Monday (with Golf Playoff Live Blog!) Miscellany: 6-16-08

It feels great to be back. I mean, golfing, rafting, and boozing for four days in the beautiful mountain town of Vail is fine, I suppose, but I'd much rather be seated in the darks (Now, with less dampness! Thanks de-humidifier!) of my basement, blogging the sportage for our intergalactic audiences. Currently, the playoff is on the 13th hole, and Tiger is aiming for an eagle. I'm trying to Mediate his success with jinxes, whatnot.

Every day now and again, we make fun of Canada here on the House of Georges. And most of the time, they've given us reason to do so. Today, they continue that trend.

(U.S. Open Update: Tiger missed the Eagle opportunity, and Rocco shaved a stroke to enter the 14th at +2, though Tiger avoided any gained ground by maintaining his one-stroke lead.)

Bummer. Not as much of a bummer as this, but still:


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(video courtesy of With Leather)

(Update: Rocco just nailed a killer birdie, and Tiger rimmed his putt, a completely disappointing event that knotted up the score. I gotta admit: this is pretty exciting, and the crowd is super fired up for this gig.

Tiger just drove his 15th-hole shot outside the ropes. More of an edge for Rocco? Perhaps he can get out of the Woods.)

The Big Lead shares with us that Sherron Collins has his own translation of "Rock Chalk, Jayhawk." Perhaps Coach Self should host a "Keep It in Your Pants" party.

(Update: Tiger's drive left him in a bunker. Rocco landed himself on the green with a beautiful second shot, inducing speculation that he would now pull away from Tiger. Tiger responded by not only getting himself out of the bunker, but placing his shot closer to the hole than Rocco's. Unpossible!

Holy Fuck! Rocco counters with a putt that had divine intervention all over it! Amazing! His third birdie in a row! Suddenly, my exclamation point key is going out of control!

Tiger missed! Rocco's got a one-stroke lead as we head to the 16th.)

When we got to the bar in Vail Friday night, I was eager to check in on the Royals/Diamondbacks game. I was floored to see that it was scoreless in the seventh, certain that, after coming completely unglued in the previous series with the Texas Rangers, the boys in blue would totally melt against the first-place D'Bags.

When it went to extra innings, a young lady from Tempe saw Yasuhiko Yabuta on the mound and asked me if he used to be a Diamondback. I could not recall, only inform her that he defines suck. Seconds later, he gave up the lone-run, walk-off homer. Guess he didn't care for that comment too much. When the Unit took the mound on Saturday, I was at first nervous to see how young Luke Hochevar would fare, then pretty pleased with the 12-3 beating they handed Arizona. That contest made the rubber match even more intriguing, and, with the help of David DeJesus' grand slam (with Gil Meche on base via a fielder's choice), another KC victory was had, this one to the tune of an 8-3 mark. They'll continue the interleague action with those hated Red Birds tomorrow.

(Update: Tiger and Rocco are still neck and neck. They're both dancing on the 17th. Mr. Woods of course set himself up gracefully, a roughly ten-foot putt in his way. Rocco's a bit further out. And by "a bit," I mean roughly a quarter mile.)

Okay. Maybe Tiger's putt was more like 20 feet. Either way, he missed it. Rocco sunk his, and takes his one-stroke lead to the 18th hole. Will we see a playoff for the playoff?

Ah, the good old days of terrible commercials. Awful Announcing graces the memory banks with some Pete Rose singing.



(Update: Rocco was totally outdriven, landed in a bunker, and Tiger's right in the middle of the fairway. Fuck.

Amazing. Rocco chipped onto the green, leaving himself about 25 feet from the hole. Tiger's turn. They're estimating he's about 40 feet out. He's taking his time scoping the green. If he nails an eagle, he wins (with a Mediate miss).

Woods is wide of the hole by about a foot!

Rocco's up. I can't imagine how he's staying calm. Oh. My. God. He fucking missed. Maybe six inches left.

Tiger for a birdie opportunity. No way he misses this. A sea gull distracts him, and he backs off. Here it is...he drained it.

Alas, so did Rocco. Sudden death, double OT.)

