Golf The Longest
Day by Bill Hogan
THE LONGEST DAY.
October 4, 2002
by Bill Hogan
Not much can rouse me out of bed before dawn on the
weekend. The high-pitched whine of the burglar alarm
- inadvertently set off by a moth fluttering in front
of a motion detector. The baby crying (if my wife's
out of town or in a coma). The disturbing ring of the
telephone which, at that hour, could only be bad news.
And the Ryder Cup Sunday singles matches. 4 a.m. the
alarm goes off and I slap the snooze button. 4:20 a.m.,
there it goes again. And again at 4:40, at which point
my wife rolls over with a flying elbow and a terse (as
well as anatomically impossible) suggestion for what
I should do with the alarm clock.
Two hours 'till sunup, I guess it's time to roll out
of bed. (This would have been a good time to remember
that the 4-year-old is camping out on the floor and
last night would have been a great time to close the
doors on the Armour.) After successfully navigating
past the boy and a minor run-in with the Armour I stumble
into a Lego minefield strategically placed in front
of the bedroom door. (I thought those things weren't
supposed to have sharp edges).
But it's all worth the effort to be able to watch the
Ryder Cup team beat up on the Euros. U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A.
Unfortunately, the coffee hadn't even finished percolating
before Colin Montgomerie polished off Scott Hoch.
A couple of more European wins and I could hardly eat
my toast. The only bright spot early on was David Toms
(momentarily) silencing Sergio Garcia with a one-up
win.
By the time the rest of the family awoke, the outcome
had been determined, Tiger's match was rendered moot
and the bacon was burnt (I ate it anyway). I dragged
myself out of bed in the middle of the night for this?
Phil Mickelson – second only to Tiger –
gets thumped by a guy whose world ranking is only slightly
higher than mine? A man who numbers winning the Guam
Open among his greatest golfing accomplishments and
spends much of his time counting the months until he's
eligible to play on the Senior Tour? C'mon, Phil –
gimme a break, will ya.
To top it all off, I have to watch Sergio do the Spanish
mambo down the eighteenth fairway and it's still too
early in the day to crack a beer. So I settle for a
bowl of oatmeal with a couple of sausage patties on
the side.
Then it's out to the front yard for a quick game of
tackle football with the boy before the start of the
NFL games. Who knew that a forty pound pre-school kid
would be able to deliver a blow so vicious it could
make a grown man weep? With my lower back in full throb,
I lumber gingerly to the couch and ready myself for
ten hours of football coverage. (The satellite dish
is truly a wonderful invention – pass the potato
chips).
Then before I can digest my meatball hero, the Rams,
Dolphins and Saints are dispensed with faster than Hoch,
Sutton and Calcavecchia were six hours before.
A few hours later, count the Patriots and Giants among
the victims of the dreaded underdog. And who would have
thought the Eagles wouldn't cover against the expansion
Texans? It's almost enough to make me push away my meatloaf
(with brown gravy, creamed corn and mashed potatoes).
Five o'clock - and I know for a fact that the Vikings
are going to get their first win against the lowly Seahawks.
Eight o'clock and I'm wrong again – but the chocolate
pudding is delicious.
Sixteen hours of sports and I'm still looking for a
winner (and a spoon for my ice cream sundae).
I turn to the one sports channel where I know there
will be no surprise outcome – ESPN Classic. Maybe
I can catch an old Magic-Bird NBA Championship match-up.
I'll look up the final score in my trusty sports almanac
and root hard for the winning team.
Not today, this day of upsets. Instead I am reminded
by ESPN Classic and Wesley Snipes that "White Men
Can't Jump".
It's time to weave myself back through the Lego gauntlet,
safely past the Armour, over a sleeping mini Dick Butkus
and crawl into bed.
And only then did I realize I must come to grips with
yet another upset – my stomach.
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