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Sunday, May 13, 2007
Mother’s Day was Mickelson’s day
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Furman Bisher
Ponte Vedra, Fla. — While Tiger frittered, Lefty sizzled. Sean didn’t have a lot of fun. The Spanish Armada put on a charge. The defending champion missed the cut by a mile. In the long run they still played for The Players Championship at The TPC Sawgrass and the winner was Phil Mickelson.
He was not greeted by his usual committee of family, but doing his victory stroll down the 18th fairway, Mickelson got in his own Mother’s Day greeting by television to his happy family in San Diego. So, in a way, Lefty found his way back from that crushing finish at Winged Foot, where he sliced the U.S. Open title into oblivion. It will, of course, reflect on his new relationship with Butch Harmon, once upon a time counsel to Tiger Woods, who, after a 9:25 a.m. starting time was winging away to a point unknown long before the leaders teed off.
It was lousy breaks on the greens that brought him down, he said.
“Tired of hitting good putts and having them lip out,” he said in his benediction to even-par (288) finish. Another way to look at it, good putts go in the hole, they don’t lip out. Woods’ game has never caught fire in this tournament. He has won once, in 2001, but except for one other year, he has never finished higher than 10th.
It was Mickelson’s day, his week, for he was on or near the lead from Thursday forward. You never saw as many leader changes in a tournament as this. Six players led Saturday, but the one who prevailed was Sean O’Hair, 24-year-old native Texan, thin as a 2-iron, boyish as Andy Griffith’s Opie. Sitting there with a one-stroke lead after the Saturday round, he said of facing off with Mickelson, “I just want to go out there and have some fun. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”
And it was, until he and Mickelson, the last twosome left on the course, reached the infamous 17th hole, the island green. Mickelson safely on, O’Hair’s first tee shot was long, wild and wide. Splash. His second, from the drop zone, found the water also. The fun was over. By the time he got the ball in the cup, he was charged with a quadruple bogey, slipped from 10-under to 6-under, over and out, $740,00 by snap calculation. Say this, though, he wasn’t daunted.
“This course fits me. I think I’m going to win here. I’m not going to let this get me,” he said, a rather emboldened reaction to such a crushing collapse. Whether he was exorcising the demons that infected his swing at the 17th, or was making public a personal pledge, it was more impressive than a shower of tears.
With Woods off the stage and in retreat, the show was Mickelson’s. The galleries were in his corner. He played an even-tempered round of golf in 69 strokes, following three rounds of 67-72-69, and the 72 was probably the most impressive of the three. Nothing sensational, just steady, full speed ahead kind of golf that restored much of the glitz and glitter that slipped away with that awful self-destructing finish at Winged Foot.
O’Hair was an unrelenting challenger — “I didn’t bust my butt for four days to get second place” — but one after another others fired across Mickelson’s bow. First, Jose Maria Olazabal, back again after a birdie attack Friday, then the other Spaniard, Sergio Garcia, who eventually wound up second to Mickelson. Just a little earlier, the Atlantan, Stewart Cink, blazed around in 66 strokes, joining Olazabal at 280, and a tie for third place and a big hunk of this $9-million pot.
There is not much more to say about Mickelson, except to say that apparently his recovery is complete. With Woods, Jim Furyk, Retief Goosen, Ernie Els, all the big guns in the field, he covered them all. Four days in this steely atmosphere brought out the best in the best left-handed player, now the second-ranked player in the world.
Oakmont, sight of this year’s U.S. Open, here he comes.
Permalink | Comments (6) | Categories: Furman Bisher
Time for Selig to come out of hiding
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Jeff Schultz
As inglorious history approaches, baseball commissioner Bud Selig continues to display the most dominant character trait of his tenure.
He stalls.
Nobody is quite certain what he’s waiting for.
A smoking syringe on YouTube?
A breakthrough moment for Barry Bonds with Dr. Phil, leading to sobbing, repentance and retirement?
Blessings from the heavens (Ruth) and the earth (Aaron)?
Not happening. We are way into the inevitable stage with Bonds, even if it has been six days since he last homered. Ten more home runs and he ties Hank Aaron. Eleven more and he claims the most cherished record in professional sports.
Meanwhile, baseball’s high-ranking sock puppet remains uncommitted on attending.
Great time to develop a conscience.
Bud Selig was named “acting commissioner” in 1992 when Fay Vincent resigned and took the soul of the office with him. Six years later, the owners removed the “acting” part of Selig’s title because, well, they knew Bud wasn’t going to do anything, anyway.
In short, Selig, a former owner, has had an executive view of this sport’s underbelly for decades. When baseballs began flying out of stadiums like Superballs, when players like Brady Anderson morphed into statistical cartoons (from 16 home runs to 50?), when Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa did their best to obliterate memories of Roger Maris, Selig and owners didn’t investigate. They wore blinders in the light and counted ticket sales in the dark.
Now Bonds is on the verge of becoming the home run champion — and Selig doesn’t know if he should attend? The man should be duct-taped to the San Francisco Giants’ charter.
Never mind waiting until Bonds is only a swing away from tying Aaron. Selig should be there now. He should be made to watch Bonds’ every swing. So should anybody who ever allowed this era’s chemically enhanced assault on history to take place.
Every owner who focused on turnstiles and dollars.
Every TV executive who counted rating points.
Every union representative who stiff-armed cries for mandatory drug testing.
Watch.
Suffer.
Drink it up, like a hemlock smoothie.
Selig is struggling with this, partly because of his longtime friendship with Aaron, dating back to Milwaukee days. How unfortunate, yet deliciously ironic, it would be if Bonds breaks the record in Selig’s hometown June 18, 19 or 20, when the Giants visit the Brewers.
If Selig can’t sleep these days, there are ways to pass the time. Read every page of every transcript of every deposition he can obtain from the BALCO investigation. Watch highlights of Bonds’ 73-home-run season in 2001 at the age of 37, more than double what he hit two years earlier (34). Prepare a dramatic reading from, “Game of Shadows,” to be performed nightly during the seventh-inning stretch.
Personally, I don’t care whether Aaron is in attendance for the record. It’s his choice. He doesn’t owe the sport or anybody anything. He should not feel compelled to witness this, just as no athlete or public figure ever should feel compelled to take a stand on anything. It’s their life.
Aaron just wants peace. Let him have it.
But Selig is different. He represents baseball’s hierarchy. To go into hiding now after being front and center and mute for years seems even more disingenuous than usual.
Bonds is the poster-child for the steroid era. That’s slightly unfair because he was (or is) hardly alone. Other hitters recorded obscene statistics. Other pitchers suddenly grew titanium arms, some of whom Bonds probably homered off of. But Bonds is the standard for infamy because unlike, say, McGwire, he is still playing and he’s about to make history.
Sunday was a day of rest for Bonds. But Selig’s head still hurts. He is hoping for a miracle — manna from above, or at least George Mitchell. He wants something tangible, anything, for a legitimate reason not to board a flight.
But this is baseball’s freak show, and Selig should not be allowed to hide from it. He can always crawl back under the rock when it’s over.
Permalink | Comments (58) | Categories: Braves / MLB, Jeff Schultz
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