Think it’s easy to call a horse race? Our guy used to think that way, too.
That’s the headline on ESPN’s mainpage for Reilly’s last article, continuing the World Wide Leader’s and Reilly’s growing trend of lazy and asinine headlines. How many people out there really thought it was easy to call a horserace? How many people actually have ever thought about the relative difficulty or ease of calling a horserace, period? I would guess very few.
On another note, I recently learned how to do a screengrab! I know, I am well behind the times, whatever, luddite power!
I was watching the World Series game the other night, and it was all well and good. But for the first seven innings or so, I just had this nagging feeling that something was missing; that something wasn’t quite right. Finally, it came to me. I had no idea if Brett Myers was a good bowler or not. I had to know. Luckily, Tim McCarver came to the rescue.
Did you know that Brett Myers is the best bowler on the Phillies?! He rolled a 298! A 298! Even Ryan Howard, an avid bowler, says that Myers is the best! Wow!
Thanks, Tim. Thank you.
Now, I know that these little factoids and anectdotes are common, and sometimes spice up a broadcast, but Tim layed it on a bit thick. He went on, and on, and on. He went through two batters talking about how Brett Myers rolled a 298, a little screen graphic popped up that also told us that Brett Myers rolled a 298, and helpfully noted that 300 is the best you can possibly score. To make it even worse, McCarver kept trying to make all these wordplays and double entendres. It was as if he just then realized: “Hey! In bowling there’s a thing called a strike…and in baseball there’s a thing called a strike! And Brett Myers is pretty good at both of those things!”
You know how in the Madden games, Madden would say something like: “That guy played basketball in college, just a real athlete, and that helped him on that play”? And it would come up like 30 times a game and make you regret ever buying the game? That’s what listening to Tim McCarver was like on Saturday night.
I had to mute the TV a couple times just to keep from breaking it.
I think it’s about time for McCarver to hang ‘em up.
I haven’t posted in awhile. I know. Some people have made me aware of that…yes, there are at least a few people who read this blog, and yes, they did kind of yell at me for not posting. Well, I’m here to remedy that. Basically Rick had a few ho-hum columns, and that combined with my laziness is no good for this blog. Anyway…here’s this sterling offering from Rick’s (not)blog.
Charles Barkley joins Augusta National. Wanda Sykes is elected to the Supreme Court. “Dilbert” cartoons hang at the Met.
What!? You’ve got to be kidding me! No freaking way…that’s outrageous! These things happening would be like…like…like Nick Swisher joining the freaking Yankees! Mind-blowing.
That gives you an idea of what it’s been like having Nick Swisher suddenly join the New York Yankees.
Oh, hey. Look at that. I was right. For those of you that don’t know, Nick Swisher is a slightly better than mediocre baseball player. Also, just for clarification, the guy didn’t suddenly join the Yankees, he negotiated a contract with them in the offseason. Ok. Let’s move on.
Swisher is a guy who won’t stop laughing even when he brushes his teeth.
Dude seems happy.
The only time he says “no” is when they ask him if he’s had enough.
Insatiable. The man is insatiable.
He could make a colonoscopy fun.
Gross. I doubt it.
It’s actually a problem for the Yankee right fielder. “I smile so much, my cheek muscles are too built up and it makes my face look fat,” he says.
Poor guy. Maybe you should stop effing smiling so much, ya goon.
Not a problem you usually find with Yankees, who are generally stiffer than the center field monuments. Even moreso: the Yankees clubhouse, which has always been just slightly tighter than Jerry Jones’ face. Bounding into all this stodginess came the unsinkably happy kid from Ohio State and nothing’s been dull since.
This is a bit unfair to the other Yankees. Remember when Johnny Damon looked like a caveman and pulled…like…crazy antics and shit? I do.
“The first couple days I was here, it was a little stuffy, everybody was a little quiet, not talking too much,” Swisher says. ” … I guess the Yankees were more known for having a corporate-type atmosphere.”
Not anymore. Everything’s more fun since Nick at Night. For instance, he has 24 different home run handshakes — a different one for each teammate.
Nick at Night! 24 Handshakes!
“The weirdest one is with A.J. (Burnett). There’s some snapping, some fist bumping and it ends with some howling, like a wolf.”
He has more hairstyles than gloves: The Mohawk, the Fauxhawk, the Swishhawk and the Light Socket. “I saw Johnny Damon’s Jesus cut and I just decided to branch out,” he says. “Soon as we can grow facial hair again (banned on the Yankees), I might go with the full Jake Plummer Grizzly Adams.”
The Yankees will never un-ban facial hair, so this whole point is moot. Also the Swishhawk and Light Socket are not real haircuts, and as far as anyone can tell, Reilly just made them up to fill out a list.
He is the Yankees’ version of Kevin Millar, the crazy on the 2004 world champion Boston Red Sox team who made the clubhouse a nuthouse. Without Swisher, the Yankees aren’t this deep in the playoffs. He’s a human pressure-release valve.
