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At The Cooler, we're all about rash judgments, incomplete thoughts and hair-trigger analysis. In other words, we're sports fans.
Which brings us to The Big Wiesy, Michelle Wie.
On Saturday night, as she slept on a 54-hole tie for the lead at the U.S. Women's Open, I distracted guests at a plush wedding I attended on the shores of Lake Tahoe with talk of Wie's imminent conquest. I tried to tell them this was perhaps the story of the year in all of sports, and the story of the 21st century in golf.
The wedding guests, meanwhile, couldn't be bothered. They were too busy sweating in rented tuxedoes to the sounds of "Brick House" by The Commodores and a medley of tunes from the musical "Grease." It is duly noted that only at a wedding can you hear those tunes back-to-back.
(As a side note, I'm not kidding about the "plush" part of these nuptials. The lakefront estate was heavily reminiscent of Michael Corleone's spread in "The Godfather, Part II." I may have been hallucinating when I saw the caterer send his brother, Fredo, out to the middle of the lake on a boat to "get some ice.")
At any rate, I was in the throes of Wie Fever. A 15-year-old! Winning the U.S. Open! It was outrageous, audacious, calamitous, and any other Don King adjective you could think of. I prepped the wedding guests for the Monday headlines, the Sports Illustrated cover, the "SportsCentury" biography to be produced.
Then The Big Wiesy played more like Louise "Weezy" Jefferson on Sunday. She shot 82, and given the girl's Oahu schooling, I wondered what exactly was the Hawaiian phrase for "Retief Goosen."
And just like that, we, the sports fans of America, stuck Wie back in our "She'll Never Learn" file, the one where we launch into sermons that her family has her on the wrong career path, that she shouldn't be playing U.S. Opens, that she should be playing the junior circuit, learning how to win, then graduating to the big stage.
And to think, had she posted, say, a 72? I'd be calling for her statue to be commissioned at the gates of Augusta National. As it is, she's a washed-up, no-good bum for the next 24 hours or so. At least until we turn our short-attention sports-fan radar to the next topic worth an overreaction. In the meantime, Michelle Wie will shop at malls, watch Adam Sandler movies and still walk the planet with one of Earth's five greatest golf swings. Don't let the turkeys get you down, Wiesy.
And with that, on to the Weekend List of Five:
1. The Dynasty
Don't look now, America, but the Mayor's Office in Boston is busy planning parade routes again. While you were fretting over the Yankees' pitching staff or Barry Bonds' 53rd different rehab plan, the World Series champs were busy ripping off seven wins in a row, and climbing back atop the AL East.
The questions: Is this great country ready for more Red Sox culture? Can we take another summer and autumn of Manny Ramirez's Ziggy Marley hair, or his scrape-the-ground pant cuffs, the bane of dry cleaners everywhere? Can we handle more of the lumberjack swagger of Kevin Millar and Jason Varitek, men who look like they dine on mastodon meat for breakfast? Are we fully prepped for night after night of "SportsCenter" highlights featuring Johnny Damon's flying mane?