Whose Woods These Are, I Think I Know

It turns out that Eldrick Woods is just like you or me. OK, he has a little more do-re-mi, no love handles and is able to escape from impossible lies to make par with a panache that perplexes we triple bogey fellows. But stuff happens -- even to the world’s best golfer. The best a man can get? We’re clean-shaven, too, but fall far short of expectations. We missed a patch of whiskers on one jowl the other day and felt the sting of imperfection.

Mr. Woods, after all, is just a man. As much as we wish not to revel in celebrity gossip, it is impossible not to look away from the billionaire with a flaw, though his swing and putting stoke are, dare we repeat, the best a man can get.

Only Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jack Kennedy remain in our pantheon of stainless heroes. Well, Jackson, a college professor, superstitiously sucked lemons while leading his corps, Lee ordered the calamitous charge against Cemetery Ridge, and JFK had a dalliance with the gal who crooned “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

Charles Barkley and John Daly can laugh at themselves. Mr. Woods, apparently, can only kiss his wife, children and dogs in photo-ops. Not that Mr. Woods is required to do so, but Messrs. Barkley and Daly lead this sporting life and accept it for what it is.

Which leads us to the conclusion that we are all sinners and have tales that are easily punctured. In one way or another, we all have had someone angry at us for our sins chasing us with a metaphorical seven-iron.

Let’s hope we get off with a $164 fine and enough left over for the greens fee at a muni track, which we will attempt to conquer in a few hours.

Korea, Greece and Ireland

Yin and Yang were on the Hazeltine golf course today in Minnesota. The red-shirted one had yin but no yang, striking the ball with characteristic panache, but taking the name of his father Zeus in vain when his ambrosia-fed muscles failed to make putts sink as they should. Doesn’t Tiger mean godlike in Greek?

I know how you feel, Eldrick. Well, maybe not exactly, because my six- and ten-footers succeed with such rarity that my partners and the foursome behind us look on with shock at a brown leprechaun dancing around the green when his Titleist dips into the cup.

The unflappable Y.E. Yang, on the other hand, had both going for him. The South Korean flag with its yin-yang motif was a suitable symbol for his game down the stretch. You can’t have one without the other if you expect to win, in life or in golf. Scoring an eagle on the par four 14th to take the lead, Yang curled a 200-yard shot on the 18th with a hybrid club and sank the birdie putt to claim the victory while Mr. Woods, probably doubtful of his Olympian heritage, slouched toward Orlando as television cameras predictably followed him first after his bogey putt on 18.

Yang, dressed in all-white like a lamb to the slaughter, didn’t get the memo that you’re supposed to sweat when teamed with Woods when he has a 54-hole lead in a major tournament.

Meanwhile, Padraig Harrington did a favor for all of us weekend duffers by singing “Frosty the Snowman” on a par three. To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart, Patrick Moynihan said. I’m sure mine will be broken this week on some par three when I don’t have my yin and my yang.

They Don't Write 'em Like That Anymore

“Green grass ‘round my window
Young leaves that the wind blows…” (Green Grass, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, 1966).

Oh fuggedaboutit. Kev’s trash-strewn Brooklyn thoroughfare sprouts nothing but vile rap lyrics at decibels that make us want to join the NRA, secure a shotgun and blast several engine blocks while blaring Petula Clark from our cute little Sony boom box. “Don’t sleep in the subway, darling,” would be our “hasta la vista, baby.”

But we realize it’s a free country. We ended our popular music infatuation around 1969, extended by a Steely Dan and Allman Brothers habit in the 1970s, and so acknowledge we have become a cranky old man standing athwart history and yelling, Stop! Yeah, I’m feelin’ groovy all right.

Let’s be clear. We’re usually an optimistic sort, and will return to that sunny clime soon enough. For now, we slog through a slough of despond, imploring Miss Market and our zen-like putting stroke to return. Anthony Kim and Hunter Mahan must be going through the same thing, watching the red-shirted master of the universe roll in a 20-foot putt on 16 for the winning margin. Not to mention Andy Roddick, whose serve wasn’t broken until the 30th and final game of the fifth set at the All England Club. As a wise friend of mine has noted, guys like Eldrick Woods and Roger Federer “command the elements.” The rest of us must live with our imperfections. They are legion. Roddick’s defeat was foreshadowed as early as the second set, when he flubbed away a 6-2 advantage in the tiebreaker. Mahan’s 62 was only a tease. He foolishly warmed up on the range for a playoff.

The “green shoots” rally now must face the earnings reporting season beginning this week. And the employment data – not only the payroll losses but the shrinking workweek – point to a different kind of recovery. “Broke, disgusted, agents can’t be trusted,” as the Mamas and Papas intoned (told you we are trapped in the sixties), the American consumer isn’t going on a spending spree this time around. Don’t buy the market. Stick with what we used to call on Wall Street, “special situations.” PALM, NVAX, F, and consider airlines now that oil prices are fading. We’ll be looking for others and will report back.

Luckily, the Hess station next door saves us 45 cents on cigarettes. But we think we’ll soon have to start rolling our own.

Here's Johnny

“I hold in my hands the envelopes. My 4 ½ year-old daughter Katherine Mary could tell that these envelopes are hermetically sealed. They’ve been kept in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnalls’ porch since noon today. NO ONE knows the answers inside these envelopes, but you, in your mystical and borderline divine way, will ascertain the answers without even knowing heretofore the questions. Isn’t that correct, sir?” (Ed McMahon, courtesy of a CNN video).

“May an incontinent yak spray your poppy fields with ayatollahs.” OK, I made that one up, mixing up all sorts of mysterious visitors from the mysterious East while channeling Johnny Carson.

Mr. McMahon has gone onto his eternal reward, another sign that we baby boomers are limping to the finish line. Seems like yesterday that Leno slid behind the desk, only to yield it to O’Brien. When will St. Peter welcome the rest of us? It is certain he will, hopefully far into the future.

Just as certain is failure on the golf course. Fan-favorite Mickelson, Come-back kid Duval and Ricky Bobby (nee Barnes) had a chance to claim the United States Open Championship at waterlogged Bethpage, only to fall short on a Monday blessed with sunshine now and then. At least they replenished their Vitamin D requirement, in short supply these days in old New York.

Rather than conquest, failure was the motif at the public course in Nassau County, or is it Suffolk? I live in Kings County, on the same sliver of turf jutting into the Atlantic, and, as insular as I am, remain ignorant of political boundaries. Mr. Glover, hitting fairways and making putts, was far more much in touch with the ground beneath him than Kev, whose muddy, horse-barn smelling sneakers are still drying out.

‘Twas a day to remember. Saw Tiger Woods, not that big of a guy really, in all his glory. If he hadn’t teed off early on Thursday, he probably would have won. We shouted Boomer Sooner to fellow son of old OU and British Open champion Todd Hamilton, who responded with the Tuck Fexas gesture that is treasured on Commerce and Elm Streets in Dallas in October while the swells live it up in the Adolphus Hotel and throw TVs out the windows. Saw the ferocious, yet calibrated, swing of Bubba. And from merrye olde England, Mr. Fisher acquitted himself well.

All of this meant a day away from Miss Market, who refuses to be charmed. Our delicate relationship is, well, delicate. As is Kev’s baseball picking ability. Blew three games last night, one on a walk-off home-run. Oh, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts! We will bounce back, of this Kev is sure.

More importantly, there’s a softball game tonight in Prospect Park. We’ll laugh if we triumph and do the same if we smell the camel breath. Kind of like McMahon.