Actually, the Yankees would probably be better off without Swisher. He replaced Bobby Abreu who the Yankees let go, and who is had one of the best seasons of his career. He had a far superior year than Swisher. Further, this whole thing about fun-loving little nutball guys causing wins because of their crazy shennanigans is a load of bull. It’s just a way to prop up likable guys who aren’t very good at baseball. Does anyone really think that A-Rod or Jeter plays better cause crazy-old Nick Swisher pantsed some middle reliever in the locker room before the game? Anyone besides Rick Reilly that is.
That’s his collage poster every player walks by on the way to the field. He works on it nearly every day. It’s a shine shrine. Everything on it is upbeat articles and photos reminding his teammates how great he thinks they are.
Nick Swisher is the Martha Stewart of the Yankees.
“My locker is the last one you see before you go out on the field,” he says. “So if a guy’s having a bad day, he can go by there and maybe get a little pick-me-up.”
Swisher’s been more than a little pick-me-up for the Yankees. He’s had one of the best seasons of his six-year Swish-hitting career (.249 in the regular season, with 29 jacks and 82 RBI), played all three outfield positions and first base, even pitched one shutout inning.
Swish-hitting! WOW! Yes, Swisher’s overall numbers look OK (except for his abysmal average, but he did most of that in the first half of the season. He didn’t even play much in the second half.
There are three things in this world everybody seems to like — Italian restaurants, refund checks and Nick Swisher, especially “Gossip Girl” actress Joanna Garcia. She’s dating the 28-year-old Swisher and can be seen at most Yankees home games.
Rick, are those really the three things you’re going to pick? Italian restaurants? Really? OK.
“She understands baseball,” Swisher says. “I’ll come home some nights after an oh-fer and she’ll go, ‘Your swing looked a little different tonight, Honey. Maybe your hands didn’t get back early enough?’ So I’m like, dang, maybe I need to start my swing a little earlier?”
I don’t understand how his bimbo girlfriend giving him hitting advice makes him any better and/or cooler. I really don’t.
You think Kate Hudson does that?
I dunno. Maybe she does. Who cares? Also, she doesn’t need to, because A-Rod is an incredibly good hitter, who doesn’t need baseball advice from a girl…unlike Swisher, who’s not all that good.
Swisher, who does not seem to need sleep, has been known to drag players to his favorite karaoke bar, where he sings a terrific version of Kings of Leon’s “Use Somebody.”
Honestly, who cares?
What’s funny is that all this time, the somebody the Yankees could’ve used was Swisher.
It’s not funny. And what they really needed was more really good baseball players, like C.C. Sabbathia, A.J. Burnett, and Mark Teixeira to go along with their other future Hall of Famers (incidentally, this group does not include Nick Swisher).
So, today, Reilly put a post up on his (not)blog, Go Fish. It’s a rant about calling a timeout at the last possible moment before a field goal. Whatever. Ho hum.
But it gets interesting. Because someone the day before (for a New York Times blog) put up a post with Bob Costas’s remedy. Here’s Rick’s and here’s the one from the day before by Tony Monkovic, who borrows an idea from Bob Costas (and attributes it to him).
Now, I’m not going to say outright that Reilly stole the idea, but it’s definitely fishy. Here’s Mankovic:
It’s [iceing the kicker] a very strange moment in sports.
With the game in the balance in the final seconds, a coach hopes that a player on the other team succeeds.
[...]
Is there an equivalent to this in any other sport around the world? (After I finally get to the point, maybe readers will be able to find an example.)
Consider Dallas Coach Wade Phillips’s state of mind on Sunday night. At the moment he chooses to call a timeout to nullify Giants kicker Lawrence Tynes’s field-goal attempt, he becomes a Tynes supporter. If Tynes misses, Phillips has cost his team a sure victory and he stands to be vilified (although Tynes still has another chance to miss and lose the game). Phillips has essentially made a bet and wants it to pay off. He wants Tynes to make it, justifying his timeout, then he wants him to miss the next one.
[...]
On the game broadcast, Bob Costas suggested a solution: don’t allow timeouts in the last five seconds in field-goal formations. It seems simple enough. But it turns out there is no support for this.
So today, Rick posted this:
[...] the lack of a rule barring NFL coaches from waiting until the last nanosecond to call a timeout, making the kicking team not only go through the entire FG for no reason but also scream with joy and hug like the game’s over, because it isn’t. They have to do it all again.
[...]
Imagine if this happened in any other sport. Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, 3-2 count, pitcher winds up, batter rips it over the left field fence, gets mobbed at home. Oops! Nope, the pitching team called a timeout seconds before it was released. Let’s do it all again.
Right, Monkovic brought that up as well, buddy. Just not in as idiotic a way.
There’s a simple fix. No team may call a timeout on a field goal attempt when the play clock is at less than five seconds.
[...]
Roger: Do it now. You’re welcome.
