Break 'em Up

The sun came up this morning. The coffee percolated and we breathed a sigh of relief. Our golf clubs were still with us. Phew! We had awoken from a dream in which some rascal stole our gear out of the cart when we were sauntering down the fairway looking for our ball. He left us our wedge and putter in the correct belief that we had used up all the good shots God had granted them.

When we gathered all the suspects at a dinner table in the grill room, it became obvious who the culprit was. Too obvious. It wasn’t the mustachioed sandbagger with a sly sneer on his lips. It turned out the club pro, resplendent in Nike logos, had swiped them because he wanted us to buy another set from him and take another lesson.

Aha! we exclaimed, as we petted Asta, kissed Nora, mixed a martini and watched the flat-footed detective take the son of a gun away in handcuffs.

Essentially, didn’t certain Wall Street banks sell us certain sets of clubs with the expectation that we would lose them to a purloiner and thus have to pay for another? It was a contract in which the golfer finds that the seller has collected the insurance because he had another contract predicting with assurance you would lose the shiny Titleist blades. Heads I win, tails you lose, and you are left with two clubs that have spent their usefulness.

President Obama is slated to speak today at Cooper Union in New York, the same venue at which Lincoln argued that the republic had the power granted by the founding fathers to prevent extension of slavery into the western territories.

But Mr. Obama’s address will be pointed at a different kind of plantation owner asserting his “rights” – not the Southern demand that an owner of human chattel be assured the privilege of taking his slaves into whatever jurisdiction he chose, but the Wall Street clamor to indiscriminately create trading opportunities for its own benefit at the expense of the public contract.

Blankfein and Dimon must yield. Tea Partiers and latte-sipping Park Slopers at least agree on this: “Break up the Yankees!”

Meanwhile, take the Phillies every time Roy Halladay is on the mound.

The Credit

There are missed chances and then there are missed chances.

Aging Mr. Posada fails to glove a pitch and his New York Highlanders fall to the rival bloody ankles of Boston on opening night. Oh well, one hundred and sixty-one games to go, and Mr. Posada will catch again tonight.

Young Mr. Hayward of Butler launches a half-court last-gasp shot that just rims out and the Dukes of Hazard claim the NCAA Division 1 men’s championship. No rematch, but at least the Bulldogs covered the spread (for entertainment purposes only).

It makes one wonder how old and young men handle failure. Mr. Posada has World Series rings galore in his jewelry box and will likely get another. He’ll be fine.

Meanwhile, Mr. Hayward will probably replay that last three seconds in his head to the grave. But he earned a place in sports history.

“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly,” wrote Teddy Roosevelt (OK, Dick Nixon quoted him, too).

The credit. Raise your head up, young man. Mr. Posada of the Highlanders will catch pitches from Mr. Burnett, who isn’t exactly simpatico with his battery mate, in their second game of the year tonight (take the bloody ankles tonight for entertainment purposes only).

Mr. Hayward, however, will find a cure for cancer, if not the common cold or financial derivatives. Even if he doesn't, he can know he was valiant.