Tom Watson

The Twitterer of Shea

The original short message service provider of New York died this week. Karl Ehrhardt's signs presaged Twitter and text messaging by more than three decades, and I remember that his short messages provided clever exclamation points to what the Mets did on the field. An advertising copywriter and big-time Mets fan, Ehrhardt was 83, and had packed away his signs years ago. But for those of us who lived at Shea in the era from (roughly) Seaver, Jones, Grote and Koosman through Kingman, Taveras, and Hubie, the sign man of Shea gave us brief tidbits of wit and commentary. When the Mets won it all in '69, Ehrhardt flashed a short, sweet message: "There are no words." In an age before JumboTrons and flashing "Make Some Noise!" graphics, the Sign Man was our SMS system at the ballpark, our baseball Twitterer - the Jenny Holzer of Shea Stadium.

UPDATE: Paul Lukas at the brilliant UniWatch site has a great post on the sign man.

The Giants Win the Pennant!

I haven't been a huge football fan since Roger Staubach retired to a real estate empire and major Republican donor status, but who couldn't love the Giants' upset win on the frozen tundra of Green Bay (to quote the late, great Art Rust, Jr. one more time)? Reeling from Merrill Lynch's $10 billion loss and the sure-fire disaster year for all of Wall Street, New York's looking into another economic abyss the size of the 1970s. So the Giants' trip to the Super Bowl is a much-needed elixir for this town, a spot of flaming rum punch against the drab winter afternoons. The game itself was one of those rare classics, set at minus-4 degrees with the cold smoke of a northern plains January shimmering from mouths and noses.

Watching from the comfort of my modest room, I worried for Tom Coughlin's skin, Archie Manning's fatherly pride, and kicker Lawrence Tynes' sanity. Yet they pulled it out, forcing me to record the first of the epic Jane Austen series on PBS, Northanger Abbey, on my handy PVR, for viewing at another time. Now, in two weeks, the Super Bowl, with the undefeated - but hideously-uniformed - Patriots versus our Giants (yes, I'm the bandwagon now). And with Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers at half-time, I can close my eyes, listen to the music, and pretend old Roger the Dodger will be lining up another Navy jump-pass against the Steel Curtain back in the late 70s.

Speaking of that formative decade, what wonderful news that Jim Wolcott has agreed to write a memoir of his days stage-side at CBGB and other sordid venues, and for none other than Gerry Howard, boarding as he put it, "a graffiti-choked IRT train into the untamed past."

For more on the Jints, take a ride into my untamed pass by reading the terrific Giants blog penned by my one-time sports editor Ernie Palladino of the Gannett Westchester papers. Back in the day when my prose was thin and my waistline thinner, Ernie was the gruff, elder statesman on a late-night sports desk in White Plains, tossing out baseball columns and wisdom about deadlines with both authenticity and profane humor. He must have been all of 30 at the time, but he reminded me of those black and white movie Marine sergeants played by Van Heflin cursing about those God-damned college boys.

I mentioned earlier that the New England uniforms are horrendous, especially given the quality of the team. Yesterday's Giants-Packers tilt at Lambeau showed what good sports design is all about, combining nostalgia and the record book with rock 'em, sock 'em action in high-def. For more on NFL style - and uniforms of all shapes and sizes - there is no more obsessive blog than UniWatch, the Project Runway of professional sports, presided over the Paul Lukas, who captured yesterday's living color tableau (another Rustian term) perfectly:

Could any true football fan of a certain age who watched the Packers/Giants game last night honestly say that their enjoyment wasn’t keenly heightened by the mere sight of those two iconic uniforms doing battle against the freezing backdrop of Lambeau Field? The way the colors and logos so vividly hearkened to championship games played by these same two teams in the NFL’s glory years lent an inescapable air of nostalgia to the contest and a powerful sense of the sport’s past being present, a feeling that all too often seems lacking in this day and age of the league’s generally wretched marketing aesthetic.

