Two years ago at the British Open at Carnoustie Golf Links, a Frenchman named Jean Van de Velde needed to make a six on the final hole to win the championship. Instead of playing it safe, he hit a driver into the rough, hit a two-iron into more rough, and chipped into a burn that runs through the hole three times. From there, he got in the burn, sans shoes and socks, to play the ball but fortunately it dropped lower in the water, making it unplayable. He dropped his ball back in the rough, chipped into a sand trap, but got up and down for a seven. He proceeded to lose in the playoff.
He needed a six on a par four, and he made a seven. I played the hole on Sunday, and I made a five. Of course, there was a lot less pressure on me, the tees I was playing from were 50 yards shorter, the rough was cut down considerably, and there weren't millions of people watching, but I made a five.
This brief little story of personal triumph in golf, of which I have so few, is a roundabout way to make two points. First, one great thing about golf is that you can play on the same venues as the stars. I may be a hack, but I've walked the same fairways as Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus. You've got to be much better to play at Fenway or skate in the Fleet Center.
The second point is that, for my final column of the year, and maybe forever, I am going to ignore the playoffs, the draft, Charlie Ward's warped view of history (he recently blamed the Jews for killing his best Jewish friend, Jesus Christ), and surprise baseball teams and talk about myself. I know I've done that a lot recently, but when you live in a country whose idea of a good sporting day is watching a doubleheader of soccer followed by a snooker tournament, you get to talking about yourself a lot.
So since this might be my last column ever at Tufts after two and a half years, I thought I would look back at what I've been blabbering on about since I was a wee freshman. Since regular students at Tufts are busy with finals and papers, while I'm busy figuring out which Scottish golf course to play next, I figured I could afford to take the time and sort out the different topics I've been ranting and raving about in the 51 columns I've written.
There is a little overlap here, but without much problem, you can divide the topics I chose on a weekly basis into six categories. Essentially, I wrote 32 out of 50 columns (two columns fit into two of the categories) on these six topics: Colorado, problems with the NCAA, the NBA sucks, the Yankees suck, retirements, golf, and myself.
There are clearly some gaping holes here. I've written about my home state four times, while only twice dealing with matters concerning Boston. Three times I have dealt with matters concerning the NCAA's legislation of men's football and basketball, but never once have I mentioned women's sports in my writing.
I praised John Elway when he retired at the right time, but tore apart Dan Marino for leaving too late, though essentially, they had equal careers. Four times I wrote about golf, and four times, no one cared.
The biggest problem may have been that only four times did I mention in my articles my disdain for the New York Yankees, while I think we can all agree that I was short-changing the Bronx Bombers. They deserved at least another couple of insults.
However, ten times, or one-fifth of my columns have been about myself, which means a few things. First, like a lot of people, I like to talk about myself. Second, it's a lot easier to make fun of myself than it is to rip on highly-paid, finely-tuned athletes. And third, for the most part, the world of sports has a tendency to get boring.
Don't get me wrong. I love sports, but I love what takes place on the field. I love the box scores and the strategy. I am not always interested in what Pete Rose said or who got arrested for what. But try to write 900 words about the Oakland A's winning a regular season game 3-2 and you see why I have to make fun of myself all the time to fill space.
Speaking of just filling space, let's talk about all the times I've done that. Three come to mind right away. Once I made a list of "best of the century," which I claimed I wrote because everyone else was doing it, but let's face it, I had nothing else to write about.
Once I made up a story about a white, middle class boxer who lost in the heavyweight championship fight. It was pure fiction, fun to write, and I might make a novel out of it, but it's not a real sports column.
And finally, I was desperate for a column last semester so while some friends and I were sitting around watching a baseball game, I basically wrote out our dialogue on sports. The funny thing about this column, other than that I ripped off of my friends to meet a deadline, was that on Brian's Rumors Page, I was accused of ripping off both Sports Illustrated and the Rumors page itself. In fact, someone on the page was so incensed that I was called a "fag."
The accusations were laughable because I think my Sports Illustrated column still gets sent to some lucky freshmen who are living in my first year room in Haskell Hall, and the first time I signed onto Brian's page was when I was told my name had been mentioned. I guess that's the price you pay for having a high-profile column.
So I guess this column has turned into what a majority of my columns turn into, me making fun of myself. But, since this might be my last column ever, I should thank the Daily for continually giving me a column, despite the fact I was drunk at one of the elections. And in all sincerity, I want to thank anyone who has taken the time to read my columns over the past two and a half years. It means a lot.
