Ho-hum. The golf season is over for us at CBS, and it's time for other sports. My head is completely full of golf knowledge at this stage, so I'm having it emptied, in order to make room for football. In between, I'm tossing in a little tennis for good measure. I just got back from a weekend in New York with she who must be obeyed, and baby Erin. On Saturday, we went to Arthur Ashe Stadium to hang out with the CBS crew, and watch the action at the U.S. Open. I really wanted to see Pete Sampras vomit, but apparently that hardly ever happens. Already I was learning stuff.
As I already suspected, John McEnroe is a god. That man could start a fight in an empty room, and I think, now that I have basically retired for the year, he is the best announcer still working. I should be making the rules for golf, and he should be in charge of tennis. Bill Macatee can coordinate the clothing. If you put John and I together, it would be a no-brainer -- although that's probably not the way to put it.
John misses wooden rackets, and I miss him. Tennis used to be so much more interesting when he and Nasty, and Borg, and Connors were around -- or is that just me being a complete (you fill in the blank)? I enjoy the ladies' game more now, except when Richard Williams shows up. Maybe I'm just being sentimental, which would be a little unusual to say the least, but it does seem to me that technology has done a lot more to harm tennis than it has to golf.
It's everywhere though, even after the event. How about these new dope tests for athletes? Personally, I think that they could have saved themselves a lot of bother by making the ingestion of banned substances into an exhibition event for the 2000 Olympics. You know, who can do the most before their heart explodes? I miss the days of the women's discus when, you never knew, a pair of (think lower not higher) could pop out of the old leotard on the follow-through.
There's no suspense like that any more, but still, I can hardly wait for these Olympics, especially the swimming. They all have these new full-body swimsuits, made of wee swimmy molecules that make the water whoosh by quicker. How long can it be, I asked myself the other night, roughly two-thirds of the way through a bottle of Chateau Margaux, before a swimsuit finishes before the swimmer who was wearing it? I can imagine Bob Costas and the underwater camera shots of that one.
"And he's on world record pace, as he turns for the final length."
"Oh look, he's got a little rudder Bob!"
"That's not a rudder, and his swimsuit has struck for the front!"
"I guess the water is a little on the chilly side Bob."
It probably won't happen, and we're not going back to wood in golf, or in tennis either. Just for laughs, a little while ago, I took out one of my favorite persimmon drivers for a few holes. Bad idea, as I hit it short enough, and far enough sideways, these days with the oversize metal. Ah, progress.