Yes, thank you, Rick for that very original insight. I’ve never heard that before….umm…except for when Costas said it and when Monkovic quoted Costas as saying it. I love how Reilly acts all high and mighty about “his” solution. “Thus I have spoken. Thus it shall be done.” Sure, it’s possible for different people to have the same ideas. But this post coming the day after Monkovic’s with basically the same argument, and the same solution is a little bit fishy. So take it as you will. At the very least, shouldn’t Reilly be checking to see if his articles, or posts, or whatever, have been done before? (Including, for instance, his last article on the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders) That sounds like due diligence to me. By the way, it’s very easy. The Mankovic post was the first thing that came up when I googled “timeout before a field goal.” Whatever. It’s the weekend. Have fun everybody.
IT’S HARD BEING A COWBOYS CHEERLEADER
If you’re going to make it in the Cowboys organization, you better cram like a sardine, because you’ll take written tests on everything from Cowboys history to Texas culture to world affairs.
Yeah…it’s hard reading your columns, too, but anything for the greater good of mankind. Anyway, for every bit of light-hearted whimsy (there are a couple bits) in this column, there’s two atrocities. So, buckle up.
First of all, this isn’t really true. You don’t take a written test on Cowboys history and a written test on Texas culture. It’s one test, and it’s not essay form. They’re mostly multiple choice questions or one-word answers.
Not to make the football team. To make the cheerleading team.
Let’s just move onto the next parag….Wait. Whhaaaattttt!!! No way! That must be a mistake, the cheerleaders couldn’t possibly have to take a test. This truly is shocking. What a great setup, Rick. Masterful. Really. You build it up in one direction, and then, BAM!, pull the rug out! Awesome.
The players don’t have to take any quizzes.
Whoa. He’s serious isn’t he? The cheerleaders take a test. Huh. Who knew?
Turns out, many, many people knew. So much so in fact, that this article has already been written. In May. Several times. Like here, here, here, here, and here. Plus, there was an entire reality show about the Cowboys cheerleaders (in 2008!) that dealt with this.
Way to go for the fresh subject matter, Rick.
If you’re 290 and can turn a running back into an oil stain, you could read at the equivalent of a mealworm and make it.
Reilly desperately needs to find another way of calling people stupid, other than his “mealworm” thing. It’s been in at least three columns in the past 3 months. It’s not funny. Never was funny. And just shows that Rick is uncreative and lazy.
It’s the cheerleaders who get grilled like it’s Final Jeopardy. They take a nearly 100-question test during tryouts and are asked to name everything from the governor of Texas to a country that borders Iraq.
Whatever man, it’s not like Wade Phillips or Jerry Jones makes them take the test, it’s the cheerleading coach. Also, those are not hard questions.
Remind me: What’s this got to do with pom-poms?
Tryout coordinator: “Amber, that was a terrific triple-twisting salchow, and landing in a split was a surprise, but I’m afraid you gagged on the cold-fusion question. Get out.”
They don’t have questions on cold fusion. You’re going to make this into some sort of issue, aren’t ya, Rick? You can’t just leave well enough alone, can you?
“We want our cheerleaders to be knowledgeable and well-spoken in interviews,” says Cowboys cheerleading boss Kelli Finglass. “If they’re not, it’s a deal breaker.”
Cowboys players get interviewed every day. Shouldn’t they have to take it? “Well, their job description is winning football games,” Finglass says.
Riiiiight.
Wait a second. That is their job description. Where’s the confusion here, Rick? They’re called football players, not, um, professors. Booya! Take that!
Besides, if Cowboys players had to pass the same quiz before they could make the team, many of them would be bouncers at Showgirls today.
Haha. Listen, maybe the cheerleaders don’t need to know about this stuff, but I think the larger point of the test is that they need to know something about football and the Cowboys in particular in order to cheer for the team. I think they’re trying to legitimize the whole thing beyond being soft-core porn.
And once again, it’s not the Cowboys organization imposing this test, it’s the damn cheerleading coach.
Which is exactly why we gave it to them.
Key word here…we. So some of Reilly’s minions went out and got answers to the questions. So Reilly only had to write half of an already short column this week.
Why not? Why should the cheerleaders have to know more than the players? It’s not like anybody from Fox is going up to a cheerleader after the game, asking, “Incredible game! Where do you think it ranks in Cowboys history?”
For the record, no one asks the players this either. Anyway, the questions come next. They’re not so bad…these are the bits of light-hearted whimsy I talked about. Point is…this is not a column. It’s Reilly prattling on about (maybe) the injustice of cheerleaders having to take a test while the players don’t. But he doesn’t really even argue that. It’s like he started writing the column (about something that a bunch of people wrote about 5 months ago), got tired, and then sent some interns to ask the Cowboys a few questions. This from a guy who gets like $35,000 per article.
We coerced 12 players into taking it. To their credit, they did it with good humor and open minds, just not always clever ones. Some examples:
Q: Name the Six Flags of Texas.
A very tough question. Only backup QB Jon Kitna nailed it. “Oh, my kids have been schooling me on this. Mexico, Spain, France, United States, Republic of Texas and the Confederacy. Thanks to my kids, I just learned that!” Nearly all 11 others thought it was an amusement park question. Need to get some kids.
