Welcome to a Deflategate Free Zone.
Besides all that Tom vs. Roger way way way too much ado about zilch has been bumped from the sports pages like a Hanson Brothers hipcheck by the big question of the week.
Who’d win a smackdown between this week’s premier badasses?
In one corner, there’s Dez Bryant, who, in his most recent scuffle, drew a no discernable winner practice field push and shove with wannabe Dallas DB Tyler Patmon. Who happens to be a fellow former Okie State Cowboy.
In the other corner, we are smitten with the baddest dudette — perhaps ever — on the 3d Rock from the Sun, Ms. Ronda Rousey.
Not that I’m a betting man, but my money’s on Ms. R. Dez would have about as much chance with Rousey as Entourage’s Turtle did. She’d prevail in the ring. Probably in a minute or less, or so her past performances would indicate. And she’d win the post bout press conference. And on the runway before the awards show. Continue reading Tuesday’s Tattle: Pharoah, Rousey Rule; Tiger’s Meow →
One of the annual traditions of the Masters every April in Augusta is that the defending champ gets to choose the menu for the dinner that precedes the next year’s tourney.
If the U.S.Open were to have such a ritual, it would be only fitting that Jordan Spieth’s repast before next year’s event would feature broccoli.
Since that’s the clever but derogatory descriptor most mentioned by this year’s Open participants, when describing the nature of the bumpy, multi-hued “greens” of Chambers Bay.
It was a lovely but most quirky venue indeed.
In the end though, carping legit or otherwise notwithstanding, the course was not the story.
Neither was Dustin Johnson’s choke job on the 72d. Though he had a makeable eagle putt for the W, and an even easier “gimme” for birdie and a spot in a playoff, neither of which he drained. Continue reading Masters, Open in Hand, Spieth Spies Slam →
Back before they supersized Churchill Downs, making it casino-ready, ripping away much of its timeless charm, turning it into the equivalent of an Oldham County McMansion with too many rooms and roofs and vaulted ceilings, there were nooks and crannies of the facility that were ageless.
There was a minor eating venue along the brick walkway underneath the first floor clubhouse, almost to the first turn. You could stroll in there on Derby Day, and it felt like yesteryear, like the ladies should be wearing bustles; the gentlemen, fedoras.
You could almost hear the touts whispering, “It’s gonna be Old Rosebud’s day.”
That spot , gone with reconstruction, comes to mind in the wake of the aftermath of American Pharoah’s Triple Crown triumph. Continue reading Friday Final Edition: Pharoah, Pitino & Iggy →