The News (with Links)
As if T.O. didn't already have enough on his plate (or bowl), he's following the Doug Flutie's Buffalo Tradition with T.O's Breakfast Cereal. Right.
No more Wang. As if things couldn't be better right now for the Fucking Yankees, Chien-Ming Wang, he of the 1-6, 9.64 era, 2.02 whip is done for the year.
That Met's executive who took his shirt off and challenged Mets prospects to engage in fisticuffs? Yeah, he's unemployed now.
Some Red Sox players used steroids.
Alberto Contador won the Tour De France and teammate Lance Armstrong finished third. Contador responded by making fun of Lance. Lance responded by making fun of Contador. You see where this is going. Then, Lance ripped the streamers off Contador's bike and then Contador kicked Lance in the shin and called his mommy.
Fun week for the Family Brees. Although Mom and Son haven't gotten along in years, this week Momma Brees, Esquire decided to supply thousands of Fantasy Football Leagues with a solid team name "Chicksports Inc." while committing extortion and Drew himself toured Gitmo and enjoyed it. What?
The Links (with Links)
The 6 Most Badass Murder Weapons in the Animal Kingdom.
The 10 Worst Injury Excuses.
Random YouTube (and other) Video's of the Week
Marbury Eats Vaseline
More to come on this next week.
Shatner Reads Palin Tweets on Conan
Is there anything he can't do?
Reh Dogg "Why I Might Cry"
Your Culture of the Week, Courtesy of my buddy Stern who has an abnormally large head and they don't sell his hat size in stores.
A-Spray Commercial Ummmm...
A-Spray Commercial
Let's Get Sexy with Craig Robinson
Some of you might know him as Daryl from The Office, spits out solid bedroom advice.
Your YouTube Hall of Fame Nominee
Boom Goes the Dynamite
Classic.
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Bekavac Files: A Three Part Manifesto on Sports and Society (Part Three)
“When Namath walked onto the field for your team, it just ‘tilted’ in your
favor.” – Al Davis
In a playoff at Torrey Pines near San Diego in the 2008 U.S. Open, Tiger Woods needed to sink a long birdie putt to force a playoff between he and Greensburg’s own Rocco Mediate. He made it, and went on to win the playoff.
But, didn’t you just kind of feel it was going in?
Or, how sick does it make you if your team is playing the Patriots, and your team is up by two – kicking off –with 1:51 to play?
Or, if Bryon Russell was 7’6’’ with windmill arms and the quickest hops known to man, would he be able to block that shot?
Greatness makes these feelings and questions happen in a fan. It is knowing, but not knowing. It is premonition with no vision. It is a tilting of the field. It’s the intangible.
To be truly “great,” you must make the improbable probable. This is more than Bob Costas saying this at a montage during the Olympics. You have to take the core of sports, this chance that anything can happen, and make it happen only one way. It’s clutch, it’s the zone, it’s ice water in the veins. It’s talent and luck.
It’s greatness.
Greatness is the imposition of will over the random chaos of possible outcomes of a sporting event. Moreover, it is that imposition over many sporting events. Jordan, Woods, Federer, Brady, Montana, Bird, Magic, Mays, and Ruth all had it. This is not to say that others who never had that one moment of “he’s going to do this” weren’t great. Hank Aaron was great because he did everything at a high level for a very long time. And, it isn’t saying that those who had that one moment – Maz or Lorenzo Charles – were. I’m just saying that greatness is this one thing, in sports. That athletes that make a fan feel that they are sure that the outcome will happen in a certain way are great.
Or, like Delton Hall, you know that he will get burnt for a 40 yard bomb by Al Toon and then get flagged for 15 yards for a late hit, personal foul facemask out of bounds. First and goal at the 6.
Go Steelers.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Bekavac Files: A Three Part Manifesto on Sports and Society (Part Two)
(Editors Note: Part Two in the Bekavac Series. Part One here)
“Baseball’s been a favorite sport of mine ever since a friend of mine, Arnold Rothstein, fixed the 1919 World Series.” – Hyman Roth
Boxing died, and Mixed Martial Arts began the night of March 13, 1999. I was a senior in high school, and a bunch of friends and I went in on the pay-per-view of the first bout between Lennox Lewis and Evander Holyfield. Despite clearly winning, the fight was ruled a draw and Holyfield retained the title. All of us went off of our heads, immediately suspecting the fight had been fixed. The media zeroed in on judge Eugenia Williams, which was so clearly off the mark with her scoring that it raised eyebrows and prompted investigations and even a statistical analysis of subjective scoring anomalies by Carnegie Mellon University.
Whether or not the fight was fixed wasn’t important. What was important was that the air around the fight smelled fixed. Boxing lost credibility. Mixed Martial Arts filled the void our society needs for gladiatorial bloodshed. If the fight was fixed, then the chance for chance was gone by the ringing of the Round One bell. It became pro wrestling. Scripted, predetermined, and set. Boxing was dead.