Q: Name the two ex-Cowboys quarterbacks in the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
Everybody got it right except G Travis Bright, who answered Troy Aikman but forgot Roger Staubach, and S Pat Watkins, who answered, “Joe Namath and Troy Aikman.” Yep, who can forget ol’ Beltway Joe?
Q: Name a country that borders Iraq.
Ten of 12 got it right (Iran, Kuwait, Jordan, Syria, Saudi Arabia and Turkey), although WR Miles Austin and CB Orlando Scandrick said Afghanistan, which is about 750 miles away. Gotta at least pause at CNN once in a while, boys.
Q: Who is the governor of Texas?
This one was hopeless. Only TE Jason Witten and DE Marcus Spears got it right: Rick Perry. Interesting fact about the governor of Texas: He doesn’t have to take a quiz either.
Kill me now.
Q: List three lean proteins.
“Like, foods?” asked LB Keith Brooking.
Uh, yes, foods.
Hey, Rickster. Before you start patronizing a man who could crush you with his bare hands, just remember that there are lots of proteins that don’t mean foods.
“Tuna fish,” he tried. “I don’t know, man.”
Watkins replied, “Fish, chicken, duck.”
WR Sam Hurd listed, “Steak, chicken and pasta.”
Pasta? No. Some correct answers: fish, skinless poultry, lentils, beans, soy products and lean meats. Definitely not duck.
Q: In how many Super Bowls have the Dallas Cowboys appeared?
Pretty simple question, right? One that might come up in interviews, appearances, book signings? But only one player in 12 — Bright — answered correctly, with eight. Not to be harsh, but 70 percent of Texas schoolkids will get that one right.
Honestly, this really wouldn’t come up in everyday for any of these players. Hypothetically, it’s media day at the Super Bowl and the Cowboys are playing, do you really think someone’s going to come up to Miles Austen and ask him what number Super Bowl appearance this is for the ‘Boys? Cause I think that’s unlikely.
Overall, some of the Cowboys would’ve flunked before they got to show off their herkies, except DE Marcus Spears. He nailed nearly every question. That figures. Spears, who went to LSU, says friends made fun of him back when he was a kid for getting good grades and being smart.
This is incredible boring. How does this pass for a column? Seriously.
Me, if I were a Cowboy and things got crazy on the sideline this season and I had no idea what the coach just meant, I’d find Spears.
Like in case there was a big debate about whether or not duck is lean protein? Right. Good thing Spears is around. I can’t imagine the chaos that would ensue. Hell, Tony Romo might start throwing interceptions every other series. Oh, right, he does that anyway.
Or, better yet, a cheerleader.
There it is. Always leaving me laughing, buddy. Thanks! See you next week.
So, Reilly’s newest column is actually not all that egregious as far as subject matter is concerned. I personally never really liked MJ. Before everyone sends me hate rays across the interwebs, obviously I thought he was an amazing player and I really did enjoy Space Jam. It’s definitely number three on my list of best animation-live action hybrid movies…right behind Who Framed Roger Rabbit and Song of the South. I just never really liked MJ’s attitude. Also, he disgraced baseball. Most people agree that his Hall of Fame speech was pretty dick-ish. So that’s not really the issue here. The main issue is that Reilly really sucks at writing.
Be like Mike? No thanks
Michael Jordan’s Hall of Fame talk was the Exxon Valdez of speeches. It was, by turns, rude, vindictive and flammable. And that was just when he was trying to be funny. It was tactless, egotistical and unbecoming. When it was done, nobody wanted to be like Mike.
Nope. Sorry, buddy. The Exxon Valdez oil spill is not an apt metaphor. Well, it might have been had you not tried to elaborate. Fine. MJ was rude and vindictive, but I don’t think the Exxon Valdez tanker was curmudgeoningly taking revenge upon Prince Williams Sound. Perhaps you were looking for the word “crude,” that would have had been a good similarity between the speech and the tanker…except that Jordan wasn’t crude. So. No. And yes, while oil is flammable, Jordan’s speech was not flammable (perhaps the word you were searching for was imflammatory–which kind of, maybe, but only if you really forced it, could have applied to both). My my, Rick, you are not off to a good start. I mean, you could have just said MJs Hall of Fame speech was the Exxon Valdez of speeches–a disaster. Or something like that. But you opted for the borderline illiterate route. You’re so predictable.
And yet we couldn’t stop watching. Because this was an inside look into the mindset of an icon who’d never let anybody inside before. From what I saw, I’d never want to go back. Here is a man who’s won just about everything there is to win — six NBA titles, five MVPs and two Olympics golds. And yet he sounded like a guy who’s been screwed out of every trophy ever minted. He’s the world’s first sore winner.
Do you remember that article you wrote yelling about sore winners? Cuz I do. I wrote about it. Here. You should really check out my site to keep everything straight. I know it’s tough to keep track of such a prolific portfolio.
In the entire 23-minute cringe-athon, there were only six thank yous, seven if you count his sarcastic rip at the very Hall that was inducting him. “Thank you, Hall of Fame, for raising ticket prices, I guess,” he sneered. By comparison, David Robinson’s classy and heartfelt seven-minute speech had 17. Joe Montana’s even shorter speech in Canton had 23. Who wrote your speech Mike? Kanye West?
