I mentioned in last week’s column when talking about the good and the bad that there was a lady on Facebook, who I don’t know, who commented on a comment referring to one Eldrick Tont “Tiger” Woods, something about him being an embarrassment to the game.
I was going to scale the proverbial soapbox and blast her with indisputable numerological proof that without Woods, no one on Tour today would be making nearly as much each week. I was going to remind her, firmly and with just the right touch of rudeness, about the genius factor of the guy’s talent. And further remind her what columnist Michael Fitzpatrick told us back in 2008 – “Tiger Woods has done more for the game of golf and more for the rest of the players on tour than could have ever been foreseen.”
And I was going to finish by saying that if Tiger wants to be out there shanking it around when he’s 80, she needs to get over it.
But I’m not going to say any of that because I believe, unlike many current debaters, and hecklers, and heckling debaters, that everyone has a right to her opinion.
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Sad news came Saturday with the passing of Frank Gifford.
I will mostly remember Gifford in the booth with Howard Cosell and Dandy Don Meredith every Monday night. I’ll especially remember him during a particularly grim one back in December of 1980, when more, much more, of the music died.
It was Washington Post reporter Cindy Boren, in an article about Meredith, who wrote that the broadcasters were divided that night on whether or not to announce the news about John Lennon being shot and killed. Gifford thought they should, while Cosell disagreed. It was Gifford who won.
As the NFL’s only British player, John Smith, came on the field to try a field goal for the New England Patriots, Gifford said, “Three seconds remaining, and John Smith is on the line. And I don’t care what’s on the line, Howard, you have got to say what we know in the booth.”
Cosell responded with the following words in that way and voice only he had.
“Yes, we have to say it. Remember, this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City. John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous perhaps of all of The Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital. Dead…On…Arrival.”
And just a little more
Rhonda Rousey is a BaaaaadWo-MAN!
My friend Fred in Fayetteville will get the most satisfaction from me admitting this. Our argument over the real battle of the sexes began some 15 years ago when I claimed I would beat Laila Ali in a prizefight. That’s right, I said it.
Fortunately, for one of us, Miss Ali retired from the ring before our promoters could strike a deal. Oh, sure, she was undefeated, but that deserves an asterisk in my book because we never met.
(However, as all honest journalists should do, I’ll admit here that my cred was somewhat tainted when I told Fred during our training for a marathon that I thought I could actually win the race. My only stipulation was that no Kenyans could enter. We never saw that one through, either)
So now Fred is throwing Rousey in my face, saying she would destroy me. He could be right this time. I’m certainly past my prime. But I do still kinda like my chances in, say, a half-marathon.
Jay Edwards is editor-in-chief of the Hamilton County Herald and an award-winning columnist. Contact him at email@example.com.