That loss of chance is the loss of the very core of sports. When that core begins to be questioned, a death pallor drops over the sport. Pete Rose’s gambling cast doubts. What Bart Giamante did was to excise him like a tumor from the game. It wasn’t that what he did was unseemly or unlike what most Americans do on sporting events, it was that he undermined the idea that we have that the game is being played out impromptu. It was convienient for Mr. Giamante that Rose’s gambling was against the laws of the game.
Jose Canseco’s Juiced and the Mitchell Report casts doubts. Some in the American public wanted Rafael Palmeiro’s and Mark McGuire’s and Barry Bonds’s heads. Mr. Riley, and many highly intelligent legalistas, will say that this is an unfair reaction, and comparing it to Rose is unfounded because what Rose did was against the rules of baseball. When these players were juicing, it wasn’t against the rules. Hold on Riley; what they were doing was altering the randomness of the home run. God-given talent, weight room time, and hand eye coordination all factor in. But there is an idea that the genetics, capacity and drive to work and drive to work and psychosomatic development is something that all humans have access to. When there is a magic potion that only some have access to, it alters the playing field. It tilts it. It makes things more likely, rather than by chance. The removal of the chance is the ruin of a sport.
However, there are some athletes that can, by their own talents or work ethic, tilt the field all the same. And that’s what makes them great.
Part II – Who Shaved the Dice?
“Baseball’s been a favorite sport of mine ever since a friend of mine, Arnold Rothstein, fixed the 1919 World Series.” – Hyman Roth
Boxing died, and Mixed Martial Arts began the night of March 13, 1999. I was a senior in high school, and a bunch of friends and I went in on the pay-per-view of the first bout between Lennox Lewis and Evander Holyfield. Despite clearly winning, the fight was ruled a draw and Holyfield retained the title. All of us went off of our heads, immediately suspecting the fight had been fixed. The media zeroed in on judge Eugenia Williams, which was so clearly off the mark with her scoring that it raised eyebrows and prompted investigations and even a statistical analysis of subjective scoring anomalies by Carnegie Mellon University.
Whether or not the fight was fixed wasn’t important. What was important was that the air around the fight smelled fixed. Boxing lost credibility. Mixed Martial Arts filled the void our society needs for gladiatorial bloodshed. If the fight was fixed, then the chance for chance was gone by the ringing of the Round One bell. It became pro wrestling. Scripted, predetermined, and set. Boxing was dead.
That loss of chance is the loss of the very core of sports. When that core begins to be questioned, a death pallor drops over the sport. Pete Rose’s gambling cast doubts. What Bart Giamante did was to excise him like a tumor from the game. It wasn’t that what he did was unseemly or unlike what most Americans do on sporting events, it was that he undermined the idea that we have that the game is being played out impromptu. It was convienient for Mr. Giamante that Rose’s gambling was against the laws of the game.
Jose Canseco’s Juiced and the Mitchell Report casts doubts. Some in the American public wanted Rafael Palmeiro’s and Mark McGuire’s and Barry Bonds’s heads. Mr. Riley, and many highly intelligent legalistas, will say that this is an unfair reaction, and comparing it to Rose is unfounded because what Rose did was against the rules of baseball. When these players were juicing, it wasn’t against the rules. Hold on Riley; what they were doing was altering the randomness of the home run. God-given talent, weight room time, and hand eye coordination all factor in. But there is an idea that the genetics, capacity and drive to work and drive to work and psychosomatic development is something that all humans have access to. When there is a magic potion that only some have access to, it alters the playing field. It tilts it. It makes things more likely, rather than by chance. The removal of the chance is the ruin of a sport.
However, there are some athletes that can, by their own talents or work ethic, tilt the field all the same. And that’s what makes them great.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
We Really Don't Care About Favre, But We Enjoy This = Favrown3d
I vowed I would not write a single post on Brett Favre because I think it's easily the worst sports story of the last two years. I never really liked him. It was fun to see his train wreck on the Jets. I was a little excited to see him train wreck the Vikings. I'm excited for my buddy Isaacs, a diehard Vikes fan. Favre sucks. He's sucked for the last 8 years, minus the last fluky season in Green Bay. The Vikes now start a Jewish QB, which is always the right decision. Enough on Favre. But here's YouTube Sensation BradyFan83's wonderful musical take on Favre from 2007.
The Bekavac Files: A Three Part Manifesto on Sports and Society
(Editors Note: This is the first in a three part commentary by guest poster and Croation Sensation, Bekavac, the avid golfer, and hopefully frequent contributor from last week. Part Two will run Wednesday, and Part Three will run on Thursday.)
As I get older, I realize that there are two parts of a newspaper that impact the majority of lives in this country: the obituaries and the sports section. Much like Shakespeare and ballet did over time, spectator sports has moved up the cultural ladder thanks to the advent of even lower culture like reality TV and more reality TV that spinoffs from other reality TV. More and more, the Super Bowl or the British Open or the NBA Finals have become acceptable workplace banter, not only in the mills and factories and office parks, but also in the firms, laboratories, and faculty lounges of this country.