Holy crap!! Rick! You used a fresh pop culture reference! You should probably retire. Go out on a high note. Again, yes, MJ was kind of a bastard in his speech. I agree with you. (He did thank Scottie Pippin profusely, though, in fairness).
Not that Jordan’s speech wasn’t from the heart. It was. It’s just that Jordan’s heart on this night could give you frostbite. Nobody was spared, including his high school coach, his high school teammate, his college coach, two of his pro coaches, his college roommate, his pro owner, his pro general manager, the man who was presenting him that evening, even his kids!
Wow. Looks like you hate MJ about as much as I hate you. Incredible.
”I wouldn’t want to be you guys if I had to,” he said as they squirmed in their seats.
He even mocked his own brothers, calling them maybe 5-foot-5 and 5-6. Actually, they’re about 5-8 and 5-9. Michael was the one blessed with the height gene, not the tact one.
I like how the one time since he started working at ESPN (and alomst assuredly longer than that) that Reilly did an iota of research it was to find out the heights of Michael Jordan’s brothers.
–I’m going to skip ahead a bit here, cause there’s a couple of ho-hum paragraphs. Then Rick starts relating it back to himself and how he’s an intrepid reporter, and how MJ shunned him and that’s really why he hates him so much, just like Sammy Sosa. With Sosa and Jordan, Reilly actually got a real, live jouralistic scoop, and they denied it, and then it came out later, Reilly was right, but was made to look bad because they denied this. If anything, this makes me like Sosa and Jordon so much more.
Jordan owes a roomful of apologies. But it’ll never happen. I know firsthand.
And he didn’t invite me to his birthday party….meanie.
Before his second comeback — with the Washington Wizards — I was the first out with the story by a month. Jordan and his agent, David Falk, denied it, said I was crazy, practically said I was smoking something. Then, after a month of lies, Jordan admitted it was all true. I saw him in the locker room before his first game back and said, “You wanna say something to me, maybe?”
What a baby. This sort of thing happens to journalists all the time. Yes, it sucks. Yes, that was maybe low-class of Jordon, but get over it dude.
And he said, “You know you don’t get no apologies in this business.”
It’s true. You don’t get apologies. You’ve never apologized for a single one of your terrible columns. You’ve never apologized or given people their money back after buying one of your stupid golf novels. You haven’t apologized to ESPN and SI for stealing from them.
So I wouldn’t hold your breath.
They called it an “acceptance” speech, but the last thing Jordan seems to be able to do is accept it’s over. In fact, Jordan hinted that he might make yet another comeback at 50.
I just hope Comeback No. 3 doesn’t come with a speech.
Because then I’m really screwed.
Why? Why would you be screwed? Because you think he’ll make fun of you? I highly doubt that MJ remembers that incident with you. Whatever.
The guy still had some awesome dunks. Let’s watch.
693 reasons it’s tough to get an ace
Everyone and their grandma has a hole-in-one. I want mine
Here we go folks! Another riveting column by our esteemed friend, Rick Reilly. It’s about how he hit a fake hole-in-one. At times you get the sense that maybe, just maybe, it’s all tongue-in-cheek. But no. He’s serious.
I got sick of reading the stories, is why I did it. I know it was wrong and unethical and even unholy, but I just couldn’t stand the stories anymore.
A 5-year-old in Belleville, Ill., sank a hole-in-one … A 102-year-old woman became the oldest ever to ace … A man in Bowling Green, Ohio, has now made holes-in-one both right- and lefthanded.
Really? Because I’ve been playing since I was 13, and I’m 51 now and not hideous, and I’ve never made one righty, lefty, with a walker, a lollipop or anything in between. So maybe they can all kindly choke on a divot?
It’s probably all payback for your years of shitty columns…and shame on you for wanting a five-year-old and an extremely old woman to choke on a lump of grass. What kind of person are you?
The one that made me snap was this one: 62-year-old Unni Haskell of St. Petersburg, Fla., made an ace a few months ago on the first swing she ever took on a course.
And that’s when I lost it. I vowed to go to my local par-3 course and keep playing, round and round, like a rat after cheese, until I made a hole-in-one. I didn’t care if it took me an hour, a week, a month.
The real crime here is that Rick has time to do this while raking in $2 million a year from ESPN. They really need to make him work harder.
With my 22-year-old son and caddie, Jake (he’s made one — barefoot!), I arrived at the Golf Courses at Hyland Hills, in Westminster, Colo., and set out on the dinky nine-hole North Course: 673 yards total.
1.) Why was your son golfing barefoot? Is this another lie your telling to spice up your column? Like the one where you made up a bunch of friends?
2.) 673 yards is only slightly longer than many par 5s. You totally suck, Rick.
“My dad’s made five,” said Hyland’s director of golf, Todd Coover (seven). “One went off a tree. I kid you not!”
That seven-year-old kid did not say “I kid you not.” I guarantee you. Rick’s making things up again.
“How cool!” I lied, chewing through my lip.
