As a soccer guy, I’m supposed to hate Dave Perkins. He epitomizes the grumpy if-I-didn’t-cover-it-in-1973-it-doesn’t-matter attitude that a lot of the old guard in the Canadian sports media seems to sport. But, I just can’t. He chronicles golf too damn good to be hated—-even if he’s dead wrong about the place of the world’s game in Canada.
Golf’s a funny one. It seems like it should be going the way of horse racing and boxing in the sports media world (something you let the 90-year-old columnist ramble on about every so often because that’s just what he does and besides the guy’s a legend. He covered Dimaggio). Yet, it holds onto relevancy. No one older than 40 will admit to watching golf on TV, but somehow papers like The Star keep sending guys like Perkins to Augusta and England to cover it. So, someone must be watching/reading.
And, when the British Open rolls around we are all the better for it. The one tournament that those less than 40 may admit to watching is the British Open (indeed, it’s on in the background as I type this now—Tom Watson-- TOM WATSON! --just missed a birdie putt). There is something about watching pros playing golf on land that looks like it’s located beside the #401 and earmarked for a future Wal-Mart. The chaos of it all somehow makes it cool—Xtream, even.
And, by extension, so does Perkins (as an aside, unlike Bob Elliot, who writes about baseball with a certain purity but sounds like the drunk sitting beside you in a seedy pub, Perkins sounds exactly like he writes—like your jaded, bitter uncle Pete-- back in my day we played the game the way it was supposed to be played. Then them liberals ruined everything).
So, keep an eye on the old grump this weekend as the most unpredictable golf tournament in the world unfolds. Uncle Pete doesn’t know a damn thing about what he doesn’t know, but the bastard can write.
And besides Weir’s in the hunt (for now).