Stadia Arcania

Once upon a time, obsessive reporters of the arcane were relegated to Usenet or mailing lists - or God forbid, swap meets and paper newsletters. Thanks to the wondrous machinery unleashing blogs, however, even the most narrow of subjects get a full and broad airing, with plenty of real reporting and humor thrown into the bargain. Take sports. Sure, there are blogs for every professional sports franchise, every league, every college team, every tiny sport of any kind. But I've fallen hard for two that slice those sub-sets even smaller. One covers sports stadia and arenas - specifically the politics around new buildings. Field of Schemes takes a decidedly negative stance to deep-pocketed team owners going on the public dole to build more luxury boxes and is an equal opportunity basher of stadium deals. Also a terrific read -  as is Uni Watch, a blog by Paul Lukas, who also writes about the same subject for ESPN. Uni Watch is also relentlessly negative, zeroing in on hideous choices sports teams make on their haberdashery. Included many times over is a pet peeve of mine: those super-long baseball pants, which have replaced the classic baseball socks of yesteryear on today's diamond stars. In the latest ESPN column, Lukas asks for votes on the ugliest sports uniforms of all time. Some particularly hideous choices, including the old Chisox 80s look. Would that the Mets would listen to Lukas and do away once and for all with their lame black/blue combo and stick with the classic pinstripes. That and bringing back the traditional stirrups - as seen above in the classic Cardinals look.

Tags: baseball uniforms stirrups stadium stadia

Hot in Hoylake

West Kirby, originally uploaded by Tom Watson.

The sportswriters make all of Merseyside seem like it's just now recovering from the havoc wrought by German bombers and Thatcherite privatization, but it's not true. As the best golfers in the world tangle along the grass of Royal Liverpool in 100-degree heat - and guys like John Daly channel the Beatles at a rebuilt-for-tourists Cavern Club - a rare international eye is turned Liverpool's way. And the reputation that's dragged up is hardscrabble at best.

But Merseyside is, in reality, a diverse area with tough, inner-city neighborhoods only a few short miles from windswept coastal scenes of great beauty and simple farming towns. The Wirral, across the Mersey from Liverpool, is home to the bigger, urban towns of Birkenhead, Wallasey, and New Brighton. But the mallet-shaped peninsula is also bound by the Irish Sea and the Dee, a tidal estuary separating it from the hills of northern Wales. Along that coast, at the corner of the rectangle facing Wales and Ireland, is the sandy spit where Tiger, Phil, and the rest of the greats are battling in the Open Championship. Royal Liverpool stretches from Hoylake in the west to West Kirby, around the bend. Both towns are what you would call upscale, by the way - the Wirral's gold coast.

There's a winding path that runs through the dunes along the edges of the course, and to walk its several miles is to escape any notion of downtrodden northern England. At the end of the walk is the wide, wide beach at West Kirby. There a few years back, we paid 50p for Devon to ride a pony on the sand. It's one of my favorite photographs. He's bigger now. But as I caught a glimpes of Tiger struggling in a pot bunker, the wind kicking up the sand, I could see over his shoulder in the distance the wide vista along the coast. And I remembered that pony ride and a very special place.

UPDATE: Man, Tiger looked great. Jason has a good post on golf's Rifleman. And Blue Girl says Tiger represents perfection, though I suspect for different reasons.

Tags: Tiger+Woods British+Open Wirral Hoylake Liverpool Merseyside golf PGA pony West+Kirby

Comment of the Week

This week's highlighted feedback comes from frequent contributor Sean (sorry about the original miss-ID) - he takes on the stupid shoot-out endings to too many great World Cup games (the latest being England, which fought ferociously to survive 2 OT's a man down only to lose the pathetic crap shoot that is the FIFA ending). In any case, here's Sean's argument:

Absolutely, sudden death is the way to go. Back in 98, FIFA instituted the "golden goal," international soccer's version of NHL overtime. France beat Paraguay on one about 23 mins into OT. For some reason this format was overruled, and we're back to the same old skills competition to decide who moves on. Absurd.

Maybe they're worried about a fluky goal deciding a major championship, or maybe it's a matter of exhaustion, but the alternative is far worse: rigid, boring, matter-of-fact penalty kicks.

Look at the NHL playoffs: there is no truer sudden death sport than playoff hockey. Every misplay, every non-clear, every hit not taken can quickly end your night, or your season.And if the FIFA guys want to talk tired, just show them a tape of the five ot Penguins-Flyers game from 99, and tell to keep on playing.

UPDATE: The perfect example was today's Italy-Germany semifinal - imagine the lack of real excitement if it had gone to kicks. The late goals were astonishing, and well-earned - they should play 15 min OT's till someone scores.