Also, women are becoming more and more analytical and critical and rounded in their rooting. Now, the causes of this range from the increased exposure of sports to the media outlets saturating the American public and the obvious increase in female participation of all sports, accelerated by Title IX. However, whatever the cause and/or affect of female involvement in sports, the involvement itself is a marker for the increased standing of sports as a cultural importance. As a pastime becomes accepted not by one subset or demographic or age group or sex, but by the whole society, it truly does become a cultural bellwether.
The question is why.
Part I – A Roll of the Dice
The unpredictability of the game is what makes it special. It injects the random into our lives that desperately need it. As children, we never knew what would happen in our day, but it always seemed to work out. The responsibilities were taken care of for us. Now, we must take care of them, and to do so we structure our day. The Blackberry beeps and tells us where to be at 12, 2, and 3. We come home, usually knowing when we left our house what was for dinner. We’ve even set our bodies to tell us the time to go to sleep.
When we watch a game, we have no inkling that Mark Buehrle will throw a perfect game. We just don’t. We can admit a chance in retrospect, but we don’t know. It’s the unknowable chance that makes us love sports.
As I get older, I realize that there are two parts of a newspaper that impact the majority of lives in this country: the obituaries and the sports section. Much like Shakespeare and ballet did over time, spectator sports has moved up the cultural ladder thanks to the advent of even lower culture like reality TV and more reality TV that spinoffs from other reality TV. More and more, the Super Bowl or the British Open or the NBA Finals have become acceptable workplace banter, not only in the mills and factories and office parks, but also in the firms, laboratories, and faculty lounges of this country.
Also, women are becoming more and more analytical and critical and rounded in their rooting. Now, the causes of this range from the increased exposure of sports to the media outlets saturating the American public and the obvious increase in female participation of all sports, accelerated by Title IX. However, whatever the cause and/or affect of female involvement in sports, the involvement itself is a marker for the increased standing of sports as a cultural importance. As a pastime becomes accepted not by one subset or demographic or age group or sex, but by the whole society, it truly does become a cultural bellwether.
The question is why.
Part I – A Roll of the Dice
“I don’t believe what I just saw”! - Jack Buck, responding to the KirkSports, thematically, reflect the stories and myths that our society is based on. David versus Goliath is reflected in Villanova versus Georgetown. Michael Jordan could fly like Superman. And who stands as a symbol of Machiavellian brutality and bullying more in our culture: Richard III or George Steinbrenner? However, in the Bible or comic books or the bard, the next step in the plot is always a few pages ahead. With sports, you never know after the first tee if Tom Watson will push the 30 somethings to the brink. You never know that David Tyree will make a catch off the crown of his head. From the drop of the puck to the final horn; from the kickoff to the final gun, from the tip till the buzzer: we never know. It’s an unfolding of the themes and lessons and stories.
Gibson home run, Game 1, 1984 World Series.
The unpredictability of the game is what makes it special. It injects the random into our lives that desperately need it. As children, we never knew what would happen in our day, but it always seemed to work out. The responsibilities were taken care of for us. Now, we must take care of them, and to do so we structure our day. The Blackberry beeps and tells us where to be at 12, 2, and 3. We come home, usually knowing when we left our house what was for dinner. We’ve even set our bodies to tell us the time to go to sleep.
When we watch a game, we have no inkling that Mark Buehrle will throw a perfect game. We just don’t. We can admit a chance in retrospect, but we don’t know. It’s the unknowable chance that makes us love sports.
Friday, July 24, 2009
The End of the Week Randomness Extravaganza!
The News (With Links)
Tim Tebow, virgin. Somewhere, Thom Brennaman is gushing.
Phil Mickelson in talks to purchase 105 Waffle House Restaurants. Yeah, that's a good idea. Waffle House sucks. IHOP is far superior. There I said it.
If you were in prison for over a year, and you just got out, and Allen Iverson asked you to go to a strip club with him would you say no? Yeah, me neither. Mike Vick didn't say no.
Mark Burly (his name is too difficult to try and spell) tossed the first perfect game since Randy Johnson tossed one with the D'backs and shared an awkward embrace with catcher Robbie Hammock. Great fucking catch by DeWayne Wise.
Former Bengal, and current Seahawk/professional bitch, T.J. Houshmanzadeh is boycotting Madden 2010 because he's only a 91 overall and there are six receivers in the NFC ranked higher. We don't have the list, but I'm sure I wouldn't take Housh over Fitzgerald, Steve Smith, Calvin Johnson, Anquan Boldin, Greg Jennings and Roddy White. Someone needs to tell him he's the only NFL receiver with more than 500 yards and less than 10 yards per catch average last year, and he had a 6 less TD catches than Lance Moore.
J.P. Losman was at Tulane at the same time The Monk was there and The Monk says he's a dick. After failing out of the NFL, J.P. is going to be throwing passes for the unnamed Las Vegas United Football League team. Good luck with all that J.P. If you're lucky, you might be able to throw bombs to Charles Rogers.
Jim Parque admitted he used steroids, and much like his playing career, nobody cares.
Should VP of Player Development call your own minor league players pussies and challenge them to a fight? If you're the Mets, of course! Meet the Mets, Meet the Mets, Come on Out and Greet the Mets!
A few Texas Rangers players have suffered from flu-like symptoms, and all of a sudden, Vicente Padilla gets diagnosed with... OKAY, EVERYBODY PANIC!!!
