Posts Tagged ‘hole in one’

Watson looking hot for the title – Aussies tag along

Sorry about the cricket glut people, but you know what you’re getting yourself into when you click on a webpage that has a still of Andrew Symonds absolutely dominating a streaker.

What are you getting precisely? Well, more or less a random assortment  of sporting thoughts at my whim. Don’t like it? Then go read somewhere else (note: please don’t read somewhere else, you’re all I’ve got)

But mostly it’s just because I’ve run out of ideas. There. Onto the blogging.

I spoke to a dear friend of mine the other day about the ICC World Twenty20, which I am thoroughly enjoying at the minute. Some of you more avid followers (both of you) might know this dear friend as Diablo. Diablo told me that he couldn’t give two hoots about the World T20. Being a newly deflowered viewer of illicit Indian streams I thought he was crazy. Both on these streams and on Twitter people were going mental for this thing. It’s trending every time there is a game on.

Yeah, I just got Twitter, the gateway to lazy journalistic practices and me becoming a narcissistic Generation Me’er, whatever that is. Follow me @WarmingthePine.

I do promise you one thing though, I will never, ever, quote Twitter if I am attempting to break a story. News might be made on Twitter these days but how lazy do you have to be to control-C someone’s 140-character-or-less internetings and call it a news story? Gets me all worked up in my pant region.

Also know that I am a reluctant user of hashtags, and find them a reprehensible but necessary evil.

Anyway, so my friend said not many people are watching the World T20 because of Nine’s terrible coverage and generally a lack of promotion and interest. I suspect my friends with Foxtel and without a hole in one to their name might have been more interesting to talk to on this subject. Diablo is horrifyingly uninteresting to talk to at the best to times.

For all those who don’t know, Australia qualified first in their Super eight group with a couple of absolutely crushing displays against India and South Africa. Or should I say, Shane Watson qualified Australia first in their Super eight group, because at this stage the Aussie T20’ers are a bigger one man team than Newcastle Knights circa 2005. God forbid if Shane Watson were as injury prone as the latest Rugby League Immortal. Oh wait…

With four straight man-of-the-match awards to his name and at one point topping all the charts in the tournament that matter (runs, wickets and sixes) Watson looked unstoppable. What a role he was on! He was even hitting spinners for six.

At first I rubbed my eyes. An Australian batsman actually laying willow on a delivery with rotations that weren’t in the direction from whence the white seed came? What is this arcane tomfoolery, the likes of which the best cricket writers in a Australia have apparently never seen? But my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Australian batsmen are actually allowed to hit spinning balls, sometimes even for six.

The Australian Cricket team is mobbed by a bunch of others who wear the same shirt as him, including his captain

Worryingly, though, in their last game against Pakistan the soft, meaty, and probably delicious underbelly of the Australian middle order was exposed and the ravenous Pakistanis took to it as hyenas to an exposed deerling gut. Imagery, people, imagery.

The guys in our team who weren’t Warner, Watson or Hussey hardly looked like they could bat at all.

After the game George Bailey said that in Twenty20 cricket you really needed your top order to do a bulk of the scoring. I thought that was all very convenient for George to tell us that, completely absolving he and the rest of the eight guys who are supposed to be in the team too of their batting failures from the last six months.

“Hey Shane, so, um, you and Dave can score the runs and me and the boys will be out the back having steaks and beers. Cool? No? Well, I’m the captain these days so, I don’t really care.”

While convenient, it ain’t right to place so much pressure on the three best players in your side to do the bulk of the scoring every game. Sure, they’ll do a lot of scoring, but when they fail the middle order has to do its job and score runs too. It’s easy for George to pretend he doesn’t have to bat just because he’s not listed in the top three, but when the pointy end of this tournament comes along in the next few days there will be no hiding behind Shane and Dave if they happen not to fire.

Time for you and your steak-eating pals to put away the table cloth and napkins and get an appetite for runs, George. Otherwise this one man team is going nowhere, and you’ll be back with the Hobart Hurricanes before you can say “but I told Shane to score all the runs.”

That’s not good captaincy George.

Also, any reader who made it this far, know that I refrained from using a refugee boat joke somewhere in this post. Points for anyone who can guess where.

Finally, if you haven’t realised, I’m really craving steak.

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I’m a bitter golfer

My friend shot a hole in one not too long ago. I wasn’t there. If I had happened to be there I might have strangled him with jealousy.

As self-fancying a golfer as the next, I was shattered when my ‘friend’ posted a picture of himself on the guilty green on my social media instrument of choice. There he was, squatting self-satisfiedly next to the flag, ball nestled comfortably between stick and cup, concrete(ish) evidence that he had guided the little white cherry from club to crevice in one blow. He looked rather pleased with himself, smirking at me through the lense of the camera.

I looked at the photo again. My ‘pal’s’duplicitous, piercing blue eyes are staring holes through my skin and bones and body gunk right to my very soul, where little hands with tinier fingers on the end of his x-ray vision begin tugging it, cajoling it to break into several pieces.

“You won’t be needing this,” say my unnamed ‘friend’s’ vision hands as they pinch and prod my soul into thousands of tiny pieces.

Imagery.

He was club in hand in the photo. Guilty green. Guilty club. The offenders were stacking up, like that RICO case in The Dark Knight.

“Guess what happened?” said the post on my communication device. In case you wanted to know I have many friends on this device, many who I’m sure hate it when I post that I’ve completed another pointless, dull, hopelessly written, horribly misguided blog post.

“I don’t need to guess,” thought I as I stared at the devil-child-man, who will be referred to as Diablo for the rest of the post, who had managed to crush my most recent dream in that one click of his macbook pro trackpad. I couldn’t help but think, too, that the computer that posted that photograph was better than mine, and if it wasn’t better then it was at least smaller; such is the woe. Why, through all this, did Diablo also have to have a better/smaller computer than me?

Diablo had to know when he clicked ‘post’ just how large a chunk of me would die inside when I saw this photo. Just how sadistic is this prick? How sadistic is the demon lord? How long’s a piece of string?

Philosophy.

He knew that golf is our new thing. Sure, he beat me the last time we played by quite a margin, but it’s not like I haven’t beaten him my fair share of times. But to make a hole in one? That’s a once in a lifetime thing. I’m convinced, after seeing this photo, that I will never make one. My ‘friend,’ Diablo, being the blessed one of the two of us, will be the one to make two in his life. All of us are given one, and he will steal mine from me. I’m sure of it.

He’s still on my timeline, taunting me. If you care to look at my online book of faces, you will see him still boring holes in my soul. He is like Sauron, except he has two eyes and a physical form and no ring (yet). So in that way he bears little resemblance to Sauron.

Such is the magnanimity of the situation, I have taken to spending my working days staring at the photo. Start at 9. End at 5. Half an hour for lunch, make the time back if you decide to take longer. It’s my work. My obsession. The bastard hit a hole in one. Maybe if I stare at it long enough the hole in one will be retracted by time itself as reward for my hard work. We all know it was supposed to be mine.

My own. My precious.

I will continue to spend my days trying to conjure voodoo magic and seriously injure/maim the person who made the shot, but I would like to leave one sentiment that’s not bitterness or hatred. While I’m really really jealous of my friend, it’s a pretty amazing thing to happen to a weekend hacker like us. People who don’t play or like golf will never understand.

Well done mate. I’m jealous and I hate you, but well done. Now I’m going to work on my doll…

Stand, spray and deliver.

Critiques from the arm chair