGA regulars, 7 year old boys with their fathers, Waspy Waspertons, wise cracking black men, middle aged Asian women, etc, etc, etc... People sometimes slam global sports icons such as MJ and Tiger for being too bland and not using their elevated status to help influence positive social change. I think that's asking a bit much from these guys considering the fact that they chose to master the art of putting a ball in a hole instead of running for congress. What I do know is that these stratospheric superstars bring people from all backgrounds and creeds together. They provide us with stories for future generations. They remind us of the potential greatness we seek. Simply, they allow us to dream in a world sometimes clouded with nightmarish effects.

UPDATE: Tiger went 67, 67, 65 and a tournament low 63 in the final round to win by two strokes. He regained top pole position from an idle Phil Mickelson in the Fed Ex Cup standings with one event to go.

And now, your moment of Zen:

Prince Fielder/Brett Favre underdogs of greatness

You have asked for it, and it has so been made.

For me, this September has arrived with more at stake than any other that I can remember.

For the past 2 months, I have physically been unable to write more than a sentence or two about the Brewers. I wanted to at all costs avoid a post that with the theme of "unfortunately, my April prediction was dead-on...the Brewers of the 21st century fade around the All-Star Break...etc"

This time around was even worse, not simply because they were losing games, but because: 1. they blew a 8.5 game lead since that time and 2. in an absolutely ridiculous amount of those games (20 or so) they have blown a lead of 3 runs or more (this includes "Aramis Ramirez game", where they held a 5-0 lead early and lost 6-5 on a walkoff job in the bottom of the 9th. If the Brewers fail to win the Central, this will be the game that you've gotta point to as the seminal moment for their collapse.)



Since that time, and before their latest homestand, they have been 20-35. Knowing that they probably should have won at least 7-10 games during this period and those games will be the difference between possibly losing the division and comfortably clinching with a week left in the season is something that we, collectively, need to put behind us.

The emotional mindfuck notwithstanding, it has served as an unbelieveable prologue to the most exciting divisional race in baseball. Exciting, not only because three teams are within 1.5 games of 1st place, but also because the Cubs and the Cardinals have played stretches of baseball that have been almost as perplexing as the Brewers and no one team can monopolize on the frustrating ineptitude of any of the others (i.e. the Cardinals have just dropped 2 of 3 at home to the Pirates and the Cubs have had ample opportunity to slam the door on the Brewers during the last few weeks in August). Milwaukee plays 10 at home and 13 on the road to finish the season (against relatively mediocre competition and including a critical home series against the Cards in the final week) and given their mini-surge to begin September, I am more hopeful than ever that I will have the opportunity to pee my pants no later than October 1st.

Every year since Mike Martz (who, because he molests collies, should be investigated for cruelty to animals as well) and the Greatest Show on Turf replicated Custer's performance at the Little Big Horn, the NFC has appeared to get worse and worse in quality. When the New Orleans Saints seem to be the consensus pick to represent the NFC in the Super Bowl (and when in the same breath its concluded that the AFC champ will cut off 'zeir johnson), we know that the age of dominant teams in the NFC has passed. Gone are the Cowboys, 49ers, and Packers of the 1990s (and to a lesser extent the Rams and Eagles shortly thereafter).

This is fantastic news for the 2007 Green Bay Packers. A team that was picked to finish with 4-5 wins last year due to having a "shitty" team on paper actually finished a respectable 8-8 and, had Giants defense buckled after puzzling* 4th quarter playcalling by Tom Coughlin against the 'Skins, they would've been a playoff team.

Logic would follow, that this year the Packers should be even better. The defense looks as strong as it has been since the Minister of Defense retired, the offense seems to have a more clear idea of how to execute its game plan, and most importantly (for me, anyway), I think this is the year that Brett Favre will be his most focused.