The odds against making an ace are about 12,500-1. I guessed I’d played 50 rounds a year for 38 years. That’s 7,600 par 3’s. At that pace, I’d have my ace when I turned 75. Maybe. Unless I did the sensible thing: cheat.
Why would you do that? Can you really feel good about yourself going about this way? Well, I guess you do cheat your way to piles of money.
I figured at 10 shots a hole, nine holes a round, seven rounds a day, my ace would arrive in no more than eight days. I would be divorced, unemployed and fused at the T3 and T5 vertebrae, but I’d finally be a golfer.
Divorced…probably not—I bet your wife likes the paycheck. Paralyzed…maybe. Unemployed…well, that’s the dream, but highly unlikely considering you’ve gone 8 days without writing a column on several occasions.
My first shot missed. So did my second. In fact, my first 63 missed. My 64th, though, hit the pin and … rolled away. My 77th lipped out. “We’ll be done by lunch!” yelled Jake, standing by the hole and pounding his baseball glove, ready to catch any shots that didn’t have a chance.
But after three loops, I was 0-for-270. Many of them gloved.
After 5 hours 43 minutes — and five loops — I was fried like a fritter and 0-for-450, with two pins, two lip-outs and one O.B. (don’t ask). Jake was looking like he wanted to be adopted. “We’re really doing this again tomorrow?” he groaned.
His poor son. Hell, I would have demanded emancipation long ago.
You bet your inheritance we are.
Oh yeah…the inheritance thing. Eh, I’d rather be poor than Rick Reilly’s son.
Day 2: 20 more; 120 more; 200 more. Nothing. I repeated holes. I skipped holes. I hit 20 shots per hole. I tried not caring, caring too much, singing, one-handed, Happy Gilmore … all useless. The golf gods had spited me.
Yes. They did. Because you’re an idiot who’s trying to cheat his way to a hole-in-one. I find it unsurprising that you go about your other life activities the same way you go about writing your columns.
As my back spasmed and hands gnarled and Jake’s eyes became shark-dead, I asked myself, What if I never do it? Am I less of a person? Besides, Ben Hogan never had one, right?
Yes, amazingly you are less of a person. Not because you haven’t hit a hole-in-one, but because of the way you’re going about it. I thought you had hit rock bottom, but you’ve proved me wrong once again, Rick.
My self answered: 1) You’ll feel like ferret droppings; 2) yes; and 3) Hogan had two.
And then, when all seemed hopeless, on my 694th shot of the quest, on the tiny 52-yard second, I hit a gorgeous little punch sand wedge that went straight as a Jonas Brother, landed exactly 11 feet from the pin and rolled directly and obediently into the cup like a happy little gopher off to bed.
Hey-O! Jonas Brother joke! All is forgiven.
52 YARDS!! Give me 2 hours and I’ll bet you I could throw a couple in from that distance. Or kick. Ridiculous. You can’t actually be excited about this can you, Rick?
Ho-lee hole-out!
Apparently you can be.
Reilly sure is taking his doucheness to a whole new level with that shirt
Jake threw his glove about 50 feet high. I threw my sand wedge god knows where. We ran at each other like we were in a feminine hygiene TV ad. We collided in midair — me falling on my sore back and Jake falling on top of me. And it didn’t even hurt.
Wait. What? This happens in feminine hygiene ads? What? Creepy. You’re creepy, Reilly.
I had done it. I had achieved the achievable. Climbed the world’s smallest mountain. Slept with Madonna. It had taken 6 hours 23 minutes, over 500 ball-mark fixes and 12 Advil, but it was done. Suck on that, Unni Haskell.
Yeah, you stupid old woman! Suck on that! Eat it, bitch!
To the pro shop to report the news!
“I hate to tell you this,” Todd Coover whispered, “but it’s not technically recognized by the PGA. Sorry.” And I thought, Umm, Todd? I was hitting 20 balls per hole! On a golf course the size of a throw rug! What made you think I gave a mole’s pimple about “official”?
Not only is it not official, it’s like not even real. It was 52 yards. Every 8 handicap and under in the world makes those chips on a daily basis. You made a chip shot, Rick. I bet you’ve done that a bunch of times. This is not a hole-in-one.
The reaction from my friends was also less than congratulatory.
“A 50-yard ace?” e-mailed my pal the Vanilla Gorilla (two). “That’s like a 150-foot putt.”
Well said Vanilla Gorilla (once again, a totally made up name). I hate how Rick feels the need to give his buddies “cool” nicknames that are so obviously contrived and forced that they don’t work at all. Vanilla Gorilla? C’mon. That is totally fake.
Do I care? No. Am I going to tell people how I came to mine (one)? No. And what will I say when I read the next story about a legless 104-year-old blind nun who got her first hole-in-one Tuesday while a live wombat chewed on her clavicle?
You don’t care because you’re a weasely little shit, and—and I hate to break this to you, Rick—you wrote an article about how you made your “hole-in-one,” so the cat’s outta the bag. I guess that’s the price you pay for another easy column to mail in.
And the nun-wombat joke is absolutely not funny. It’s just not. Please stop it.
