Hey, how 'bout them Rams, huh? They're 4-0? Are you kidding me? The Rams have been rancid for so long it was like when they moved from L.A. to St. Louis they'd fallen into the mighty Mississippi River and drowned. Now they're killing people. They croaked the 49ers, who they hadn't beaten in nine years! Who cares if Steve Young didn't play. Brigham Young and Mighty Joe Young didn't play either. The Rams have now scored nearly 100 points more than they've given up. How 'bout Dick Vermeil? He's 62. He's on major medical! When Vermeil and Bill Walsh met in the locker room after the game on Sunday it was like Uncle Miltie and Sid Caesar at the Friar's Club.
Hey, how 'bout them Eagles, huh? They hadn't scored a touchdown in 18 quarters, and they scored on three straight possessions in the fourth quarter and beat Dallas. The Iggles! They couldn't score on Heidi Fleiss! Did you see Chan Gailey's expression? He looked like he had swallowed Jerry Jones's hair!
Hey, how 'bout them Vikings, huh? They're 2-3. They were 15-1 last year. On Sunday, they lost at home to the Bears! Maybe Randall Cunningham should go back to laying tile.
Hey, how 'bout Jimmy Johnson, huh? He lit a fire under Dan Marino like Marino was Joan of Arc. Marino passed for 393 yards and the winning touchdown with 27 seconds to go as the Fish overtook Indianapolis. If Marino heard JJ's bark, how 'bout them officials, huh? Twice in the last two minutes the zebras consulted Instant Replay, and to Miami's everlasting benefit they reversed the calls. I hadn't seen JJ that anxious since they outlawed aerosol cans.
Hey, how 'bout Brett Favre, huh? What an arm. Favre can throw a football through a car wash and not get it wet! Did you see when he --
Enough! Enough of this crapola, Tony. How many more cliches do we have to wade through?
Hey, how 'bout the topsy-turvy NFL, huh? The Rams are 4-0. The Bears are 3-2. San Diego is 3-1. Minnesota's 2-3. Denver and Atlanta are 1-4. It's like Parity Pete Rozelle is screaming, "Last tag!"
Stop it! This reads like your boss is making you write it. Surely there's something you'd rather write about than this lame review of Sunday's games?
Actually, there is.
I saw a hole-in-one this weekend. I've been playing golf for years, and I'd never seen a live hole-in-one.
I've never come close myself. I've hit a couple of shots inside of 10 feet on par-3s, but none that I ever thought was going in the jar. (I've missed the putt, of course. I have been four feet short on an eight-foot putt. I've got the yips so bad you can fax me at a kennel.)
Saturday, I played golf with Wilbon and Darrian Chapman, the WRC-4 sportscaster, and Tod Castleberry of WTEM radio. We were playing Worthington Manor, up near Frederick. Castleberry and Chapman are nice golfers. They can shoot in the seventies. Wilbon and I take them with us in case we run into a "best ball" tournament, since our best ball is the Harvest Moon Ball. But on Saturday none of us was setting the course on fire. The phrase that best describes how we were playing is: "Don't quit your day job."
I stink, as you know. Lately I have trouble shooting my body temperature. And I was worse Saturday because of pain in my left arm. If I was any shorter off the tee, you'd think I was pooching the ball.
Wilbon is a big hitter. I've seen him hit drives over 300 yards. He has the same driver as Tiger Woods. Sadly, he has the same short game as Rosemary Woods.
So we were struggling. Worthington Manor is long and taxing from the blue tees. Don't ask me why we were playing from the blues -- I must have taken Viagra.
We got to the 17th hole, which is 188 yards over a ravine to a two-tiered green. The flag was on the lower tier. It's all carry, and there was very little green to work with. The hole looked so intimidating that Wilbon shook his head and said, "We have no chance on this hole." I certainly had none. There were trees lining both sides. I announced my choice of club was a No. 3 chain saw.
Wilbon hit first, into the sand short of the hole. Tod hit next; he was short, too. Darrian hit a 6-iron very high, and on line. About two-thirds of the way there I said to Tod, "That has a chance."
We watched the ball hit about five feet on top of the hole, and begin to draw down like it was on a yo-yo string. Wilbon, Tod and I were silent, watching it get nearer the cup.
Darrian, though, was screaming, "Get in the hole!"
And it did.
We were ecstatic. We looked around for Darrian. He was sprinting toward the green, pumping his fist into the air, whooping. He probably ran 40 yards before he turned back toward us, shaking in delight. There were big smiles and high-fives all around. We couldn't have been happier for Darrian if we'd gotten the hole-in-one ourselves. (Okay, that's a lie. I'd have been much happier if it was my shot. But at least it wasn't Wilbon. I'd never have heard the end of that.)
You know that MasterCard commercial, where they tick off all the money it costs for those two guys to play golf: "Titanium driver, $300. Greens fees and cart, $100. Golf balls, $21." Then he hits the shot, and you see: "Hole-in-one with witnesses, priceless!"
Well, Darrian had witnesses. The three of us. The foursome behind us, waiting to tee off, and the foursome ahead of us, watching from the tee at No. 18. They all applauded him.
I wrote down "1" on the scorecard. The only time I'd ever written "1" before was when the ball went under the windmill.
Before we left we signed the scorecard for Darrian to frame, and we agreed to come back and play the course again.
Darrian will come back sooner, though.
In his excitement, he left his clubs there.