Is it my imagination, or is golf being taken over by the anorexic? Of the entire field at the Mercedes, only Hal Sutton could be described as, “not thin,” and even he isn’t close to fat. Why, even Mark Calcavecchia has gotten thin, the scoundrel. Davis Love has a little bit of a Nelly Kelly going on there, but he’s still tall enough to look like a one-iron that swallowed a golf ball.
Where have all the fat guys gone? People like Tim Herron and Big John Daly are becoming an endangered species out there, so much so, that I think we may eventually have to have them darted, crated up, and sent somewhere to see if we can breed them in captivity.
But really, Jack used to be tubby, Casper, and Ed “Porky” Oliver were positively spherical, and Julius Boros, and Lionel Hebert both loved their grub. There’s five corpulent competitors off the top of my head. We had exactly none in the field last week. Maybe we should give everybody a cart.
Off and running would be a fair description of Sergio Garcia, I suppose, after his victory in the season opener. Running, jumping, skipping, gripping, gripping, gripping stuff. I’m led to believe the little ratbag may be scribbling in the mag too, along with that other sniper’s nightmare, Charles Howell the third of my weight.
Just when they thought they were done with homework. We’ll see how they’ll shape up now that they’re journalists. It’s the first step on the slippery downward staircase toward stretch marks and mediastinal shift, let’s hope.
Tiger’s not exactly obese, but he’s looking positively tubby by comparison to the new wave, most of whom would fall into their boxers if they lifted their arms up. Something needs to be done before a caddie accidentally puts a headcover on his player, and sticks him in the bag beside the 3-wood. I’d write to the commissioner about it, if he didn’t weigh 140 pounds with his glasses on. I think he’s in on the conspiracy.
There is some kind of liposuction going on in the fitness trailer or something, which might be why they don’t allow the media in there. (Of course, most of the media wouldn’t fit in there.)
Thank God for announcers like Roger Maltbie, Peter Alliss, and me. Real men, with breasts, who have the decency to feel rotten most mornings, who always wear a shirt, and never, ever sunbathe. Just yesterday I took the skin off the roof of my mouth with a corn chip smothered with molten cheese. When was the last time David Duval did that? (Actually, one of the really annoying things about David is that he eats like a seagull, so he’s probably not a great example, but no matter. I’m trying to piss off skinny people here.)
One of the great things about the game of golf, which sets it apart from other professional sports, is that the people who love to watch the game, are still actually involved in playing it, so they can identify with the players. It used to be that in the galleries at PGA Tour events, the big guys wearing the chili dogs, had someone to point at, and felt an affinity.
These days, they have to watch an LPGA event to get the same warm feeling, and I don’t know what it is, but there’s something not right about that. (Not that it makes them bad people, mind you.)