Courtesy of Deadspin, here's a lot of words about soccer over the weekend.

(Update: Back to the golf. The guys will play the par-three seventh hole here, to try and settle this thing. (Meta-Update: I've had to take a shit for like an hour and-a-half. Just sharin'.) Tiger's in the tee box. After his last drive, he looked like he was in pain. No signs of it here now, though. Jesus. This guy takes more time setting up for shots than those dumb pitchers with their pick-off moves. I always boo them.

And he crushed it. Stayed on the fairway, but barely. Rocco's turn. I gotta believe he won't hit the same distance. Good contact. Holy Christ. More bunker debacle.

That should do it. Rocco hit out of the bunker and layed his ball up in the flippin' crowd. Tiger's turn. He puts it right on the edge of the green. Well, it's been incredible. It really has. The "Let's Go, Rocco" chants rain down, and Mediate looks for a drop. He gets a decent one. He's on the green.)

Free Darko has an interesting take on the NBA Finals.

(More Update: Tiger's putting to win. He's up from about 25 feet. Jesus. He's about three inches shy. Rocco takes to the green for a chance to stay alive.)

Since the House of Georges takes reader requests seriously, I'm going to honor the (newly-acquainted) reader Steve's request to discuss the Seattle Seahawks on a more frequent basis, which would mean mentioning them period. After a touch of digging around, I've discovered that their roster -- or at least current projections of --doesn't look half bad. Of course, and this is all coming via a post from Seahawks blog, Hasselbeck will be under center. Now, Seneca Wallace played some decent ball the last time the 'Hawks and Chiefs squared off, but if both he and Bald Matt get hurt, that leaves Charlie Frye at the helm, and I can't put a finger on what that might mean for a football team. That is, he sort of went through a shitty scenario in Cleveland, but who doesn't? Can he handle a Holmgren-run club?

In the backfield, the additions of Julius Jones and T.J. "Fat Guy in a Little Shirt" Duckett are key, according to our inside sources. The receiving corps, I argue, needs help. Maybe it's just me, but the trio of Branch, Burleson, and Engram spells a tired-ass deep threat, and maybe 150 catches combined. What Ben Obomanu and Courtney Taylor bring to the mix, I have no idea. This is the NFC we're talking about here. In ends of tightness, Jeb Putzier might very well be the sleeper, but he used to be a Donkey, which makes him a mule for life. Oops on that signing.

The O-Line has Pork Chop Womack on it, so that's tight, and the linebacking corps contains Lofa Tatupu, who I've heard of, which means zero. But other guys, like the cats over at Field Gulls, know a thing or two about linebacking. Or, there's the dudes at Seahawks Addicts. They're out there scooping all the Seahawks sludge from the windshields and beach umbrellas in Seattle. Like the Seahawks version of Cedric Benson, Rocky Bernard. (Editor's Note: Isn't that the guy from "Mask?")

Anyway, those guys are hard core. They cover things like "inccidents" and "differed" charges. So there's your Seahawks skinny, Steve. I trust you will never again frequent the House of Georges, thus relieving me of my NFC West duties. Glory be to God.

(Perhaps the Final Update: And he missed by just about as much as Tiger did. Another victory for Tiger Woods. Well, at least I can poop now.)
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Thank God The Masters Is Over

I suppose we need to wrap this bad bitch up. The Masters Invitational has concluded, and the final round showdown between Booze and Slinger-Re was somethin' spesh. The big surprise is not that Booze prevailed 62-64, but that Tiger Woods did not perform the heavy lifting for this band of heavy drinkers. No, that was left to John Rollins and Rory Sabbatini. To the highlights:

We were all square through five, when former Masters champ Mike Weir dropped a birdie on the sixth hole. Slinger-Re extended the lead to two strokes when both Retief Goosen and David Toms birdied the seventh. Booze took a stroke back on the eighth with Rory Sabbatini’s ridiculous birdie putt, and the fellows went to the turn with Slinger-Re up one.

At the tenth, Toms snared another birdie to push that lead to two strokes. But Booze’s John Rollins took one back on the tough par-four 11th. Both sides parred the 12th, and Tiger Woods tied the score with his eagle on 13. Shockingly, this was Tiger’s only best-ball score for Booze.

