My rapidly disintegrating interest in professional golf is obviously tied in large part to the Tiger meltdown that started last Thanksgiving with him wrapping his SUV around a tree after firing off one too many texts to his collection of unseemly broads. I make no apology for the fact that I watched tour events largely to soak in the majesty of Tiger in top form. I had no problem with the networks' decision to continue covering Tiger even when he was 10 shots off the lead, as he was still more likely than anyone else to produce an insane shot, not to mention actually inject some life into the otherwise stodgy galleries.
Nonetheless, I stand ready and willing to watch some entertaining golf, even if Tiger's not going to be the one to produce it. Give me some sweet shot-making, a power swing, and (please don't forget this part, aspiring golf "super stars") a non-robotic course demeanor, and I'm in. Instead, major after major is being won by also rans who can be reliably counted on to fade back into the mediocrity that their game demands.
Louis Oosthuizen, winner of the 2010 British Open, and apparently less interesting that whatever is on the television
So knowing all of this, I steered clear of this past weekend's PGA Championship entirely. Until, that is, I returned home Sunday afternoon just in time to catch the final hole. How I wish I hadn't done that, for the mere 20 minutes I watched still has me infuriated a full 24 hours later.
More to come tomorrow in Part II...
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