But because my hypocrisy knows no bounds, I’m about to do the same.

As usual, Baldwin swung and missed. It is yet another chapter in his apparently unending saga of only reading and responding to what he wants to see, rather than what’s actually there.

Yet again, I say, Tiger may very well end his career as the best player ever, and I will be the first to concede that is extremely possible. However, he has to show me more than a closing 37 with bogeys on 17 and 18 to drag his playing partner into a playoff. That and that alone is evidence substantial enough to conclude that he was not “as dominant as ever.” He is undoubtedly great. The greatest? That remains to be seen.

I never tire of the golf goobers that readily ejaculate “a day for the ages” or “a shot for the history books” just because — in all their nitwittedness — they saw something that might have been, at best, neat. Golf has far too much beautiful, storied history to be re-written by a few bloggers that fondled themselves to a fortunate chip-in.

And as for Mickelson, he was a non-factor at Augusta this year — no more, no less. But retreating into hyperbole out of a desire for reaction (although it obviously worked) will mainly end in Baldwin digesting his exaggerated claptrap. Mickelson will win more than one Major. That’s just plain stupid. (I await the “people’s choker” and “gag reflex” comebacks. Those are as original — and as funny — as Dat Phan’s act, AKA his Margaret Cho impersonation.)

Finally, as for the dinner story, we all know that’s fabricated. Daniel would never waste food. If Daniel Baldwin saw a dinner roll fly across the room, he would bound into the air and catch it in his mouth like a starving porpoise at Sea World. He would then conclude the evening by complaining about something somewhere, and possibly tearing up.

And Mensa called. They want Baldwin to stop using their name. The connection was bad. I couldn’t really understand. But I know I caught the word defecating at least twice.

I don’t want to hear it. Yes, Tiger won another major; he’s halfway to Jack. He fought back from first round woes to do it. But so what? The old Tiger is not back.

Beginning the round with a three-shot lead, the Tiger of old – the Tiger Slam Tiger – appeared to surface, with birdies on the first two holes. But from that point in, the old Tiger disappeared and the lukewarm Tiger of new took over. (I must admit, “lukewarm” is indeed an odd way to describe any Masters winner, but given Tiger’s past dominance, his play on Sunday was relatively lukewarm, and that’s the point…)

Tiger Slam Tiger would not have let DiMarco back in. Tiger Slam Tiger would have continued to shut the door after starting with two birdies. He would have sunk a few more birdies. At worst, he would have tossed in pars. Instead, he bogeyed (5 and 10, in addition to 17 and 18), and he let DiMarco contend. That is not the old Tiger.

Most of all, the old Tiger would not have bogeyed 17 and 18, letting DiMarco force a playoff with mere pars. It just wouldn’t have happened. The man we saw collect all four major tournaments at one time simply would not have finished 2-over on the 71st and 72nd holes, allowing his playing partner back in the tournament. Worst of all, the old Tiger would not have shot a 37 on the closing nine when it actually mattered. No, that Tiger is not back.

As for his shot on 16? Enough. He hit a great pitch that should have been close. His knowledge of the green and ability to place the shot should have warranted a tap-in par. For that to go in? Lightning in a bottle. No more.

I will concede a few things. His ability to bounce back from his first round debacles ignited trappings of ’97, when he opened with a 40, only to come in with a back-nine 30. And his second and third rounds were indeed reminiscent of his major-championship dominance a few years ago.

Tiger may end up the greatest player to ever play the game. As we all know, only time will tell. I will readily concede that this is extremely possible. Tiger is – even as of now – one of the greatest talents we will ever see. However, his play on Sunday just didn’t show it. The old Tiger is not back.

Some may say I may be asking too much of someone. The Tiger Slam was one of the greatest achievements in all of golf. How can someone go back to that? Well, if we want to readily refer to Tiger as “the greatest” or “one of the greatest,” forgive me for maintaining high standards for the guy. I have too much respect for the history of the game to haphazardly bestow distinctions that might not have been earned – yet.

This year’s Masters did, however, achieve one thing. It allowed Chris “I’m far less talented than my brothers – even Daniel and Stephen” Baldwin to take another shot at Mickelson. I guess it’s alright. Everyone deserves an opinion, even those with a nauseatingly closed, one-tracked mind.