Stewart Cink contributed a birdie to the Boozy effort on 14, his only score. This gave Booze his first lead of the day. The two finalists matched scores until 18, when Rollins notched another birdie to give Booze a two-shot win.

The young man took home a couple of bills, assuming any of you deadbeats pay up. Back with more later on everyone’s favorite topic, the Boston Red Sox. By the way, did anyone notice that Zach Johnson’s face is all fucked up? I think his mom fed him applesauce burritos with a slingshot when he was an infant.

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Scores, Fores, and Bores

What a day to be a Spartan. Capturing their third Frozen Four Championship in Michigan State University history, the Spartans served Boston College a healthy serving of misery, as the Eagles fell in the championship game for the second (not quite as bad as four) year in a row. After a period and-a-half of scoreless hockey, BC struck first, only to see MSU equalize things halfway through the third. Just as overtime seemed certain, MSU broke the tie with less than 20 seconds to play in the game. The Spartans would add an empty-net tally to seal their 3-1 victory, but North Dakota's Ryan Duncan would take home a piece of hardware all his own. Duncan became only the second Fighting Sioux to win college hockey's MVP, and only the third sophomore to ever claim the award. North Dakota fell to the Eagles 6-4 Thursday night, a match in which Duncan was held without a point.

In other news, a bunch of dudes walked around this piece of Georgia real estate all weekend looking for a jacket. It was said to be an ethnically diverse group of men, many of whom are suprisingly married to attractive women. HoG's own oNs (a.k.a. Onus) delivered to our lone reader a variety of excruciating stimuli in the form of a slew of posts covering the Masters Invitational, a fantasy golf tournament he drubbed up years ago. Let me tell you, following this annual bucket of orgasm is nothing shy of stellar. It remains impossible to match the levels of exuberance attained on the three -- and by three I mean six -- days the invitational spans. I, for the first year in tourney history, was not invited to play, an oversight I can only attribute to some horrid virtual glitch that the Hootster must alleviate prior to next year's outing. Perhaps the most exhilirating and newsworthy bit to surface from the invitational was that the Irish leapfrogged Blacks (Tiger Woods, y'all), Hispanics, and Asians (Tiger Tiger Woods, y'all) on Hoot's list of races he -- how shall I say this -- despises. I had my money on Polynesians making the top five, but there's always next year.

In still other news, soccer's slated to start soon. Yay. That should be about as exciting as attending the Easter Vigil mass. There's nothing I enjoy more than taking a chore of an hour, stretching it into more than double its length, and looking at your watch every 36 seconds in hopes that at least 15 minutes have gone by. And just when you think you're out of the hole, there's stoppage time. Stoppage time embodies euphoria. It's like that part of church where the service has ended (for the love of Pete, the priest has even said so), but you sing one more song and wait for his Holiness, the altar servers and all the pews in front of you to make their way for the door before you can leave. For real though, soccer's pretty brutal. There're two things I like about soccer a lot. The first, and clearly most important, is the fans. I have tremendous admiration for those across the globe that show support for their club with fantastic fervor and decor. The second thing I really like about soccer falls something along the lines of when it's not on, as in, the off-season. That kicks ass. Now World Cup soccer is pretty cool. The whole world gets into the sport for a month or so, and all 17 American soccer fans talk about how they're gonna get out of bed at crazy-ass hours to watch the games. That's downright devotion. You gotta love that. Just don't talk to me about it. And please, I beg you, don't do the now-overdone Hispanic "Gooooooooooooooolllllllllllllll" shout. I've had plenty already. Read more

This Update Is Hilarious Or Else

Well, we've got some scores from the Masters Invitational, and half the field is bummin' right now. This is the hardest part of any Club Chairman's job...who the fuck am I kidding? I love making cuts, especially when I am not one of them.

Mayor McVesco, you fielded the single worst team in this entire tournament. You finished the second round at 40 over par, which is like Baxter eating an entire wheel of cheese. I'm not even mad, I'm impressed. 40-over? Even our esteemed Administrator could not accomplish that feat on my wedding day, and he tried his darndest. Blame Sergio, as usual.

