An amazing finish to the British Open yesterday. We could discuss the battle between two guys who had recently lost a parent and how much emotion was involved. We could tackle Tiger’s amazing birdie-birdie-birdie response when Chris Dimarco got close near the end.
We could kick Hoylake in the head for 100th time for being ugly and uninteresting. We could take on that fatherhood rights group for throwing purple dyed flour onto the 18th green to get their message out. (What message? That purple dye leaves a nasty stain?)
We could blather about how you shouldn’t win a major when you use a driver only once in 72 holes.
I was thinking Phil Mickelson’s mediocre showing might spark discussion here about whether the US Open collapse has messed him up. Jim Furyk is all the way back from his wrist surgery in ’04, now the third best player alive. Sergio Garcia is tragically colour blind.
So many story lines. Yet, because I’m so horribly shallow and one dimensional, you know, like most guys, I can only think of Elin Nordgren (suddenly pronounced Ee'-linn). Not only was she patiently waiting for Tiger but so was her twin sister.
You know, my wife has sisters. If I were in a sporting event, her sister would spend the day shopping and hook up with us later. But no. Elin’s twin sister was right at her side, unescorted. Both of them waiting for Tiger. Yes. Waiting.
How’s it goin’, Tiger?