If you have Rick DiPietro under contract until 2021, have just signed Dwayne Rolosson and 56 year old Doug Weight is your only accomplished NHL forward, what do you do? Sign Martin Biron of course! Although Rick DiPietro is probably hurt again, so why not?
Random Linking Fun
How White Are You? (Go here, give yourself 1 point if you like, 2 if you really like, -1 if you dislike, -2 if you really dislike, and 0 if you are indifferent. I'm a 92, Mr. Riley is a 27)
Jason Kendall, Greatest of All Time?
Thanks Debbie, Don't Know the Point of This Game, Or Why I'm Playing, But I'm Addicted
The 13 Most Unintentionally Disturbing Children's Toys
Tom Emanski's Fake MySpace Page
Random YouTube (and other) Video's of the Week
White People Being White
In all honesty, I planned posting this yesterday morning before all the media caught hold of it. As my friend Debbie's non-white co-worker asked her "Is this what you white people do when we're not around". Yes.
Will Arnett Reads from Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret
Tony Romo: Product Spokesman
Katie Holmes on So You Think You Can Dance
Joey Potter was such a long, long, time ago.
The Answer to All Your Political Gripes
Only in America!
Genius Plan to Fix California Economy - Watch more Funny Videos
Grown Men With Baseball Gloves, A Mr. Riley Favorite
We Enjoyed This, But Still Hate the Phillies... .
Tim Tebow, virgin. Somewhere, Thom Brennaman is gushing.
Phil Mickelson in talks to purchase 105 Waffle House Restaurants. Yeah, that's a good idea. Waffle House sucks. IHOP is far superior. There I said it.
If you were in prison for over a year, and you just got out, and Allen Iverson asked you to go to a strip club with him would you say no? Yeah, me neither. Mike Vick didn't say no.
Mark Burly (his name is too difficult to try and spell) tossed the first perfect game since Randy Johnson tossed one with the D'backs and shared an awkward embrace with catcher Robbie Hammock. Great fucking catch by DeWayne Wise.
Former Bengal, and current Seahawk/professional bitch, T.J. Houshmanzadeh is boycotting Madden 2010 because he's only a 91 overall and there are six receivers in the NFC ranked higher. We don't have the list, but I'm sure I wouldn't take Housh over Fitzgerald, Steve Smith, Calvin Johnson, Anquan Boldin, Greg Jennings and Roddy White. Someone needs to tell him he's the only NFL receiver with more than 500 yards and less than 10 yards per catch average last year, and he had a 6 less TD catches than Lance Moore.
J.P. Losman was at Tulane at the same time The Monk was there and The Monk says he's a dick. After failing out of the NFL, J.P. is going to be throwing passes for the unnamed Las Vegas United Football League team. Good luck with all that J.P. If you're lucky, you might be able to throw bombs to Charles Rogers.
Jim Parque admitted he used steroids, and much like his playing career, nobody cares.
Should VP of Player Development call your own minor league players pussies and challenge them to a fight? If you're the Mets, of course! Meet the Mets, Meet the Mets, Come on Out and Greet the Mets!
A few Texas Rangers players have suffered from flu-like symptoms, and all of a sudden, Vicente Padilla gets diagnosed with... OKAY, EVERYBODY PANIC!!!
If you have Rick DiPietro under contract until 2021, have just signed Dwayne Rolosson and 56 year old Doug Weight is your only accomplished NHL forward, what do you do? Sign Martin Biron of course! Although Rick DiPietro is probably hurt again, so why not?
Random Linking Fun
How White Are You? (Go here, give yourself 1 point if you like, 2 if you really like, -1 if you dislike, -2 if you really dislike, and 0 if you are indifferent. I'm a 92, Mr. Riley is a 27)
Jason Kendall, Greatest of All Time?
Thanks Debbie, Don't Know the Point of This Game, Or Why I'm Playing, But I'm Addicted
The 13 Most Unintentionally Disturbing Children's Toys
Tom Emanski's Fake MySpace Page
Random YouTube (and other) Video's of the Week
White People Being White
In all honesty, I planned posting this yesterday morning before all the media caught hold of it. As my friend Debbie's non-white co-worker asked her "Is this what you white people do when we're not around". Yes.
Will Arnett Reads from Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret
Tony Romo: Product Spokesman
Katie Holmes on So You Think You Can Dance
Joey Potter was such a long, long, time ago.
The Answer to All Your Political Gripes
Only in America!
Genius Plan to Fix California Economy - Watch more Funny Videos
Grown Men With Baseball Gloves, A Mr. Riley Favorite
We Enjoyed This, But Still Hate the Phillies... .
YOUR YOUTUBE HALL OF FAME NOMINEE OF THE WEEK
Lady Punch
Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden. (Special to Operation Shutdown)
(Editors Note: This post was written by our very good friend Bekavac, aka "The Bek", aka "The Sultan". The Bek went to Princeton, so he's prone to douchebaggery and wordiness. Against better judgment, we've decided to run this post in it's entirety. Do yourself, print it out and read it on the toilet.)
