I don’t watch much televised golf. If I am going to take four hours away from my family, I’d better be the one playing, not spending my day rooting for a player I had never heard of, just because I can pronounce his name. This year, a guy named Bubba won the Masters, much to my delight, since the runner up was something like “Oozeelederhosen.” There’s just something alluring about the Masters. I’m not sure whether it’s the pristine and historic golf course they refer to every five seconds, or the half dozen regally sounding British announcers making it seem like you are on a museum tour ... [Read More]