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Love and golf - comentary

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By Mike Forster

I was thrilled to see Padraig Harrington win the British Open last weekend.

The fact that Harrington is an Irishman was only partially responsible for my happiness.

Chiefly, I was happy because Harrington was able to overtake Greg Norman, and ruin the story-within-a-story of Norman's honeymoon.

For those of you who haven't heard about this, I offer the Cliffs Notes version of the tale, forthwith: Norman gets married and honeymoons in Scotland. While there, he plays in the British Open, nearly winning it.

By the way, the woman that Norman married is none other than Chris Evert, the former tennis star.

Now, you younger bucks out there might not remember Chrissy Evert. But you guys that are my age certainly do.

During the mid-70s, Evert was one of only a handful of famous gals that every guy agreed was a keeper. Every one of us knew that she was the kind of girl that had it all. There were no detractors when it came to Chrissy Evert.

The only other women who had such universal acclaim were Farrah Fawcett and Olivia Newton-John.

Sure, every guy had his dream gal, but each of those had her nay-sayers. I was a Marlo Thomas guy, by the way.

So, the Shark marries Chrissy Evert, she of universal acclaim, and what does he do? He goes golfing. Hello?

Now, you can look at this one of two ways, and neither is good: he went out and played a (four day) game or he went to work. On his honeymoon.

Now, I've never fancied myself the most clued-in guy when it comes to the romance department. But, even I knew that combining work or play with as critical an event as your honeymoon will cost you. Maybe not today, but certainly somewhere down the road.

I took my bride (who reminds me a lot of Marlo Thomas, by the way) to Palmyra, Virginia, on our honeymoon. We even stayed at the Palmer Country Manor.

Not the House, grant you. We stayed in the high fallutin' Manor.

This was no sport outing. I did not bring golf clubs on the trip. I didn't bring horseshoes, fishing gear or a bottle opener.

The absence of that last item allowed me to prove my athletic talent to my new wife as I opened our two bottles of Molson Golden with a car key.

I think I also did some fancy dives at the Palmer Country Manor's pool.

But enough about my honeymoon. We?re talking about the Shark's here.

The press made it out as though things were quite rosy for the Normans at the Open.

I know better. I'm willing to bet the initial conversation went something like this:

Greg: Oh, my darling, our getting married will make me the happiest man in the world (except for Mike Forster, of course).

Chrissy: My sweet, I cannot wait for our mid-July wedding, in Scotland, no less!

Greg: You know, dearest, I was just looking over my PGA events card and noticed that we'll be staying just a stone's throw from the Open. Isn't that some coincidence?

Chrissy: You think you might want us to bike over there to greet your friends, my pet?

Greg: Well, Honey, I was thinking....

Chrissy: Oh, no. We're NOT going to watch an entire round of the Open. Not on our honeymoon.

Greg: Would you watch it if I were playing, Muffin?

Chrissy: Sure. I'd watch it on TV from my mother's house. Which, by the way, is where I'll be living.

Greg: Geez. I should have gone after Farrah Fawcett.

Chrissy: What???

Greg: Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.