The Ryder Cup. In this golf fan’s humble opinion, it is second only to The Master’s.
Perhaps one of the greatest events in SPORTS, not just golf, the Ryder Cup is about patriotism.
It’s about America. Us versus them.
It’s absolutely awesome and you don’t even need to like this weird game of hitting a small white ball with a stick to appreciate it. The 92nd edition of the Cup opened this morning just outside Paris, France… at 2:00 am, and yours truly actually dragged myself out of a deep slumber to tune in. Now, I can’t get out of the sack to make the kids lunch… or get to work… or “live a productive life”, but the Ryder Cup only comes around every two years so I was like a cardiac surgeon on call. Steady, ready… BOOM!
In my narcoleptic-like haze at 4:17AM, I starting examining the players participating in this year’s matchup. As I pondered further into my caffeine-fueled awakened state, I imagined what these young (not you Phil) men were like in their younger years. It caused me to put pen to paper and here is where I am at.
What were the US Ryder Cup Team like as kids?
Bryson is the thinking man’s golfer. Goes against the grain. Very scientific approach to the game. OK, I got you figured out, bub. Your name is Bryson. You went to a fancy prep-middle-school kind of shit. You were cerebral. Intriguing to teachers and peers. You probably sat in your room doing a Rubix Cube with one hand and dissecting a frog with the other. You accidentally found a golf club, which you thought was Merlin’s wand, and for some crazy reason, you knew what to do with it. Good on you, Erkel. Otherwise, you probably would be in a lab somewhere trying to re-split the atom with your stupid signature scally cap you don.
The newcomer. You probably never heard him, but he has made a big splash this year. The silly and charming fella from, wait, what? Utah? Sure, I’ll buy that. Tony was likely a do-gooder as a lad (and Mormon?). Brushed his teeth, combed his hair and did his homework. Found out he could swing a mashie and found a one-way ticket out of Polygomaniastan. I like Tony.
The fact that he spells is “Rickie” scream one thing; incest. Rickie is a quiet southern kind of guy. Guessing he was goofy as a kid, …spending hot summer days buying cigarettes for his half-step Mom, Carla, while walking his dog/brother Zeke to the 5 and Dime (and his boss WAS Mr. McGee), someone figured out Cooter could spank a Titleist. Add a little Oklahoma makeover and a splash of Puma orange and Viola! He is now married to the sexiest pole vaulter in history and worth more than the entire Sooner state. Hey, Rickie…you win, pal.
While Philly Boy figured out the ropes of life and golf at a young age. Charming, handsome and witty, Flip was playing chess when the rest of class was playing hopscotch (something like that?). Phil was the 13-year-old kid who got all the answers to his algebra test from the teacher’s 19-year daughter he was banging… all while betting on the 9 horse at Pimlico.
Too easy. Insert your own bio for a young Eldrick.
You can’t name your kid “Brooks” if Dad works graveyard shift at the power plant and Mom is a waitress at I-Hop (well, of course Tiger… never mind). Brooks likely had life all teed up (pun intended) from the day he fell out of Mrs. K’s, undoubtedly, gold and diamond laced vagina. Never having to study, work or have to feel the empty emotion of losing, BK was the kid that got asked to Prom, by the Prom Queen… when he was in 6th grade… and said no because he was already going to the “Delta Kappa Sorority Slut Off Party” at Florida State the same night. I hate you.
DJ is a simple one. Literally, he is simple. My hunch is he was the best athlete in the school but was bounced out of spelling bee with the word “dog” (we all know there are 3 Gs, DJ). Teachers had to pass him through because Coach Takeadvantageofski was drooling at the dreams of making young Dustin a legend. Mission accomplished, Coach. And while all mountains of cocaine and rivers of booze did not help little Dusty’s two-digit IQ, he still ended up the number one golfer in the word and is married to the daughter of an athlete who is actually better than him. And so the match goes to Mr. Johnson. Now come over and collect your shiny object you big, village idiot.
I picture this little prick as the kid that held his breath if he didn’t get his way. Too small to be the school yard bully, I bet he teamed up with the big kids and found way to collect half of the stolen lunch money which he discretely hid in Size 5 Foot Joys. Punk.
Guessing he was a crier? After undergoing habitual abuse at Our Lady of Perpetual Sobbing Bible Camp, Bubba needed to take his left-handed anger out on a golf ball. It’s not your fault, Big Man, it’s not your fault. Now, take this box of Kleenex and get a hold of yourself, chief.
Look, honestly, this guy seems like just your average entitled golf brat. In between sailing lessons and caviar tastings, Webb found as golf swing. But look, pal, unless your parents are Spiderman and Homer, you just can’t walk around being known as Webb Simpson. I’m sorry…just giving it to you straight.
Not a bad word to say about this guy. Just a kick-ass Texas kid. He held doors open for old ladies, brought the teacher an apple and watered Mom’s ficus plant. Don’t see a lot of character flaws here. But noone can be as seemingly “good” as St. Jordan, so my best guess is the second half of his life will be filled with regret, shame and misery…ya know, kinda like Tiger’s 30s (well, depends on how you look at it?)
Best for last. I hate Patrick Reed. Pompous little round mound of sound. I can sum up what he was like as a youth real easy. Patrick was the fat, annoying kid that nobody liked but was awesome at kickball so you had to pick him for your team anyway. Suck it, Tubby.
And there you have it. Depending on the scoreboard and my sleep schedule, I may attempt to analyze the European team tomorrow.