No, Tiger Woods strangely hasn’t asked me yet how to focus on the big stage (even though I once did come within a game of a Madden Championship). And no, Tom Lehman didn’t come to his senses and go to another international coaching source for wisdom (though I do have a better international coaching record than Mike Krzyzewski having once led a group of my little brother’s mostly Irish neighborhood friends to a victory over an Italian family). Heck, I haven’t even put up one of those little U.S. flags in my window.

But this doesn’t mean I’m not doing my part for U.S. domination in this Ryder Cup week (otherwise known as Week 3 of the NFL season in 95 percent of U.S. households).

Yours truly was part of a historic, valiant band of American golf writers who turned back the Canadian swine who would steal our watered-down beer and surgery pumped up women.

In the inaugural Canadian-American, Why-Are-We-Doing-This-Thing Again Writers Cup, the U.S. squad, which included the worst golf-playing golf writer in the world, breezed to victory on Canada’s home soil. Just call us the Sleepy Half Dozen. We won despite the fact Canada stacked its team with a part-time pro and a guy who played about 10 shots below his “handicap” for six straight days.

And don’t think I didn’t do my part. The Canadian in my group became so unnerved by my unconventional (re backwards, sideways and straight up shots) that I outdrove him on the last three holes of the day with the Cup in the balance. (Sure, nobody actually knew what the score was until later, but still …)

Of course, like most foreigners unable to deal with good old U.S.A. domination, the Canadian writers whined that someone must have misread the scorecards.

No matter. The trophy speaks loudest. Even if it’s about two inches tall and lost in somebody’s luggage by now.

You’re welcome, USA. Now back to saving Michelle Wie.

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