I used to think that golf was a game and not a sport. But then I found out that after 18, with 10 Yuenglings and a few rips from a cigarette shaped one-hitter, I'm exhausted. Also, the whole hitting it dead straight 300 yards, rather difficult.
I’ve noticed a surprising lack of golf coverage. Surprising in that a Jew from Miami and a Black Irishman from Danbury, Connecticut don’t golf. (That’s Black Irish in that he’s Protestant, not black Irish like Kevin McDougal, quarterback for the ’93 Fightin’ Irish. May Glenn Foley rot in hell.) Therefore, I, as a person who’s golfed for roughly 9 months, feel that in my third trimester with the game I am qualified to give you all a thorough undertaking of this sport, along with musings on other matters athletico. However, as golf is a man’s chance to accessorize, I have sunk a lot of money into this fucking game, and I’ll be goddamned if I let that go to waste.
I will start by giving course reviews. As I, like the failed fledgling that I am that cannot leave the nest, travel within a 20 mile radius to the courses I play. I plan, however, to work out in concentric circles to more and more courses. Fuck, I just took my first golf trip to Ocean City, Maryland. Ocean City – and this is something Ruben and Riley can never understand – is the summer hotspot for Western Pennsylvania. There are endless arguments over which is the faster route – D.C. or Baltimore. There are the Big Pecker and Dough Roller T Shirts. There’s the Dumsers Shakes and Embers v. Bonfire Crab Legs debates. There’s the photo keychains. What I also found out is that there’s some excellent golf courses as well. But, I will hold off on those until a later date. As a quick regression, I called Stewart Cink. He’s a solid, top 50 golfer who has been under par in all the majors this year. Oh, and I guess I should give big ups to my ninja Tom Watson for making it such a memorable The Open Championship. The best bad weather player in golf history, Rick Reilly kept saying. EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT THE WEATHER WAS PRETTY GOOD, YOU DOUCHENOZZLE. But, somewhere between the shots of Patron and the Bud Light Aluminum bottle No. 7 at Seacrets in Ocean City, I called Stewart Cink. Then I asked a girl to ice down her titties and place them over my face like a wet towel.
First course on the tour: Butler’s Golf Course. Woodside course.
I will do one 18 a week. Butler’s has two 18s. I will not do more because I will be giving you an in-depth look at these courses. Also, I don’t feel like doing more than one 18 at a time.
Ah, the home course. On Thursday nights, me and 20 or so gentlemen twice my age, golf in a league called Odds and Ends. We intrepid group of funeral directors, plaster men, accountants, county police officers, and retirees, duff our way around these 36 holes of “championship” golf in Elizabeth Township. This is the ultimate public. The key words are “trees” and “moist.” Everything is always wet. Also, the putts that look like they should break 5 feet, break 5 inches. And the dead center cut ones break like you’re putting on the roof of a 2003 Saturn coupe. But, like all ultimate publics, you get your 38 bucks worth.
It’s broken into two eighteens: Woodside and Lakeside. Woodside is the old course. It starts with a 480 yard par five that should be a par four. Downhill, and crushable like a Parliament. Only hazard worth mentioning is a bunker on the front of the green. Even light hitters like myself are on in two. It’s followed by an uphill, 150 straightforward par 3, guarded by two bunkers. You will end up in one of these bunkers. You will do this because, you will go to the driving range and hit to a slightly downhill 150 yard marker with your 8 iron. You will think “I can hit my 8 iron 150 yards.” You will then take out your 8 iron and fried egg it into the bunker. You will do this because you are me.
Holes 3, 4, and 5 will be grouped together because I score a 5 on all four of these par 4s. Here’s what they are. Shortish, 370 yards or so, with hill sloping down on the left, narrow fairway, and woods OB to the right. Aim left to avoid the woods. 56 wedge it to the front of the green because you can NEVER HIT THAT FUCKING CLUB RIGHT. 3 putt. 5s around. Drink a High Life Light. Move onto 6.
Hole 6 is an uphill par 4. Like most uphill holes, this one licks taint. Plug your drive into the aforementioned moistness of the fairway. Dig out your ball and towel it off, motherfucking it all. Then, after learning your lesson about your 8 iron on hole 2, take out your seven iron. Blade the shit out of that sonuvabitch and fly the green into the back left bunker. Blast out onto the fringe two feet in front of you. Two putt, or three putt, and move onto the glorious #7.
Ah, Number 7 Woodside at Butlers. If there is ever an emergency landing needed for the space shuttle, it can be done on this massive 580 yard, wide-ass-open par 5. The weird thing is, the drive is going into a crevice 240 yards in the fairway. OB is right for us slicers; a small pond is left for you major hookers. All in all, as long as you see your ball, it’s ok. Because 300 yard fore, and 300 yards wide awaits you for every conceivable draw or fade you could put on a golf ball. It’s all in play, and everything’s safe. Green is very slanted though. Very scoreable though, even for me.
Hole 8 is the toughest on Woodside; the highest handicap on the course. A 440 yard, blind double dogleg up and down and back up. Actually a tough hole to get on the green accurately in two. If you’re left, you’re blind to the green at 180. If you’re right, you have a clean look, at about 240 uphill. Good luck on that one Villegas. Bring your humility on that one.