I know that my hero-worship and apologism for Brett has been borderline homo-erotic (ok, maybe not even borderline), but I wouldn't discount this as a critical factor in sparking a brief Packers renaissance. He's gotten is beef with the organization out of his system, he is even more committed to winning this year because he was closer than ever to retiring after last season, he has more experience with the coaching staff, and I think he won't feel the burden of carrying the team as much. As we all know, the desire to make the unbelieveable or impossible play has become a subject of mockery of late. I simply don't think you'll see as much of that this year because of a combination of a mental adjustment made on his part and because the team will be better as a whole. These statements may seem to be preposterous and lack justification, but I am incapable of thinking rationally about Brett. I have a crush on him and will probably get his salt-and-pepper stubbled face tattooed on my back like he is Jesus** or something. There'll be a whole post devoted to this later, don't worry.

Finally, the Packers have 4 games against the Lions and the Vikings. That's 4 wins right there. The Lions and the Vikings are an embarrassment of their former selves and to the NFC North. They will both go 0-14-2 (clever, eh?) and will then be immediately contracted.

Anyway, if the Packers aren't one of the best 6 teams in the NFC by the end of the season, it will have been one of the most disappointing letdowns that I will have ever experienced in sports.

The end. I'll have a less whimsical commentary by Saturday or Sunday morning, but I'm at work right now so this post is more of a coping mechanism for me to make it through the day without throwing my coffee mug against the interior faux brick wall or urinating on the carpet in our file room.


*by "puzzling", I mean "mentally handicapped" or "really fucking retarded"

** yay, Jesus

Liverpool Highlights... just because

Quick Hits

- I attended the Cubs/Brewers game last night much thanks to Brandon and his blue wristband baller tickets that he got in the drawing in March. We sat in the Upper Deck directly to the left of the Press Box which was a new perspective for me. I've probably watched 15 games from the Wrigley 500 Level in my life, but always flared out along the sidelines toward the foul poles. I enjoyed this new vantage, mainly because no seat at the Friendly Confines provides the same experience as another. Every chair in that building has it's own tread in your mind, every section has it's own personality. That being said, the surroundings of "Section 517, Row 7, Seat 4" were...... rowdy.

- This statistic is courtesy of Bleed Cubbie Blue: "Over at Baseball Prospectus on Monday evening, Nate Silver, perhaps presciently, noted that Milwaukee had, through Sunday, blown 13 leads of three runs or more (and nine of those from July 28 through August 26)."

- My favorite thing about keeping score during a game is what you ultimately do with the scorecard. I've only kept 2 scorecards in my life: The first Interleague game played at Wrigley against the Brewers and Carlos Zambrano's complete game, five hit, ten strikeout effort against the Astros on 8/17/03. The rest of them I usually just leave it there, finished or otherwise. I sometimes stop after the 7th or 8th inning and redirect my attention towards cheering, usually by then we're into the bullpen and you run out of space after four pitchers. Though sometimes, after a deluge of runs by the other team in the 5th or 6th inning causing us to fall woefully behind, I'll dramatically tear up my scorecard and throw up my hands in utter futility. You never know.

-USA Basketball is extremely entertaining right now. I highly recommend it.

- I've heard Yi Jianlian's name mangled numerous times by three different Chicago sportstalk radio personalities this morning after news of him signing with the Bucks hit the wire. This was usually followed by laughter and a snarky "whatever". Seriously, it takes 30 seconds to look up the pronunciation on this guy (EE jee-AHN-lee-AHN). If you're not going to do that, don't basically mock him for having a name that is difficult for you to verbalize. And for the record, it's pronounced Don-ah-FEE you lace-curtained half-an-Englishman.

- Lance Briggs, don’t sweat it. I careen my $350,000 cars off the side of the Edens at 3:15am and leave the scene of the crash all the time. The good news is, we can rebuild KITT. The bad news is, you are not Pauly Shore and this isn’t a Ja Rule video. You cannot do “whatever you want”.

A draft day in the life of Max Cohen (of Pi fame)

Max spends his early hours haunted by the possibility of the perfect draft. He stays tucked away, hunched over his computer, Euclid, in his dimly lit apartment on the edge of Chinatown. Grafting number systems, creating new running back prediction software, looking for a ghost in the machine. This is his draft day:


7:45 AM

Sitting in a nearby park on a bench surrounded by a swirl of delicate garbage. Max is furiously typing away on his laptop looking for sleeper ratios while calculating his opponents drafting tendencies on a round-by-round basis. His cell phone rings the MNF theme as he fishes it out of his pocket, eyes never leaving the computer screen.

