This is my first love in golf. And not just because he cuts such a dashing figure on the course, with his wasp waist, broad shoulders, and legs for days. Despite him utterly flubbing the U.S. Open yesterday, it is my plan to remain hopelessly devoted because he is the ultimate athlete – unbelievably talented, laser-focused, exceptionally driven. And, by all accounts, quite a nice guy off the course, oriented towards family and generous with both his time and his money (although I really wish he would see the light and quit shilling for Nike).
Still, I am considering cheating with this man:
I know. Angel Cabrera is wrong, all wrong. He smokes – cigarettes! – between holes. He's got a gut. He looks like he'd rather do anything but work out and I bet he doesn't even know what dental floss looks like, much less broccoli.
Yesterday, he finished a few holes ahead of Tiger, who, had he not squandered any number of easy peasy birdie opportunities, would have forced a play off. So where was Cabrera while Tiger finished up? Was he out hitting balls to stay warmed up? Tensely pacing? Conferring with his caddy? Nope, he was yucking it up with all and sundry back at the club house, his entire demeanor broadcasting, "Hey, I win, I win. I play off, I play off. Now, get me another cigarette and some wine."
Gah. I bet the dude is one hell of a lot of fun.
As for Tiger, I'm not ready to pack my bags just yet. Cabrera, well, he could be a one hit wonder (and I so do needs me a golfer with staying power). But Tiger, he's got to get back on game. I will wait, but I won't hold my breath.