Time For Our Memorial Tournament Rain

It’s been hot and dry in Columbus recently — but all that is about to change.

Tomorrow the Memorial Tournament begins at the Muirfield Village Golf Club in Dublin, a Columbus suburb.  It’s a terrific tournament hosted by Jack Nicklaus on a fabulous golf course.  As any Columbus resident also knows, however, it also means we are guaranteed to have rain.

It’s pretty amazing, really.  It’s rained so frequently for the Memorial that the New York Times has written about the weird coincidence — not once, but twice.  They’ve moved the date of the tournament, and the rain followed the Memorial to its new place on the calendar.  It’s rained so often that some people contend that the rain is the curse of Chief Leatherlips (from his name, apparently not a ladies’ man) because the course purportedly was built on a sacred Wyandot burial ground.

Whatever the reason, it’s time to spread the grass seed, plant the flowers, batten down the hatches, and prepare for the inevitable downpour.  The Memorial Tournament is here!

Enslaved By Fear Of Jinxes — Revisited

Last week, flush with success and heedless of the risk, I wrote an insufficiently veiled post about a certain team’s success and my fear of jinxes.

The Fates don’t appreciate such temerity.  They become infuriated when puny mortals rise up and stick a thumb in their eye.  They know when the time has come for a beat down and aren’t shy about relentlessly punishing those who don’t quite know their place.  The only surprise is that, having been a sports fan for many decades now, I would need to relearn that lesson, painfully, yet again.

Since I’ve written my little piece, the team in question has lost five out of six, been pulverized by divisional foes, and fallen out of first place.

Don’t believe in jinxes?  I’m just askin’.

The Worst Previews In The World

Last night Kish and I were watching TV and saw the preview for the next Adam Sandler movie, That’s My Boy.  The preview made the movie look like the worst movie in the world — which is about par for the course for Adam Sandler movie previews.  They’re uniformly awful, and when the latest Adam Sandler movie is released each year, we Americans are just expected to stolidly endure them.

For years Americans cackled at the French for inexplicably admiring, and indeed finding deeper significance in, the “genius” of Jerry Lewis movies.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the French chuckle at the fact that Americans have a seemingly endless appetite for low-brow Adam Sandler drivel.  The movies keep getting made, so somebody must go watch them.  The question is:  who?  You wouldn’t think there would be a sufficient audience of pathetic, friendless, unmarried 40-year-old guys who appreciate the subtle humor of a pie in the face, but apparently there are.

Watching the That’s My Boy preview, I found myself imagining how Adam Sandler movies come to be.  Picture a man running away from you, down a long hallway.  He bursts through the door of an office, and a Hollywood type wearing a Hawaiian shirt and about a pound of gold neck chains looks up.

Running man:  “Boss, we’re ready to move forward on the next Adam Sandler project!  The writers and I have come up with an entirely novel way for a man to unexpectedly get hit in the crotch!”

Producer:  “That’s great, Jenkins — but that only puts us halfway there.  Now you need to think of an excuse for Sandler to wear a stupid wig.”

In fairness to Sandler, I haven’t been to see one of his movies since the Happy Gilmore era.  For all I know, the movies are richly rewarding, profoundly moving viewing experiences.  However, I take the previews at face value, and consider them to be fair warning.  If I went to see That’s My Boy and it was even close to as dreadful as the preview suggests, I’d have no one to blame but myself.