“Damn! What took her so long?”
I said stop it.
Thank you. Now, just to highlight how big of a loser Reilly is, I want to point your attention to this story about Steve Blass–World Series-winning pitcher, real man, apparently wonderful golfer. Blass not only got a hole-in-one the real way–he got two! In the same round! 8 holes apart! Bringing his grand total up to 3. So, for those of you scoring at home it’s Blass 3-Reilly 0.
I have been remiss. I know. I apologize. However, contrary to what Rick Reilly and the rest of those elitist, so-called “real” writers would have you believe, I do not live in my mother’s basement. I have a job and a wife and 3 month old son (yes, yes, I’ve been making him hold stuff with his left hand, not to worry) to take care of. Still, that is no excuse for this incredibly long lay-off. So in the next two days I promise I’ll get some posts up. Including, but not limited too Rick’s stupid hole-in-one story. Until then…here are some links to enjoy.
—I think I saw this on Deadspin a couple of weeks back…so for some it may be a repeat…but…wow…I get the feeling that this guy’s job at WaWa might not be cutting it as a reason to live. [YouTube]
—Here’s a great deconstruction of Peter King’s latest by our friends at Bottom of the Barrel.
—Saw this on Mondesishouse and thought I should share. It’s crappy home video-type footage of a Snoop Dogg concert that also features Santonio Holmes and Lamar Woodley of the Steelers. Three quick thoughts.
1.) After Santonio’s little marijuana mishap last year, is Snoop the guy he should be hanging out with?
2.) Are all of Snoop Dogg’s concerts like this? I mean, are there always like 50 people on the stage with him just kind of milling around? This seems weird to me.
3.) How on earth was it ever cool to do the Fo-shizzle my nizzle, you can come to my hizzle thing? Was it just because Snoop Dogg said it and so it automatically had to be cool? Because really, that’s really lame. It’s like baby talk or Pig Latin.
—Here’s a good take on that reporter who wrote the outrageous sports column that kind of had to do with that girl being held in that guy’s yard for 19 years. From firejaymariotti. Enjoy.
—Finally, be thankful you’re not a Pirates fan like me. From the Pittsburgh Tribune Review. This made me cry.
In awe of the Williams sisters
It’s U.S. Open time, and the choice is obvious: Venus or Serena?
Or….third option…is Groundhog Day on TNT again? Rick, this column was done about a million times 10 years ago when the Williams sisters first got big. And it’s Tennis, so nobody really cared then and they certainly don’t care now. So why on earth are you doing this article? By the way….who wouldn’t rather watch Groundhog Day?
What if I told you about two white brothers from a trailer park on the tattooed side of the tracks? Their father decides — against all logic — to teach them a rich man’s sport, golf, even though he’s a complete chop himself. They become great on the weedy public courses, turn pro and dominate the sport. Just wipe the Tour up. Golf harrumphs in disbelief.
I’d say, “OK,” then go back to watching sports that are actually fun to watch until Sunday when golf tournaments finally get interesting.
Then the two brothers grow disinterested with golf and get into motorcycle building. They nearly stop playing altogether. Then they grow disinterested with being disinterested and decide, What the hell, let’s go thump again. So they crush all new saps, until it’s obvious nearly every major is going to be won by one or the other.
Great hypothetical story, Rick. I especially love the part about them getting disinterested in being disinterested. Seriously man…absurdist theatre to the max, buddy! It’s so…Waiting for Godot. Love it. Now shut the hell up.
Preposterous?
Indubitably.
Well, change their color to black, their sex to female and their sport to tennis, and you have the Williams sisters, who now have 18 majors between them — 11 for Serena and seven for Venus. Eighteen! If this were golf, Serena would be tied with Walter Hagen for third, and Venus would be tied with Bobby Jones, Arnold Palmer, Sam Snead and others for seventh. From one family, one coach, one house in Compton. It’s the single most underplayed story in American sports in the past 25 years. Where’s their postage stamp?
Ohhhhh. I see. So this is about race and gender and about how tennis is somehow an inferior sport to golf. It’s one of those ones, isn’t Rick? And another thing: It’s not effing men’s golf, Reilly, it’s women’s tennis. WOMEN’S TENNIS!! Where they would rank among major wins on the PGA tour has no basis in reality whatsoever. It’s a totally weird point, that doesn’t help your argument in the least. Is his point that we would have noticed the two white trash male golfers, but we don’t notice the black women tennis players?That’s just dumb. People have noticed the Williams sisters for years. The reason no one cares anymore is because they’ve been around for like twelve years and no one likes tennis. And why try to compare the Williams sisters to Arnie Palmer and Bobby Jones? Makes no sense.
Do you realize a Williams has six of the past 11 women’s majors? That they’ve outlasted not one generation of rivals but two? Martina Hingis, Justine Henin, Lindsay Davenport, Jennifer Capriati. All gone.
I didn’t realize it, and I bet a lot of others didn’t realize it either…but it’s not because they’re black women, it’s because no one cares about tennis.
