THE SONIC BOOMER
Being a person of many talents and interests — and because my husband was watching that channel — I had occasion to take in the Ryder Cup golf competition last Sunday.
Hearing grown men holler “In the hole!” hour after hour never gets old for me. You’d think that someone would tell these guys that golf balls cannot hear, nor do they (evidently) choose to follow directions. Yet, championship after championship, men who hold responsible positions in society Monday through Friday turn into perfect idiots on the weekend, screaming their heads off at these little balls. It’s fascinating.
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In addition to the screaming, there was some real drama when one of the players went missing. Rory McIlroy, age 23 and “the No. 1 player in the world,” according to Johnny Miller (whom I trust because he originally designed the Binks Forest course and, while doing so, autographed a photo for my mom, who had it hanging in the locker at her club until it was stolen by some lousy, rotten bum), was supposed to play for Europe in this big “which-side-of-the-pond-is-better-at-golf” grudge match, but, as European captain Jose Maria Olazabal put it, “All of a sudden, we realized Rory wasn’t here.”
All of a sudden? He was supposed to tee off in 25 minutes, never mind the traffic and then finding a parking space. And isn’t making sure your team shows up at the game sort of the primary responsibility of any team captain? If millions of mothers around the globe can get their kids to the sports fields on time, I would think that Mr. Olazabal could do it, especially for the money he makes.
But no. Watching the Golf Channel and confused by the time difference, McIlroy sat chillin’ in front of the television set while the rest of his team ate breakfast, quipped with reporters and warmed up by hitting a few buckets of balls.
By the time Olazabal woke up to the fact that his star player was missing, a police escort had to be summoned. Which begs the question — how did this get to be a police matter? But then I remembered that the Ryder Cup was being played just outside Chicago — where a five dollar bill is enough of a bribe to convince any cop to put down his doughnut and turn on his flashing blue light.
At any rate, the kid made it with five minutes to spare, and Europe went on to win the thing.
But this never would’ve happened if the responsibility had still resided with his mother Rosie, back home in Northern Ireland. I can hear it now: “Rorrrr-eeeee? Arre you up yet? Oh, don’t you use that language with me, misterr! You wanted to play golf and you’rre going to play it. Now get yourr bum out of that bed and into the carr!”
And I do feel bad for Keegan Bradley, our guy from Vermont. There he is, sipping some orange juice and morosely looking out over the course, worried sick about his upcoming match play against the loudly touted “No. 1 player in the world” when Tiger Woods slides into the seat next to him and whispers, “Rory ain’t here. No one knows where he is.”
So if Rory had his eye on the dashboard clock, I’ll bet Keegan was counting the seconds aloud.
In the end, it wasn’t enough.