Hole 9 is such an unremarkable 150 yard flat par 3, I refuse to give it ink. Actually, take out your 8 iron on this one. It’ll work. Fried egg into the bunker front left. Congrats. Buy a shitty hot dog. Make the turn.
Hole 10 is a straight as an arrow par 4 with an Amoeba shaped bunker in the landing zone right. If you are like me, and for all intensive purposes this article is assuming that you are, you will land in this bunker. Surprisingly easy to get out of with a six iron though, as the sand here is actually concrete mix which is, you guessed it, moist.
Hole 11 is a forgettable par 4 with one feature: a turf farm. What is a turf farm? Settle down spaz; a turf farm is an area on the grounds where a golf course grows sod grass for placement on other parts of the course. Golf courses need grass? Yes they do, Bocephus. But aren’t most turf farms somewhere in the back, near the maintenance shed? Yes, but not at Butler’s. Here, it’s right off the 11th fairway. If you land there, as I most definitely do, you are asked to take it off the turf farm: a virginal spot of fairway in the midst of woods. In the somber words of Gabriel Garcia Marquez: fuck that shit. Rip your 7 iron and take a divot the size of Ted Koppel’s hair out. Land on the green, par for the first time of the day, and spit in the eyes of the founders of this game.
Hole 12 gives me a chance to talk about my father. I love my dad. He and I work together, have missed probably a dozen Steeler games since I was 3, and golf a lot together. Hole 12 let me see something sons dream about: watching their father have a meltdown. Hole 12 is another uphill par 4. To the right and left of a wide fairway are trees. My dad, like his son, goes right. He lands in the trees. He, like Klaus Kinski in Fitzcarraldo, feels that if he exerts his will, his shot will not hit the 40 year old oak 20 feet in front of him. This takes him 6 strokes. On stroke seven, his perseverance pays off as he scalds a wormburner right to the right of the green. He drives up furiously in the cart as I hold back laughing. Jumps out, removes his putter, and smashes it into the ground. Ironic because he’s 40 yards from the green at this point. Putter head stays in the ground as the shaft goes flying. This elicits an MGM Lion like roar from him as he flings the shaft. Proceeds to take a 10 and walks to hole 13. Let’s do the same.
Hole 13 is billed on the Butler’s website as having a beautiful view of the Youghiogheny River. Pfft. You can barely see this creek. However, the kayaking is lovely. So is hole 13. A fun, downhill 130 yard par 3 with a massive bunker front left and a big, flat green. Butler’s loves front left bunkers. Right and long is a 8 foot depression off the green. You should par this hole, Corky.
Hole 14 is Hole 7’s little brother. A big, open downhill 550 yard par 5. Enjoy. And you get to use the club you “crush” at the driving range but “FAIL” on the course: the 3 wood. The 3 wood at the driving range makes you think “I should play this off the tee. I hit it as far as my driver without the slices and hooks.” The 3 wood on the course makes you think about bashing yourself in the head with it and carrying another putter.
Hole 15 is another fun, 150 yard par 3. 14 yards into a circle green with a horseshoe of pines behind it. It’s slightly downhill, and you will take out the 8 iron again. You have learned your lessons with the 8, and you are confident that you will green this one. You will hit the green, and roll off. You will put the 8 iron away.
Hole 16 is a long par four that is flat to a wide landing area, then gets tighter as it approaches the green uphill. It gives me a chance to talk about my favorite club: My Mizuno 3 Iron Hybrid CLK Fli-Hi with Extra Stiff Shaft. That’s right cunts, the same club Sean O’Hair (who) calls his favorite club in my requisite subscribed issue of Golf Digest. On this hole, I once put a ball through the drink display of a MOVING cart girl’s cart from 230 away. It was her damn fault.
Hole 17 and 18 are going to be wrapped up in unison for the following reasons: they are long par fours along the road back to the clubhouse, they look at the convent across the road and you can sometimes see nuns out for a stroll, and that they are nice easy holes to do as you are coming in from your terrible, 6 hour odyssey around this place.
All in all, Woodside is solid. Next time, I will do Lakeside. But, before I go, it’s time for me, Mark Schlereth, and Marcellus Wiley’s QUICK HITS!
The Pirates fire sale is acceptable. It can include Jack Wilson, but should not include Freddy Sanchez, if it can be helped. I would be happy if they would have received 5 maple bats, some GoGurt, and a $5 gift card at Hot Topic for Adam Laroche. Even if they received some AA fodder for him, that is acceptable. Plus, the SS looks like he can field and hit lightly. So, way to change direction boys.
My mom says, because she’s my mom and a total dear, that Ben reminds her of me. This is probably because we are both blonde haired and have enormous heads. She also accosted him by bear hugging him on the club level at the Pete during Pitt v. Miami (OH). However, mom, here’s another similarity you can count. Hooking up with girls with a history of treatment for mental illness.
Albert Pujols is the greatest first baseman of all time. Better than Gehrig.
Champagne for my real friends; real pain for my sham friends.
