As he strolled up to the final green at Sunday's Masters, Phil Mickelson's smile spoke louder than any words could.
As Phil Mickelson walked up the 18th hole at Augusta National Sunday something about the sly grin stretched across his face said that he knew what was about to happen. He was tied for the Masters lead with Ernie Els, and his approach shot landed a stone’s flick away from the hole. He hits it in, and he wins.
Maybe, at that point, Mickelson saw a flash of light. Maybe, across his mind for a split second, he envisioned a monkey jump off his back, scamper through the fairway and disappear into the woods, never to be seen again. Maybe there was a tingle in his fingers or a supernatural phenomenon that told him he would make the 20-foot putt that would give him the 2004 Masters and his first Major victory.
And maybe that phenomenon made Mickelson smile.
So there wasMickelson , walking up the fairway, applause showering him from every angle. He was 20-feet away from either a grand triumph or yet another heartbreak. And he looked like he was in Sears for a family portrait. But there was something about his swagger that suggested he knew the outcome.
Sure, maybe Mickelson was enjoying the moment. Maybe years of being tagged with the label of the best golfer never to win a major championship had taught him to enjoy these rare moments as they come. Perhaps Mickelson had learned that when you are tied for the lead on the last hole of golf’s most prestigious tournament, you should realize that life can’t get much better.
Maybe it was the criticism he’s taken over the years. The golf experts who said he would never win a major because he didn’t have that killer instinct. Is it possible that inside his head, Mickelson thought of those who cried that his passion for 300-yard drives, and lack-there-of for the short game would always do him in? Maybe he was laughing to himself because they were right. Perhaps he knew that he was in this position largely because of renewed dedication to the precision short game instead of a series of monstrous drives.
Maybe Mickelson was grinning because had drowned out the critics, drowned out the applause, drowned out the pressure of the putt and decided that he would take the moment and make it his. Maybe he thought about his four second place finishes at the Masters and assured himself that this time he would take his rightful place among golf’s elite.
Most likely, Mickelson’s smile was a reflection of possibilities and a culmination of a life-long dream. He had one putt to make to convert dream to reality. He was the only player in contention left on the course. The gods of his sport smiled down on him Sunday and he decided to smile back, simply because it was his time.
He knew.
He had to. Why else would he have been smiling?
Dan Nied's life revolves around reality television. Now he wants his piece of the pie.
I’m all antsy over The Apprentice. I’m downright smitten with Average Joe. The Surreal life took me to places I’d never imagined and, apparently, I even have a man-crush on the new Bachelor.
Yes, I am the scum of America. I am a reality TV fan. But more importantly, I’ve decided to become this country’s next great reality TV star.
I can be Puck, Richard Hatch, Erik Estrada and Omarosa al rolled into one massive ball of Midwestern white boy. I’ll have the personality of Average Joe’s Adam (with a better smile to boot), the blonde hair of Trista from The Bachelorette and maybe I’ll add a pinch of Dennis Rodman’s flamboyance from Celebrity Mole. And if I’m on Fox, I’ll throw in some of Trichelle’s sluttiness just to spice it up a bit. I’m game, give me a part.
Reality TV was made for me. I am charming, but with no verbal sense of right and wrong. I can be sedate, outgoing cheerful, gloomy or just dominant in conversation. I can pull off all the looks: fat, really fat, slightly fat or just thick and handsome. Hell, If they need a minority, I would be happy to pretend I was gay, or paint my face to look black. (“DAMN girl! That’s a big ‘ol ass!” See, I can pull it off).
But really, let’s face it, I’m not cut out for any of the current reality shows. I’m too dumb for The Apprentice. I don’t take well to the wilderness, so Survivor is out. I suppose I could tear it up on Average Joe, but I would get in a fight with one of the underwear models they bring on midway through. And, apparently, 24 is too fucking old for The Real World so MTV can kiss my ass.
No, what I need is a show devised by me, for me. I want to take it to the next level of reality shows. So network execs, listen to this surefire hit starring me: Somewhere Tropical, say, the Bahamas. Since I really would like to get some tail out of this whole thing, we’ll make it a dating show. I’ll be the prize, which should be good enough.
But there is a catch: 20 beautiful women with me. Ten are perfectly healthy, 10 are cancer patients with under a year to live. We can call it “Terminal Love”. My job is to weed out the cancer girls and pick one of the healthy ones. If successful, I split a million dollars with my lady. If I pick a cancer patient, she wins the whole million. (Well, her next of kin, at least.) Also, If you offer enough cash, say two million bucks, we can make them AIDS patients, three million for Lepers.
So any takers? Just email me. We can talk. I was made for this part.
As the NHL playoffs start, Dan Nied is prepared to say goodbye to his hero.
When I was a boy, plopped two feet in front of a television set, you were there, skating like Scott Hamilton, passing like Magic Johnson, shooting like Billy The Kid.
When I was a teenager and my cereal bowl left milk rings around the morning sports section, you were there, in the box score: 17:34 Yzerman (Fedorov, Burr)
When 1995 rolled around and Game 7 against the Blues went to overtime, you were there. Shooting a sighted puck over Grant Fuhr’s left shoulder, putting that biscuit in the basket and sending the Red Wings, and me, to the next round.
When I was a senior in high school, and we were both starving for a championship, you were there, hoisting the Stanley Cup above your head the way I imagined Atlas hoisting the world.
And when I was at a downtown Detroit bar the next year struggling to see the televisions through a maze of heads, you held that cup again. But this time, instead of hoisting a city above your shoulders, you passed it to a wheelchair bound Vladimir Konstantinov, your former teammate left nearly lifeless in a limousine accident the year before.
You were there with me, and I hope that a little bit of me was there with you. But not just me, of course. No, me and the millions of people in Detroit who took you in as our own in 1984 when you were drafted by the Red Wings and showed us that hockey can matter in this baseball town.
But still I was with you when your knee gave out, forcing surgery in 2002 that no human has any business coming back from. I was with you when you came back late in that season, a year after our third Stanley Cup. I was with you when you bowed out to Anaheim in the first round in four straight games.
I was with you for those first 13 years you played, when you were known as the greatest player never to win a Cup. You lugged that baggage around like a hiker’s backpack while people whispered “He’s great, but he can’t win the big one.” I guess we showed them, eh.
Now, Steve Yzerman, you are nearly 40 years-old and that knee isn’t getting any better. Your sport is in trouble and next season’s existence is no guarantee. We all know that the end is near. I know that after this playoff run starts tonight against Nashville, I might have only two more months with you. But I can accept that. Every great relationship comes to an end. Every great athlete retires with a legacy in tact. Your legacy, Steve, will be that of a hero to a sport, a city and, most importantly, me.
I know that heroes don’t come along every day. That’s why I know how lucky I was to have you for 20 years.