"Golf? Who the hell wants to play golf?"
Something there is about you that strikes a match in me | Is it the way your body moves or is it the way your hair blows free? | Or is it because you remind me of something that used to be | Somethin' that crossed over from another century?
Catching up with the Big Easy at his Acre of Africa, I asked South Africa's leading golfer and World No. 2 what he thought of PGA commissioner Tim Finchem's attempts to lock him into the U.S. tour. "Fuck him," sputtered Ernie, "First Iraq. Now me. These Yanquis are insatiable. They want everything."
I don't play golf. In fact, being a left-hander lent clubs for right-handed players I hate the bloody game. More, time-zone differences ensure that watching players trudging miles across undulating lawns for five or six hours beats counting sheep any time. I fall asleep after five minutes. Nonetheless, I greatly respect the drab people who pitch and putt their way to fame and fortune. While they display abysmal dress sense, they certainly do have skill. And they earn big bucks too. Hence my interest. I get Ernie to play for me and pretend I'm getting a cut. Why not? With Schumacher and Els out there earning my living, I sleep easy at night.
Els, packing his clubs before heading off to defend his HSBC World Match Play Championship title at Wentworth continued: "To keep your card on the US Tour you have to play 15 events and I have already played more than that and I haven't finished yet. But they are saying they want over 20 and nothing abroad. Naturally we have to sit down and talk, but one thing is for sure, don't start putting a padlock around me, don't make a barrier because that's not going to work."
Ernie was on a roll. "I'm not hurting their tour at all, I'm not hurting any of the players on their tour, because none of them do what I do: play worldwide. I'm helping their tour, I'm helping the European Tour and all the other tours too because I play all round the world."
Yup, he's a puppy and that's why I wanted a word with him. I need a ticket to the Brazilian Grand Prix and I'm running low on cash and girls. Ernie needs to get a grip on himself if he's to keep me in the style to which I have fast grown accustomed. The Guardian tells us, "Els is unique among world-class golfers in that he takes his talents far and wide: to Australia, South Africa, the Far and Middle East as well as Europe, and also lives in England..." Apparently, there "...is a formal organisation of sponsors on the US Tour and, though Woods is still the main attraction, Els is hardly any distance behind him in terms of popularity with the men who put up the money. If the tour took its argument to its logical conclusion and attempted to ban him there would be immediate outrage from those tournaments who have benefited in the past from the South African's presence."
Thought I'd shaken the wonder and the phantoms of my youth | Rainy days on the Great Lakes, walkin' the hills of old Duluth. | There was me and Danny Lopez, cold eyes, black night and then there was Ruth | Something there is about you that brings back a long-forgotten truth.
Who is this Woods boy? Why have I not heard of him? Bring him to me. I wish to speak to him. At the moment, Ernie needs to trounce a big Indian muthah if he's to get to number one. The last thing he needs is some commoditized American poncy boy messing with his swing. "You gonna play the Indian at Wentworth?" I asked. Apparently the Indian's a Fijian playing under the alias V.J. Singh.
"Yeah, I think that would be great. Numbers one and two in the world, World Match Play, 36-hole final, that would be great."
Dumbo. No wonder they call him the Big Easy. I gave him a sharp smack across the back of his head. "Focus, Els," I screamed. "Keep your eye on the fucking ball! Now, you gonna play the Indian at Wentworth?"
"I'd love to see that happen - but I'd also like to see him taken out before the final."
Heh... that's my man. Such things can be arranged.
I've posted snipers in the trees at the eighteenth. If you've never see a golf ball hit from 1,500 meters by a .35 caliber projectile travelling some 3,300 feet per second, watch the Indian get beaten into second place at Wentworth. As for Woods, tell him I have his girl, Elin Nordegren. She and I go back a long way. He and Finchem can meet me in the clubhouse when Ernie tees off on the sixteenth. Like the good commissioner, I am a reasonable man and have no desire to interfere with their game. But I do have a plane to catch and am not to be messed with. Brazil is the last race of the season and I do not intend missing it.
Note And remember, should Els botch the job, I have backup. We South Africans are, if anything, thorough. Why else would the Americans get us to fight their dirty wars for them?
Suddenly I found you and the spirit in me sings | Don't have to look no further, you're the soul of many things. | I could say that I'd be faithful, I could say it in one sweet, easy breath | But to you that would be cruelty and to me it surely would be death.
Bob Dylan | Something There Is About You
Update October 17, 2004 Well, my sniper apears to be out of luck and a job. For now. Vijay Singh was thrown out of the tournament (some things never change) and Ernie Els didn't botch the job. I've sent my man elsewhere.
