Haterade, U.S. Open-Style

Ok. So it's been awhile. Sue us.

Life got all icky and ridiculous and we all forgot to regale our audience of one (hi, GM's mom!) with our mad sportz skillzzzzzzzzz. Alas.

Whatevs. We're here now. Weep with joy, imaginary readers. Weep with JOY.

So I'm watching the Tiger Woods arthroscopic surgery TO GREATNESS feature on SportCenter. Grunting like he's Kerri Strug or all sock-bloodied or whatever. "Tiger Woods PERSEVERES to win a THIRD U.S. open championship." I must've blocked this whole bit of ridiculousness out of my mind.

Really? REALLY?

Quothe a casual acquaintance:

Philip Rivers played half a football season with a torn ACL (the same injury Tiger had), had surgery the Monday after a playoff game and played football the next Sunday. Travis Henry, motivated by a need to pay child support for his 11 kids and 10 babymamas (true story; one of them had twins), played two months of football on a broken leg. He was a running back, folks. Not swinging at a ball sitting on a tee and having a lacky carry his clubs and drive him around in a cart. But, oh lawdy lawd, it's TIGER WOODS! There has never been a greater story of "overcomance" and triumph in all of sports, nay, in the history of humanity, than Tiger Woods'. King David wishes he accomplished half as much as TIGER WOODS has. Did you see how he pumped his fist, despite the knee pain? AMAZING!

<- Indeed.

But see, it's not enough that we have to hear of the Wood-sian triumph against all odds. No. Now we've got another story for the ages. Phil Mickelson's wife has cancer and the entire SportsCenter staff wet itself with glee.

"I'd love to see him...erm...as a sportswriter, I'd love to see him win." - Rick Reilly on SportCenter. Because being impartial is overrated and for us peons in the journalism world. I HATE YOU.

Also: Why do I keep watching U.S. Open coverage, especially when it inspires such rage? I don't know.

Either way, here's my gift, from me to you.

(And in case you feel this lacks ambiance, just imagine Jeremy Schaap saying these words, Overly Dramatic Pauses of Impending Pestilence and all.)

Phillip Mickelson tweaked his club against the mossy green and watched as the milky white orb slowly descended to what nearly everyone in the partial crowd at Bethpage Black silently prayed would be a home in the circular abyss on the 18th hole.

His wife, Amy, stood behind him - the lump in her throat matching the one in her breast. The tears collected in the corners of her aquamarine eyes now, for a different reason that the one that has caused so many tears and so much heartache in past months. She waited, like just another spectator, for the tell-tale dip and the sound of white rubber hitting hollow plastic.

That sound never came.

Of course, from the eons of coverage that I've watched (sigh. I need a life), I know that Amy won't actually be there, but will, instead, be watching from her sickbed. But I imagine Mister Schaap will imagine her there, anyway. It will sound better, and it ain't like this is about her.