The old man and the Cink

Somewhere, there is a parallel universe in which everything happens exactly as it would in a Hollywood film. In that universe, Tom Watson stood over an eight-foot putt on the 72nd green at Turnberry on Sunday, took a deep breath, and calmly sank it. The crowd went nuts; Watson raised his arms in triumph. He had completed one of the great individual sporting accomplishments of all time, smashing the old record for oldest man to win a golf major, defeating a passel of men half his age and then some.

Unfortunately, we live in our universe, and in our universe Hollywood endings are as likely not to happen. Our Tom Watson stood over an eight-foot putt on the 72nd green, but he missed it badly, fell into a playoff, and simply ran out of gas, losing the four-hole playoff by a full six shots.

To Stewart Cink's credit, he understands that he was never the story and won't be going forward. Maybe that's unfair to him - he did what he had to do - but it's a fact. Cink is by all accounts a good guy, maybe one of the best on tour, but there isn't a person outside his family who was rooting for him in the playoff. Tom Watson was supposed to be the story - for the whole weekend, he had been the story, and all he had to do was make a putt he'd probably made thousands of times. Maybe he was worn out. (Senior tournaments are three rounds; Watson probably hadn't played competitive golf on four consecutive days since 2006, when he last made a major cut.) Maybe the pressure got to him. (He has eight majors, but the last came in 1983 - I wasn't even one year old yet.) Really, it doesn't matter at this point, does it? We were all rooting as hard as we could, and Watson was doing what he could, but it just wasn't enough.

But in twenty years, this is what we'll remember - Watson, nearly 60, chasing history, defying his age for almost the entire tournament. Moments like this are why we watch sports - amazing performances that glue us to the television, afraid to miss a minute. It was a galvanizing performance by Watson - everyone was abuzz, talking to each other about a tournament in which the leaders tee off at 9 am on the east coast and finish by 1 pm, a tournament that had lost the sport's supposed meal ticket in Tiger Woods, cut before the weekend. Instead, one of the sport's all time greats filled the void, and then some.

Ultimately, the finish was a letdown. But it doesn't totally diminish what Watson had done to that point. Our memories will be of his long putts, his conservative but effective tactics, and his lead at the 18th. We all thought he was going to do it... and in some ways, it doesn't totally matter that he didn't. The sadness will fade, but the good memories will remain. And when it comes to sports, maybe that's all we really need.

(Weather) Odds and (Chicago Card) Ends

The weather has been really weird this summer. Aside from a stretch of about one week, it's been cold - it got disgustingly hot for a few days, at which point I finally got around to putting my air conditioning unit in, and then it immediately cooled off and has barely cracked 80 at any point since. Mother Nature, you're hilarious. Seriously, I know it's night, but it's barely above 60 right now. I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, I guess - not having to run A/C means I don't have to pay any additional utilities, and having it be 75 and mild every day is pretty enjoyable. But it's just weird. I mean, it's mid-July! 75 isn't summer in Chicago, it's summer in London.

In more annoying news, the CTA sent me a note a few weeks ago saying my Chicago Card would soon expire. I went online to renew it and did what they told me to do, but a much later expiration date was listed, and sure enough, the next day I got an e-mail saying I had been erroneously mailed the letter saying my card would expire. I went on about my business until today, when I was unable to get into the el in the morning because... my card was listed as expired.

I called the CTA and they weren't terribly helpful, saying that a number of people were having the issue and that the powers-that-be weren't sure which course of action to take. Their only solution for now is explaining the situation to the workers at every single station (and/or bus drivers) and hoping they buy it and let me in for free. 1-for-1 so far (since I wasn't sure what was going on, I paid the cash fare this morning), but that's really not much of a solution, right? What if I'm in a hurry because the train is arriving? Trying to explain the situation to someone who may or may not have been briefed on it and may or may not believe me if they weren't is probably not something that can happen in ten seconds. And of course I take the Purple Line, which only runs once every 15 minutes at most times. They'd better resolve this problem soon.

The post with the Midas touch

My Year of Bonds: Vol. 3 is finally here, and it's for Goldfinger. Hopefully the lag between this and Thunderball will be less than six months, lest this turn into My Decade of Bonds.