I don’t watch a lot of golf these days. I used to play a little, as a kid, but I drifted away from it in my teens, in retrospect probably out of a sense of the sport as incompatible with the punk rock ethos and aesthetic around which my youthful identity was by then starting to cohere. (I did take a summer job at Mount Juliet during college, though, where I worked in the hotel during an international golf competition. I can’t say it was a formative experience. Aside from a general sense that I was an abysmal service worker, more smoke break than man, I retain only one memory of that time, albeit a vivid one: bringing room service to Tiger Woods in his suite, and being very conscious that, as I nervously laid out his club sandwich and pot of tea, he was sprawled on the couch in his boxer shorts, watching himself play golf on television.)
Watching the footage of last weekend’s Ryder Cup competition – in which the European team beat the Americans at New York’s Bethp
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