There has never been a sibling combo like this in American sports history. Baseball’s DiMaggios, Waners, Alous? Not even close. Skiing’s Mahres? No way. Football’s Mannings? Please. One championship each?
You’re probably right. But guess what? We got all this shoved down our throats 10 years ago when they first hit tennis. This story has been done a bajillion times, and since it’s about TENNIS, nobody really cared then, and they certainly don’t care now.
The Williams sisters are bigger than sports. Their achievements rank with any set of sisters in American history, along with the Stillwells — Revolutionary War heroines — and the Andrews Sisters, the biggest American singing act in the 1940s. The only difference is the Williamses are in their second decade of greatness, going on a third.
Alllll right now. Listen, I could handle the utter stupidity of this article for awhile, but I’ve hit my breaking point. The Williams sisters are certainly not on the level of a couple of freaking war heroes. War heroes, Rick. They were war heroes. The Williams sisters play tennis…like the 15th most popular sport in America. But, you know what, if they were male golfers they’d been in the same league as Arnie Palmer and Bob Jones. So, I guess you’re right.
The problem is deciding which one you want to have win the next major. It’s no good just throwing your hands up and saying, “It’s going to be a Williams.” You have to pick one. You can’t root for both the Yankees and the Red Sox, the Clintons and the Bushes, Coke and Pepsi. You have to choose: Venus or Serena. They’re two entirely different people with entirely different personalities.
Thanks for clearing that up. All this time I thought they were co-joined twins. Now that would be a feat! Winning eighteen majors all while playing tennis like it was a crazed three-legged race! Let’s get that on TV—I guarantee it would be more popular than regular tennis. Also, I find that the right blend of Pepsi and Coke has a delightfully unique taste…so go suck an egg, Reilly.
Siamese Twins?
Venus is like grass courts, steady and calm. Serena is like hardcourts, slick and fast. Venus kills you with her forehand. Serena kills you with her backhand. Venus takes too few chances. Serena takes too many. When they screw up, Venus glares, Serena smiles.
Awww….it just. Keeps. Going. On. And. On. And. On.
I get the feeling that Rick is republishing a failed sitcom pitch here.
Venus talks about nothing but tennis. Serena talks about anything but tennis. Serena will do 45 minutes on the TV show she’s writing or her book that’s coming out (On the Line, in September) or her last Twitter tweet. To wind Venus up, ask her about equal prize money.
As kids, Venus was the one you let babysit. Serena was the one you got babysat. They’re still like that. Venus is 29 going on 40. Serena is 27 going on 18. Once, at Wimbledon, when Serena was confused about what to do in front of royalty, Venus whispered into her ear, “Curtsy.”
Aggghhhh! Son of a bitch, man! We get it! We fother mucking get it! What do you want us to do? Leap out of our seats in surprise and exclaim: “Holy Bojangles! These two girls are sisters…and yet…and yet, they’re so DIFFerent!! How extraordinary!
Sheesh.
Anyone that has a sibling knows that siblings are different.
Venus keeps most of it in, and Serena lets most of it out. Or don’t you remember those swimsuit pictures? Venus is a reader. Serena is a reality-TV freak. Venus dates a golfer, Hank Kuehne. Serena dates a rapper, Common. Are there two more opposite dates?
They’re both fashionistas, but Serena likes to push it: the Lycra catsuit, the denim skirts with boots, the white trench coat. And that’s just stuff she’s worn on the court.
Sisters! Different! But still sisters!
Also, this is a neat trick here that Rick has tried to pull. He’s been going on and on talking about how crazily different from one another these sisters are (I still can’t get over how incredible that is!!!) in the hopes that we’ll forget he thinks they are larger than sports and more important to freaking America than some Revolutionary War heroes.
Good effort, Rick, but you’ve got to get up prettttty early…
Serena’s the better player, but that’s like saying Paris is the richer Hilton. They’re both a NASA space launch past everybody else right now. Their only legit competition is the Russians, and lately the sisters have made them look like weekend coaches at the Moscow Country Club.
Paris Hilton as chic pop-culture reference is, like, sooooo 2005.
Go ahead. Take your time picking your Williams. Thanks to their dad’s brilliant long-term coaching strategy — and their desire to step back from tennis to study fashion and acting — their minds and legs are fresh. They’re not burned-out (Capriati, Hingis, Henin), and they’re not worn-out (Rafael Nadal). They plan on kicking booty through the 2012 Olympics and maybe, they say, clear through the 2016 Games.
I like how he talks about their dad’s wonderful coaching strategy as if it’s a…well, a wonderful coaching strategy rather than what it really was: him being an attention-hungry, money grubbing bastard who pretty much exploited his little daughters and forced them to do nothing but play tennis forever.
But if somebody doesn’t throw them a ticker-tape parade pretty soon, I’m running for Congress.
Oh goodness. I’m sincerely begging everyone out there. Please, DO NOT throw a ticker-tape parade for the Williams sisters. Please….DO NOT. Think of all the material I would have if Rick Reilly decided to run for Congress. I think we should all e-mail every day to remind him that as of yet, there has not been a ticker-tape parade, and as per your column, you need to run for Congress.
