It was just another day. I opened up my Macbook, logged into ESPN.com, the golf section that is, and saw displayed across the page Justin Rose as a 17-year old amateur at the British Open in '98. The article didn't grab me because, well, even though Rose has been in contention a variety of times in the last ten years, I feel like he hasn't done anything of true value to affect his status on the tour.
I have no desire to discuss my pet peeves with Mr. Rose, but instead to simply mention an observation I came to as I viewed the day's top stories. "Creamer shoots 60..." Now, lets just be honest, whether its the PGA's biggest name like Tiger Woods or a never heard of like Garrett Willis, when a man shoots anything under 65 (6 or 7 under par) they're picture is flaunted about the site. Below their picture is often a story about now just their round, but about their modest upbringing and how lucky they feel just to be playing the game, as if a monument should be erected for them. Sometimes they just make a mountain out of a molehill.
However, other times, some stories just don't get their due.
Of course Paula Creamer got a story written about her, and she even got a minute long video showing her make a mockery the par-71 Highland Meadows layout Thursday in the opening round of the Jamie Farr Owens Corning Classic. She set a course record, shot 11-under, and did it all with a pink ball.
Is there a sexist attitude embedded in golf that finds its way above the surface occasionally?
The way I see it, the wide and diverse aspects that make up American lifestyle are male dominated, which has ultimately created a patriarchy. Sports is one of those sections within our society that preaches equality and fair press for each gender within the sport, but realistically, we all know the truth. I'm not trying to start a controversy or expose some tremendous flaw in the golf section of ESPN.com. However, I think it is important to be fair and in this particular case, I don't think fairness is subjective or up to interpretation. Creamer performed beautifully and yet is only receiving second class coverage of what would be hailed as an unbelievable feat among the males on the PGA Tour.
Truth: There are multiple perspectives through which one could view this issue. Truth: Ochoa and/or Sorenstam have received considerable coverage on not only the golf site of ESPN.com, but on the worldwide golf scene, comparing their abilities and successes with great male performers like Tiger and Phil. Bitter Truth: The lack of attention being paid to Creamer's remarkable round exposed the harsh, sexist attitudes rooted in 'the greatest game ever played.'
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
its been a while...
Lets get away from the pros for a moment and discuss what's going on with our game specifically.
Tonight, as I stood over my ball, eight-iron in hand, with the lights from the driving range post sending my left-handed shadow straight over my ball, I wondered what 'the range' means for the different people there, and what it meant to me as well. Maybe for some a refuge that allowed them to stash their worries about the miserable economy and rising gas prices at the bottom of their bags. For others it could provide a sense of seriousness, in which they tested their abilities; hitting to 100, then 125, then 150 yards. Then of course there are those who spend their time as they would at the church, temple, mosque...They're praying. Praying their ball goes straight. Praying they don't lose their balance. Praying they don't let go of the club after swinging and being the idiot that threw his club into the range.
For me: a test, a safe haven, and a temple all in one. Praying that I can hit my target, I take a sigh of relief (that I am away from sibling rivalry, yelling kids at work, girl drama, money issues) and then view my target and test myself . I hit pretty well tonight to be honest. Good wedges, long irons mostly straight with good distance. Long, controlled drives. However, with one last ball left, I stepped up to my favorite shot: 125 yards away, a slight breeze in my face, middle pin. I was no longer at the range. In my mind, I told myself I was at the Masters about to hit my approach shot onto 18. I was the 'out-of-nowhere' kid, a fairytale story about to win my first Masters. I could hear the commentators in mind. "All Leivenberg needs here is to hit it safe into the middle of the green and he will have secured his win."
I did my normal pre-shot routine. Stood behind the ball for a moment, looking from my ball to my target a few times. I stepped up, spread each foot apart, checking my aim meticulously. I took my final waggle, and then time stopped: It was slow motion. One final look at the pin, then back to my ball. I was ready.
I pulled it. Pure contact, however, definitely right. I may have been on the right most portion of the green, but most likely I am off. What does that mean? Maybe that I can't take the pressure? Maybe that it was just a mishit one night at the range? Maybe that I am blowing one shot out of proportion. For me, and I believe most golfers who believe that they have potential, it was so disappointing that there really feels like there is not cure. No food, TV show, or song would bring me out of this funk.
However, the only hope that I have after that disgusting attempt at winning the Masters is to get back out there and show myself that I CAN...such is golf...such is life.
Tonight, as I stood over my ball, eight-iron in hand, with the lights from the driving range post sending my left-handed shadow straight over my ball, I wondered what 'the range' means for the different people there, and what it meant to me as well. Maybe for some a refuge that allowed them to stash their worries about the miserable economy and rising gas prices at the bottom of their bags. For others it could provide a sense of seriousness, in which they tested their abilities; hitting to 100, then 125, then 150 yards. Then of course there are those who spend their time as they would at the church, temple, mosque...They're praying. Praying their ball goes straight. Praying they don't lose their balance. Praying they don't let go of the club after swinging and being the idiot that threw his club into the range.
For me: a test, a safe haven, and a temple all in one. Praying that I can hit my target, I take a sigh of relief (that I am away from sibling rivalry, yelling kids at work, girl drama, money issues) and then view my target and test myself . I hit pretty well tonight to be honest. Good wedges, long irons mostly straight with good distance. Long, controlled drives. However, with one last ball left, I stepped up to my favorite shot: 125 yards away, a slight breeze in my face, middle pin. I was no longer at the range. In my mind, I told myself I was at the Masters about to hit my approach shot onto 18. I was the 'out-of-nowhere' kid, a fairytale story about to win my first Masters. I could hear the commentators in mind. "All Leivenberg needs here is to hit it safe into the middle of the green and he will have secured his win."
I did my normal pre-shot routine. Stood behind the ball for a moment, looking from my ball to my target a few times. I stepped up, spread each foot apart, checking my aim meticulously. I took my final waggle, and then time stopped: It was slow motion. One final look at the pin, then back to my ball. I was ready.
I pulled it. Pure contact, however, definitely right. I may have been on the right most portion of the green, but most likely I am off. What does that mean? Maybe that I can't take the pressure? Maybe that it was just a mishit one night at the range? Maybe that I am blowing one shot out of proportion. For me, and I believe most golfers who believe that they have potential, it was so disappointing that there really feels like there is not cure. No food, TV show, or song would bring me out of this funk.
However, the only hope that I have after that disgusting attempt at winning the Masters is to get back out there and show myself that I CAN...such is golf...such is life.
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