His mentor, Sol, is on the line,

"The draft is at 5 o'clock today, you must learn to calm the mind and relax. It's been a month, Max, you haven't taken a single break!" Sol is earnest and loving with his plea.

"But I'm SO CLOSE," Max emotes after a thoughtful pause.

10:00 AM

Millie, Harriet and Blanche are jostled during their daily mid-morning stroll around the block when they see Max feverishly tearing through a full-to-the-brim trashcan on the corner of Essex and Grand. He's screaming obscenities and muttering something about the Larry Johnson Matrix.

Suddenly, his body becomes rigid with self awareness as he acknowledges the old women and their palpable disgust. Max attempts to disarm this situation but, due to his lack of human social contact, comes off more of a wandering vagrant than before:

"I just threw out something and I didn't realize that I needed it. It's just a printout," he explains calmly. Then, correctly sensing that he is getting no sympathy, barks at the old women, "I LOST MY DATA!"

1:30 PM

Max is on the roof, surrounded by binders of depth charts and 3rd down efficiency statistics, rocking back and forth. He takes a mental inventory to himself as the wind plays with his already mad genius hair:

“Failed treatments to date: Beta blockers, calcium channel blockers, adrenalin injections, high dose ibuprofen, steroids, Trager Mentastics, violent exercise, cafergot suppositories, caffeine, acupuncture, marijuana, Percodan, Midrine, Tenormin, Sansert, homeopathics. No results. No results...”



4:30 PM (30 minutes before the draft)

The ending of a phone conversation between Max and Sol:

Max: "...So, MAYBE, even though we're not sophisticated enough to be AWARE OF IT, there is an underlying order...a pattern, beneath every 'Go' game. Maybe that pattern is like the pattern in the stockmarket, like in NFL Football. The two sixteen number."

Sol: "That is INSANITY, Max!"

Max: "OR MAYBE IT'S GENIUS! I have to get that number!"

***CLICK***

6:54PM (moments after the final pick)

Max walks outside and is immediately mobbed by a group of well wishers and admirers. They want to congratulate him on the perfect fantasy draft and buy him a beer. They want to talk to him about how he got such great value even after the 13th round. They yearn to know the secrets so that they might win their own fantasy leagues.

Max cuts through the crowd, yelling with a fiery purpose, "Damn it already! Stop following me. I'm not interested in your money. I'm searching for a way to understand our world. I'm searching for perfection. I don't deal with mediocre materialistic people like you!"

MLB and NFL collide

My favorite part about mid-August is the striking dissemblance between pennant race baseball and preseason football. I've spent the last 4 ½ months completely absorbed in the MLB landscape (with minor hiccups being the Bulls playoff run, Shark Week and the twelve hours I boycotted the Cubs after they fell to 22-31 on June 2nd) to the point where I'm lost without at least 10 minutes of boxscore perusal a day. My brain is all queued up with baseball knowledge just waiting for the appropriate conversation "in" so I can release my thoughts on topics such as why Sweet Lou left Clifford Floyd in to bat with RISP during the late innings of a recent game against a lefty pitcher with nobody warming up in the pen, then subbed Matt Murton in defensively for Floyd the very next inning anyway. Cliff has an .285 OBP against lefties over the last 3 years compared to Matty’s robust .404 OBP (not to mention a .916 OPS) against southpaws. I usually bring these thoughts up in front of attractive women who I've just met, so as to remove even the infinitesimal chance of me seeing them naked.

At this point, the crack of the bat is therapeutic with every shot in the gap representing a step closer (possibly) to playoff greatness. The psychology of an early advantage is now recognized and acknowledged with the proper perspective, aided by a vast catalogue of data on how each team augments, keeps or (in the Brewers case) painfully forfeits a lead. For every fan who still has a team in the ring with a punchers chance, September baseball looms large...