I used to think that golf was a game and not a sport. But then I found out that after 18, with 10 Yuenglings and a few rips from a cigarette shaped one-hitter, I'm exhausted. Also, the whole hitting it dead straight 300 yards, rather difficult.
I’ve noticed a surprising lack of golf coverage. Surprising in that a Jew from Miami and a Black Irishman from Danbury, Connecticut don’t golf. (That’s Black Irish in that he’s Protestant, not black Irish like Kevin McDougal, quarterback for the ’93 Fightin’ Irish. May Glenn Foley rot in hell.) Therefore, I, as a person who’s golfed for roughly 9 months, feel that in my third trimester with the game I am qualified to give you all a thorough undertaking of this sport, along with musings on other matters athletico. However, as golf is a man’s chance to accessorize, I have sunk a lot of money into this fucking game, and I’ll be goddamned if I let that go to waste.
I will start by giving course reviews. As I, like the failed fledgling that I am that cannot leave the nest, travel within a 20 mile radius to the courses I play. I plan, however, to work out in concentric circles to more and more courses. Fuck, I just took my first golf trip to Ocean City, Maryland. Ocean City – and this is something Ruben and Riley can never understand – is the summer hotspot for Western Pennsylvania. There are endless arguments over which is the faster route – D.C. or Baltimore. There are the Big Pecker and Dough Roller T Shirts. There’s the Dumsers Shakes and Embers v. Bonfire Crab Legs debates. There’s the photo keychains. What I also found out is that there’s some excellent golf courses as well. But, I will hold off on those until a later date. As a quick regression, I called Stewart Cink. He’s a solid, top 50 golfer who has been under par in all the majors this year. Oh, and I guess I should give big ups to my ninja Tom Watson for making it such a memorable The Open Championship. The best bad weather player in golf history, Rick Reilly kept saying. EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT THE WEATHER WAS PRETTY GOOD, YOU DOUCHENOZZLE. But, somewhere between the shots of Patron and the Bud Light Aluminum bottle No. 7 at Seacrets in Ocean City, I called Stewart Cink. Then I asked a girl to ice down her titties and place them over my face like a wet towel.
First course on the tour: Butler’s Golf Course. Woodside course.
I will do one 18 a week. Butler’s has two 18s. I will not do more because I will be giving you an in-depth look at these courses. Also, I don’t feel like doing more than one 18 at a time.
Ah, the home course. On Thursday nights, me and 20 or so gentlemen twice my age, golf in a league called Odds and Ends. We intrepid group of funeral directors, plaster men, accountants, county police officers, and retirees, duff our way around these 36 holes of “championship” golf in Elizabeth Township. This is the ultimate public. The key words are “trees” and “moist.” Everything is always wet. Also, the putts that look like they should break 5 feet, break 5 inches. And the dead center cut ones break like you’re putting on the roof of a 2003 Saturn coupe. But, like all ultimate publics, you get your 38 bucks worth.
It’s broken into two eighteens: Woodside and Lakeside. Woodside is the old course. It starts with a 480 yard par five that should be a par four. Downhill, and crushable like a Parliament. Only hazard worth mentioning is a bunker on the front of the green. Even light hitters like myself are on in two. It’s followed by an uphill, 150 straightforward par 3, guarded by two bunkers. You will end up in one of these bunkers. You will do this because, you will go to the driving range and hit to a slightly downhill 150 yard marker with your 8 iron. You will think “I can hit my 8 iron 150 yards.” You will then take out your 8 iron and fried egg it into the bunker. You will do this because you are me.
Holes 3, 4, and 5 will be grouped together because I score a 5 on all four of these par 4s. Here’s what they are. Shortish, 370 yards or so, with hill sloping down on the left, narrow fairway, and woods OB to the right. Aim left to avoid the woods. 56 wedge it to the front of the green because you can NEVER HIT THAT FUCKING CLUB RIGHT. 3 putt. 5s around. Drink a High Life Light. Move onto 6.
Hole 6 is an uphill par 4. Like most uphill holes, this one licks taint. Plug your drive into the aforementioned moistness of the fairway. Dig out your ball and towel it off, motherfucking it all. Then, after learning your lesson about your 8 iron on hole 2, take out your seven iron. Blade the shit out of that sonuvabitch and fly the green into the back left bunker. Blast out onto the fringe two feet in front of you. Two putt, or three putt, and move onto the glorious #7.
Ah, Number 7 Woodside at Butlers. If there is ever an emergency landing needed for the space shuttle, it can be done on this massive 580 yard, wide-ass-open par 5. The weird thing is, the drive is going into a crevice 240 yards in the fairway. OB is right for us slicers; a small pond is left for you major hookers. All in all, as long as you see your ball, it’s ok. Because 300 yard fore, and 300 yards wide awaits you for every conceivable draw or fade you could put on a golf ball. It’s all in play, and everything’s safe. Green is very slanted though. Very scoreable though, even for me.
Hole 8 is the toughest on Woodside; the highest handicap on the course. A 440 yard, blind double dogleg up and down and back up. Actually a tough hole to get on the green accurately in two. If you’re left, you’re blind to the green at 180. If you’re right, you have a clean look, at about 240 uphill. Good luck on that one Villegas. Bring your humility on that one.