In eleventh place are Brenda-Pan's Pimps, a team captained by our favorite left-wing political operative. You finished 30 over par, but I'm sure you're not sweating it too bad. You see, this owner is getting married this summer in Ireland to a lovely young lass. Alas, I won't make it to the Emerald Isle (I've made it fairly clear how I feel about those potato-grubbing swine, the Irish)--consider this my non-RSVP.

We had a tie for ninth place at +28. The Asshole Yankee Fan and the catcher on our summer softball team fell victim to the foibles of Hefty and Serge, respectively. Sayonara.

The Dancing Wookie made a run at it, but fell short at 26-over and eighth place. Da Schmelz, who actually won this pool back in the halcyon days of 2003, missed the cut by a stroke at +24.

Let's move on to the people with actual intelligence. Booze submitted the Masters Invitational's most expensive entry, $12 over the standard budget. Unfortunately, all that extra cash went to his two benched teams (one of which imploded at 33 over par). The starting four for Team Booze ably acquitted themselves, sliding just under the cut line at +23. Even better, all four players on that foursome (Tiger, Cink, Sabbatini and Rollins) as well as the four from the "B" team (Scott, Ogilvy, Ames and Beem) made the real cut at Augusta. Booze has options.

Slightly handicapped are the Corona Hammers, who lost one player from each of their three foursomes. The remaining players did their job, however, posting a +22, good enough for a share of fourth place. The Hammers have decided to stick with their "A" team, consisting of Ogilvy, Cink, Weir and no one (Darren Clarke missed the cut).

The father and son Slinger teams made it to the weekend at +22 and +20, respectively. These men are very disappointed in black sheep brother Sling (the softball catcher) and will spend the evening beating him with a 6-iron. The old man has two full groups to choose from, while the youngster has a sleeper foursome at his disposal--his "C" team of Scott, Stenson, Wetterich and Calcavecchia. Sounds like a bunch of filthy immigrants, but they can swing it.

Alone in second is yours truly, sparkling at eleven o'er par. My value-priced powerhouse quartet of thugs (relatively intimidating gents, for golf anyway) launched themselves into Saturday with stunning length (like me!) and poor puttering (no comment). If Ogilvy, Stenson, Wetterich and Cink can quit whiffing on the three-footers (sounds like when I lived in the dorms) we can bring home the bitches (and by bitches I mean, well bitches).

Please rehearse your boos, catcalls and raspberries for our description of our leader, one Arvada Schwag (go home, hippie!). This despicable villain has not only hogged the coveted Green Jacket (we really have one, we gaffled it from a hobo) for two consecutive years, he looks poised to greedily hang on to it for a third. He can kindly eat a bag of dicks. All that needs to happen is for Tiger to miss his tee time, and I've got it in the bag. That shit happens all the time.

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Breakfast In Augusta

And we're off, in this cheap desperate ploy for more readers. If you're affiliated with the Masters Invitational pool and are reading this blog for the first time, welcome. We hope you're not offended by our course language, blatant disregard for for the rules of journalism (and grammar) and consistent wrongness in prediction...actually we're not. We hope you are offended, new readers. Fuck you and the mule you rode in on. We hope you hate the HoG and never, ever come back. Readers are a needless accesory to this endeavor.

Quickly, I must address the last post by our blog's administrator, the (redacted). I have no objection to his making sport of the NFL's greatest coach. But the photo was in very poor taste. Yes, that fat lady did show up for Denver Broncos cheerleader tryouts. But so did these. And these. And these, with The Man in back. Smokin'. Just because one tubby tried to make the squad, that's no reason to denigrate the lovely ladies who don the orange and blue. Of course, none of these broads hold a candle to the Kansas City Chiefs Cheerleaders.

Anyhoo, back to the links. The Masters Invitational was, of course dominated by the selections of one Eldrick Woods, the world's No. 1 player and a pretty fair puller of tail. Tiger appeared on eight of the 12 entries, but only three participants elected to start him for Rounds One and Two. Savin' the big gun for the weekend, I assume. Best of luck with that strategy, gents, and we'll see you this afternoon.

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