This week, TV and Fury bang out a podcast while in neighboring states.
The story starts there with Fury talking about an epic loss to his dad in high-stakes golf and continues with analysis of the NBA playoffs.
Oh, and it turns out that NBA executives like nursing shoes. What? Exactly.
Here’s the link.
Tiger Woods won his 75th PGA tourney this week and depending on where you fall on the Tiger Spectrum, it meant he’s back and will win two majors this year and break Jack Nicklaus’ record or that he’s never going to win a major again because look at the way he stumbled over the final nine holes. Lots of demons, explain the naysayers.
Who knows if it means anything about Woods’s chances of winning a major this year or five more over the next 10 years. At worst he’s the second-best player of all-time and the second-best player in the world today. He’s not what he was in 2000, but in 2001 he was no longer the player he was in 2000. Each time he tees it up, I hope he wins and I hope he passes the Bear and not just because I’d have to pay off some bets if he never gets to 19. I like watching greatness, even when it comes with all types of complications.
Such a strange event, the Ryder Cup. A team competition in one of the ultimate individual sports. A supposed rivalry between Europe and the United States, even though we’re as familiar with the foreigners as we are the Americans. Of the 24 players, Luke Donald has more Chicago in him than any of them. If the United States battled, say, Iran in the Ryder Cup, or the Soviet Union back in the day, it might be easier to understand the emotions, both from the players and the fans.
Yet Sunday afternoon, I barely moved from my couch for seven hours and I watched only a handful of NFL action. When Martin Kaymer drained his final putt I slapped my hands in frustration and let out a “Damn it,” that the neighbors might have heard if they weren’t still loudly chanting for Tim Tebow. The Ryder Cup almost always produces memorable moments, and every so often it delivers epic ones. Some Ryder Cup results are forgotten a week after Johnny Miller utters his final words, but others live on forever. We all know where the 2012 Cup falls.
Some final thoughts after watching those damn Europeans — oh, those damn Europeans with their flags, chants and American residencies — rally in historic fashion.
Where was Johnny Miller when we needed him? Actually, as much as I do enjoy Miller’s commentary — and I know not everybody does — it would have almost been too cruel to hear him call Adam Scott’s epic collapse in the final round of the British Open on Sunday.
As far as I remember I don’t think Mike Tirico or Paul Azinger or Curtis Strange used the word choke during the final four holes and there’s little doubt Miller would have unleashed it at least a half dozen times. Could anyone blame him?
At the risk of sounding like the spiky-haired scamp from Jerry Maguire, did you know that a person’s taste buds change every seven years?
Me, neither. In fact, that may or may not be true, but my 8-year-old daughter says it is, and I’m working on validating her feelings and therefore suppressing the urge to double-check her information with the Google Machines.
Let’s just go with it. Because there’s no question my taste in sports has changed – and rather dramatically – over the years. (more…)
Don’t let anyone ever say TVFury doesn’t appreciate — no, love — America. Of course I hate that the 4th is on a Wednesday and I have to work Thursday and Friday, but that’s not really America’s fault, is it?
No big plans in New York City, although I hear Terry is planning a backyard barbecue where he’ll grill up some famous Vandrovec burgers while shooting off legal and illegal fireworks into the South Dakota sky, all while he dictates a 600-word story into a recorder about incoming cross country recruits for South Dakota State, which he’ll finally type up and send to the office while watching the Boston Pops performance on TV. Here, we’ll relax, go to a barbecue and maybe watch some fireworks from a friend’s balcony, where you can see three or four different fireworks shows while having three or four hundred mosquitos attack.
In honor of the Fourth, here’s a…I don’t know, grab bag, potpourri, random things grouped together, of Americana.
I’m a bad golfer. Pretty sure that’s the correct description. If I par a hole it feels like a birdie. I’d take a bogey on every hole. When I struggle on a hole a great debate ensues about whether the worst shot on it was the drive, the approach, the chip or the putt. I only play on trips back home to Janesville or during the every-two-year-trek to Cape Town and I’ve found that schedule is not the best way to find consistency in your game. My swing is all right, it seems fairly fluid, and I don’t embarrass myself on the course but I don’t exactly distinguish myself either.
That same old story played out Monday afternoon in Janesville, at Prairie Ridge Golf Course. So why do I always enjoy myself?
We’ll have a quiet Easter Sunday in the Fury household. Sleep in. Put my ear to the ground in an attempt to hear my mom praying from 1,500 miles away for her lapsed Catholic son, who probably couldn’t even go to confession anymore because he couldn’t supply an answer to how long it’s been since his last confession. Light breakfast. Sandwich for lunch.
Sit in front of the TV for five hours watching The Masters.
Before Tiger Woods teed off Sunday afternoon at Pebble Beach, many people figured he’d win his first tournament in three years and speculated about how many majors he’d win this season. One for sure. Two, perhaps? Not three? Three?
By the time he reached the 10th hole in the final round, those same people were wondering if he could possibly recover from his terrible start and Phil Mickelson’s blistering front-nine.
By the time he reached the 18th hole, people were talking about bad putts and shaky nerves, about shattered confidences and wrecked knees, about headline-grabbing scandals and mundane 20th place finishes. They talked about Jack Nicklaus’ record 18 major victories and Woods’s pursuit, but only to ridicule any idea that Tiger might one day pass the Golden Bear.
Such is the life for Tiger Woods in 2012, a decade removed from the Tiger Slam, and two years after a car accident and punch lines about Perkins waitresses.
