why this, oh lord?

You know, it’s kinda funny: I’m basically completely uninterested in professional sports. I grew up in the midwest, and absorbed the obsession with college and pro football that’s basically part of the elementary school curriculum there, but the older I’ve gotten, the less time it’s been allowed in my life, and really since moving to New York five years ago, that’s been none at all: I found out that the Yankees had won the 1999 world series because there was a ticker-tape parade outside my office, and that’s been about typical.

Which is not, for the record, to turn my nose up at them, or at people who follow them. The athletes themselves are beautiful mutants, operating on a totally different physical plane than the rest of us mortals, and I can completely see how that’s compelling to watch. Ballet or the NBA, it’s just a matter of specialization. And as much as I reflexively poke fun at, say, obsessive baseball stat memorizers, I figure that as someone who can still, after years of deliberately trying to erase the ability with copious consumption of illegal drugs and alcohol, rattle off obscure british sci-fi television trivia in my sleep, I don’t actually have any real grounds from which to scoff. Compulsive consumption of serial entertainment and its peripheral metadata? Guilty as charged, just a different branch of the industry. I just happened to fall off the athletic fan wagon a while back and never bothered to get back on.

Anyway, I bring this all up only to highlight the irony of the fact that as long as I’ve been keeping this little notebook here, I believe I’ve mentioned professional sports exactly once, and it was in relation to a sport that of all the professional sports out there, is probably the one that interests me least of all. And that includes curling, bowling, hurling, cricket, X-TREME rock lifting, professional bodybuilding, ice dancing, midget tossing and synchronized swimming: I speak, of course, of golf.

And now, I’m going to mention it again. I’d make disclaimers that you shouldn’t construe this as, you know, interest, but looking at the evidence, I gotta wonder who I’m kidding. This is probably some sort of posthumous genetic revenge from my maternal grandparents for years of my annoying lifestyle: somewhere, out there, there’s a plastic visor, a pair of monstrously bad nylon pants, some dorky shoes and an 8 A.M. tee time with my name on it. Hell, I already like martinis. I’m obviously doomed.

Anyway, all that prologue for: this. Still disappointed that Annika Sorenstam didn’t make the cut in her attempt to crash the PGA tour? Well, you’ll be happy to know that the mad scientists at Gifted Prodigy Labs, Inc., have already turned out the new model: she’s six feet tall, can drive a golf ball 300 yards and shoot 6 under par. Oh, and she’s 13 years old. Fear her, a lot.

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