...But wait. Madden 08 is hitting stores tomorrow... and... brace yourself... they've tweaked it slightly and made some minor changes... which appear to... IMPROVE ON LAST YEAR'S VERSION!?!?! Wait a second, is that... is that John Facenda I hear in the distance? Holy crap, the NFL preseason is here! Please excuse my sloppy laughter, I'm eternally giddy right now at the possibilities. This is all too much for me right now... Is it O.K. if I break down in tears when those NFC Champion Bears take the field? Now you're telling me there's more? Fantasy football drafts for the next three weekends? Fine, I'm doing a manual shutdown of my brain. I can't juggle my love for NL Central drama with the NFC Norris reset to all square. It's like simultaneously starting your favorite book while watching the final thirty minutes of your favorite movie (only for some reason you have selective amnesia and you aren’t aware of the greatness of either yet).

On second thought, what the hell:

The Cubbies bats have recently become ice cold (with the exceptions of Jacque Jones, Jason Kendall, Matt Murton and Mark DeRosa) and key injuries (Soriano and Ramirez) are slowing the offensive surge that was the cornerstone of the successful two previous months. Our starters have a combined 5.86 ERA for the month of August and our "closer" has given up 5 ER in his last 6 IP. All this being said, I'm not worried. We're only a 1 ½ behind the first place Brewers despite playing hapless baseball the last 10 days. Baseball is cyclical, after all, and for that reason I see both teams (the Brewers and Cubs) priming themselves for a furious finish. Shitty baseball happens. The character of a strong team endures.

The Bears look (on paper) like a much improved offensive team. Greg Olson will be a top flight tight end for the next ten years. Benson is a strong, tough-nosed runner with depth behind him (Adrian Peterson and Garrett Wolfe, trust me on this one) and a chip on his shoulder. Muhsin Mohammed, Bernard Berrian, Mark Bradley and Rasheed Davis make up a receiving crops that had the lowest percentage of dropped passes in the entire NFL last year. An experienced O-line that has played together for a few seasons, anchored by 5-time Pro Bowl Center Olin Kreutz. For good measure, we'll have Devin Hester running around causing havoc... and we have a quarterback as well... a couple of them, I think. Mix that in with another stingy defense and even with a tough schedule I could see another January game in Soldier Field this year.

At this point, I’m exceedingly optimistic. I'm just waiting for Ben to rain on my parade with his "Prince Fielder/Brett Favre underdogs of greatness" rant in which he bashes Chicago sports fans for being self-important on a level that rivals Bostonians in their obnoxiousness. But because I shudder at the thought of Chris Farley being compared to Jimmy Fallon on any level, I'm going to move on. It only seems logical that with the sports world at the apex of events right now that I'm venturing east this Friday for a long weekend in Hoboken with my esteemed colleague, Benny C. The roughly 57 hours I'll be there will be spent having multiple sessions of Madden 2008, EPL games with Irish breakfasts, Father/Son-like Folgers moments "having a catch", a fantasy football draft and, of course, NHL 94 on Genesis. If Ben still has a girlfriend after she witnesses this condensed version of "UVA Ben and AK" replete with malt liquor and bum wine, then she gets my complete and encompassing respect and blessing.

92 hours and counting...

The Wilds of Montana

I'm all packed and leaving in a couple minutes for the annual King family trip to Montana. I plan on fishing, drinking, playing horseshoes, playing cribbage, teaching my 4-year-old nephew how to effectively utilize a swim move and shooting hoops with TK... all of which will be nicely broken up by frequent catnaps. I'm also going to a Missoula Osprey game (single A ball) so I'm sure I'll have some impressions to share on that. I'm bringing two books as well, one about Charles Darwin and the other about Philosophy and Baseball. I'll be back on Sunday, but I'm going to have a lot of downtime to write and reflect. I'm not entirely sure, but my drunk fingers will most likely find the keyboard in the tiny hours of the night for some broad, splashy piece about the cosmos... and sports... somehow.

Mahalo.