Hole 9 is such an unremarkable 150 yard flat par 3, I refuse to give it ink. Actually, take out your 8 iron on this one. It’ll work. Fried egg into the bunker front left. Congrats. Buy a shitty hot dog. Make the turn.
Hole 10 is a straight as an arrow par 4 with an Amoeba shaped bunker in the landing zone right. If you are like me, and for all intensive purposes this article is assuming that you are, you will land in this bunker. Surprisingly easy to get out of with a six iron though, as the sand here is actually concrete mix which is, you guessed it, moist.
Hole 11 is a forgettable par 4 with one feature: a turf farm. What is a turf farm? Settle down spaz; a turf farm is an area on the grounds where a golf course grows sod grass for placement on other parts of the course. Golf courses need grass? Yes they do, Bocephus. But aren’t most turf farms somewhere in the back, near the maintenance shed? Yes, but not at Butler’s. Here, it’s right off the 11th fairway. If you land there, as I most definitely do, you are asked to take it off the turf farm: a virginal spot of fairway in the midst of woods. In the somber words of Gabriel Garcia Marquez: fuck that shit. Rip your 7 iron and take a divot the size of Ted Koppel’s hair out. Land on the green, par for the first time of the day, and spit in the eyes of the founders of this game.
Hole 12 gives me a chance to talk about my father. I love my dad. He and I work together, have missed probably a dozen Steeler games since I was 3, and golf a lot together. Hole 12 let me see something sons dream about: watching their father have a meltdown. Hole 12 is another uphill par 4. To the right and left of a wide fairway are trees. My dad, like his son, goes right. He lands in the trees. He, like Klaus Kinski in Fitzcarraldo, feels that if he exerts his will, his shot will not hit the 40 year old oak 20 feet in front of him. This takes him 6 strokes. On stroke seven, his perseverance pays off as he scalds a wormburner right to the right of the green. He drives up furiously in the cart as I hold back laughing. Jumps out, removes his putter, and smashes it into the ground. Ironic because he’s 40 yards from the green at this point. Putter head stays in the ground as the shaft goes flying. This elicits an MGM Lion like roar from him as he flings the shaft. Proceeds to take a 10 and walks to hole 13. Let’s do the same.
Hole 13 is billed on the Butler’s website as having a beautiful view of the Youghiogheny River. Pfft. You can barely see this creek. However, the kayaking is lovely. So is hole 13. A fun, downhill 130 yard par 3 with a massive bunker front left and a big, flat green. Butler’s loves front left bunkers. Right and long is a 8 foot depression off the green. You should par this hole, Corky.
Hole 14 is Hole 7’s little brother. A big, open downhill 550 yard par 5. Enjoy. And you get to use the club you “crush” at the driving range but “FAIL” on the course: the 3 wood. The 3 wood at the driving range makes you think “I should play this off the tee. I hit it as far as my driver without the slices and hooks.” The 3 wood on the course makes you think about bashing yourself in the head with it and carrying another putter.
Hole 15 is another fun, 150 yard par 3. 14 yards into a circle green with a horseshoe of pines behind it. It’s slightly downhill, and you will take out the 8 iron again. You have learned your lessons with the 8, and you are confident that you will green this one. You will hit the green, and roll off. You will put the 8 iron away.
Hole 16 is a long par four that is flat to a wide landing area, then gets tighter as it approaches the green uphill. It gives me a chance to talk about my favorite club: My Mizuno 3 Iron Hybrid CLK Fli-Hi with Extra Stiff Shaft. That’s right cunts, the same club Sean O’Hair (who) calls his favorite club in my requisite subscribed issue of Golf Digest. On this hole, I once put a ball through the drink display of a MOVING cart girl’s cart from 230 away. It was her damn fault.
Hole 17 and 18 are going to be wrapped up in unison for the following reasons: they are long par fours along the road back to the clubhouse, they look at the convent across the road and you can sometimes see nuns out for a stroll, and that they are nice easy holes to do as you are coming in from your terrible, 6 hour odyssey around this place.
All in all, Woodside is solid. Next time, I will do Lakeside. But, before I go, it’s time for me, Mark Schlereth, and Marcellus Wiley’s QUICK HITS!
The Pirates fire sale is acceptable. It can include Jack Wilson, but should not include Freddy Sanchez, if it can be helped. I would be happy if they would have received 5 maple bats, some GoGurt, and a $5 gift card at Hot Topic for Adam Laroche. Even if they received some AA fodder for him, that is acceptable. Plus, the SS looks like he can field and hit lightly. So, way to change direction boys.
My mom says, because she’s my mom and a total dear, that Ben reminds her of me. This is probably because we are both blonde haired and have enormous heads. She also accosted him by bear hugging him on the club level at the Pete during Pitt v. Miami (OH). However, mom, here’s another similarity you can count. Hooking up with girls with a history of treatment for mental illness.
Albert Pujols is the greatest first baseman of all time. Better than Gehrig.
Champagne for my real friends; real pain for my sham friends.
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