Monday Mulligan No. 7

PGA Tour Pro Rickie Fowler, the over-saturated swashbuckler with a golden 51-degree wedge, captured his first tour win this weekend at the Wells Fargo.  Not only that, Sunday’s Sir Citrus beat the current golf golden boy on the press’s pedestal, Rory McIllroy, number one stick slasher in all the world (with a hot tennis player girlfriend too…in case you missed the forty references).

All this show needed was a damsel in distress and a talking dragon.  The locks, the legend, the palette, the pomp, and the enthralling circumstance seemed more like a lavish epic fairy tale than a gritty professional golf tournament.   Gone are the days when a Hawaiian shirt would pop eyeballs or a bearded face draw frowns and head shakes.  Mark my words, in another 15 years, the players will be wearing helmets, Speedos, and body paint (with their sponsor’s logo, of course).  Ben Crane is certainly ahead of the curve.

Add to that lavish mix, the gravel allergy-shredded voice of announcer Gary McCord.  Aye, matey, ’twas a sight to be seen, it was.  Surreal.

Please, do this for me, Google “Webb Simpson and Nick Watney.”  If there are 50,000 articles that somewhere mention how Nick stayed at Webb’s house during the tournament, it would still be 100,000 less times than the CBS and GolfChannel commentators mentioned it with obsessive fascination and incomprehensible giggles. Creepy.  And don’t they realize we heard them the first time they mentioned it?  I mean, please, dear god, spare us the reps.  I mean it, I beg you.

So congratulations, Rickie.  I am proud of you and you’ve given me a new reason to wear sunglasses inside.

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