Lunch in Overtime

Four of us went to lunch here in midtown today, and you had to wait for a table at a couple of Second Avenue joints where you can usually stroll in for a casual club sandwich. The reason: overtime, Germany and Argentina. Now, I'm not a big-time soccer fan like Steve Gilliard but I do occasionally follow the exploits (or disasters) of Liverpool, across the Mersey from where the artist's family hails from. And when World Cup rolls around, I tune in as convenient. (Though I've never been the same since Columbia's 1983 bid to win the national collegiate title in soccer was thwarted by Indiana, 1-0, on a goal by Pat McCauley 2 minutes 43 seconds into the second overtime). So we're sitting in this packed Mexican joint, and the crowd is roaring - overtime and suds always creates a noise level around these places. Every couple of minutes the patrons erupt in a scat-like rhythm section, "uh-oh, uh-uh-uh-oooooooh!" Another chance missed. This crowd probably favors Germany, but just barely. Then they go to penalty kicks to decide who advances. This has always seemed insane to me, like flipping a coin in the 10th inning of a World Series game. Germany's goalie Jens Lehmann comes up big and stops two shots. So Germany advances and the local fans erupt (not in the bar, in the stadium; in the bar, people quiet down and go back to work). But it's a tainted victory to this American sports fan, like asking two pitchers to throw five baseballs each through a tire rope-swing after nine innings in the post-season. Two halfs, two overtimes, a massive investment of sweat and blood and energy and strategy. Then the slot machine. This and the lousy look-at-me refereeing has to change. Let 'em play on!

The Old Course

Quite a show today by Tiger Woods: oh yeah, mainstream, big media is dead folks. As long as there is an Open - The Open Championship - on a scratch of seaside turf, swept by winds and gulls and sand, millions will tune in to watch from all over the world. This morning, Tiger Woods did not disappoint. Fred Wilson is also a fan, I see: he correctly argues that we root for Tiger like we used to root for Jack Nicklaus, who retired from major championship golf this week with a fianl turn down St. Andrews fairways.

Except, I didn't really root for Jack. Although I admired Nicklaus, I rooted (not shockingly) for young Tom Watson, out of Kansas City.

And it was fitting that Tom Watson, my favorite pro and the reason I've endured endless golfing jokes over the years, walked with Nicklaus on the last round. Even more fitting that Watson made the cut, and finished today with a surprising and strong one under par, 13 strokes back of the winner. Watson won five British Opens in his prime, more than any modern player and remains a long-time crowd favorotie in Scotland and England.

Watson is an athlete of rare character; when his home country club in Kansas City was derided for no accepting Jews in the 1980s, Watson very publicly quite its ranks. And when his longtime caddie Bruce Edwards contracted ALS, Watson supported him, kept him at his side, paid his medical bills, and raised money for research into the insidious disease. In an era of egos, Watson is uniformly regarded as a gentleman. Now 55, he plays the Senior Tour, a few PGA events, and the majors.

Including the Open Championship. I'm not sure there's a better event on televised sports. But next year, I'm determined to skip the telly (though I do miss ol' Jim McKay) - the Open returns to Royal Liverpool at Hoylake (where I took this picture two years ago), just down the lane from where my wife's family lives on the Wirral, between Liverpool and Wales. I walked the dune trail along the edge of the course about a decade ago. Next year, I'm determined to see it all in person.

UPDATE: Tom Watson won the Senior British Open today at Royal Aberdee, his second such conquest on the over-50 circuit, and his seventh national British title overall. Good for him. I also received a lovely little note from a reader who thought I was Mr. Watson, the golfer. As I am Mr. Watson, the duffer, I will pass along this excerpt, quite nice:

I am 53 years old and ... have been following your career since the early years. Actually my father was a fan first, and he passed away in 1980, so you know how long we (got my family involved) have been pulling for you. In the beginning, the difficulty closing the deal, Pebble and some others if my memory is correct, to you becoming a terrific champion and ambassador of the game.

I guess the best thing in my mind about hoping you win is you are so human and human about it all (the status & fame) ... I believe I know as much about the golf swing and have experimented with the golf swing as much as anyone but I share your quick tempo and need to play with that feel.

I was so happy you won today, gave us a couple shivers along the way, I have the same putting woes. All those years we cheered and hoped you would get it back (never lost confidence or hope, how about that downhill putt at the Memorial, I think I was more relieved than you, easier to play than watch), something we are all striving for.

I was really moved by your performance and last round with Jack Nicklaus at the British Open. That look in on your face at the 18th was priceless and is the same respect us average Joe's have for our playing friends who respect the game, competition and friendships. Everyone I spoke with felt the exactly the same way.

Anyway, I am thrilled you won today & hope you play a little more on the Senior Tour (a good reason to watch), in fact the regular tour is OK too ... By the way, that was a great thing you did for Bruce, a great lesson for my son in relationships and lifelong friends (he is 11).