In fact, the only connection this has with Lefty lies in the fact that it is a mere annoyance involving the tournament he just won. Watching the coverage of both January’s Bob Hope Chrysler Classic and last weekend’s Pebble Beach Pro/Am, I truly realized how much I don’t care about how well celebrities can play golf. I just don’t care.

And the coverage was nauseating. I like to watch Samuel L. Jackson act. George Lopez’ standup is hilarious. Bill Murray: This guy is one of the most brilliant comedians of our generation. But I don’t care to watch them play golf. I could go to my neighborhood muni and watch middle-aged guys hack it around if I wanted to (although, admittedly, Bill Murray is actually a decent golfer with one of the most un-awkward swings of the celebrity troop, but he’s still a low-level amatuer). I don’t need it brought to my living room for me.

I do understand the draw. This brings in non-golf fans. It popularizes the PGA Tour right from the start of the season. OK. I am all for growing the game we all love. But if this is the case, we still don’t need to have the wealth of coverage of these guys actually playing golf. If one of these guys is playing to the crowd especially well, then cut to him. Watch him interact and entertain the gallery. But we don’t need to see him actually hit the ball. As I’ve said, if this is truly for the non-golf fans, then they don’t care how these guys play anyway.

And these celebrities need to realize their role. George Lopez gets it. He jokes with and plays to the crowd. He is there to entertain. It’s his stage. If he happens to play a round of golf in the process, great. But that’s secondary. However, not everyone gets it. Far too many of these celebrities walk into the ropes with a reclusive seriousness. They don’t want to be bothered. They just want to play and play well, which I understand–if it’s at their local country club on a Tuesday afternoon. But it’s not. It’s at Pebble Beach, or whatever Bob Hope course they happen to be at, and it’s on national television. Their role is to entertain the unwashed masses, not to impress them with a nine handicap.

I’ve had enough. I turn on the television to watch the best golfers in the world, not some overweight multi-quadjillionaire blade his fifth out of the sand over the green, prompting a temper tantrum because this was his “stroke hole.” It’s got to stop.

As a lefty and a rabid Phil fan since I was about 6 years old, I will be the first to defend the now Masters champ, but last week’s inaccessibility holds no excuses, at least as far as I know. While other players gladly granted press conferences in the first rounds of the five-round jaunt, talking to Mickelson proved as hard as watching David Duval hack it around to a 10-over-par 82 in the first round (one of only 13 above par after the first round, a mere 18 shots back from the leaders and 23 shots worse than his 59 on the same course in 1999).

And it wasn’t his PR rep’s fault. T.R. told Phil. It simply came down to Phil not listening. Say it ain’t so, Phil. What’s happening? Why is the articulate San Diegan reverting into prima donna status? I’ve always like Phil. Is my like-affair over? What’s Lefty’s deal?

Growing up in Minnesota addicted to golf – as many of us up there are – I remember spending many cold November days pounding tees into the ground in the effort to secure as many holes under our belt as possible before the snow came.

I can recall one round in high school played in the beginning of December during one of those “warm” winters in which the snow held off until about just before Christmas. I and three friends donned winter gear, equipped with hats and choppers and headed out into the 32-degree air. We played all 18 that day, our bodies warmed slightly and only momentarily by hot chocolate at the turn. The choppers left our hands only for the few seconds it took to hit and putt; however, by about the 12th, we realized that we could putt just as well with them on, so we did.

When we left that day, I remember working tirelessly to regain the feeling in my hands. In addition, I’m pretty sure that the graphite shaft on my driver cracked during that round, as it broke early in the next season. But I’d do it again.

But why? Why will we sacrifice our body temperature and – in some cases – our equipment simply for one last romp before the clubs are damned to the basement until the first sign of green? Is it a material case of the “absence makes the heart grow fonder"? Do we miss the game simply because we can’t have it? Possibly. Or is it simply a true love for the game?

I will admit: When reading Kiel’s blog, I realized that I really have no idea what it’s like to be a baby boomer. That’s my parents. I don’t have children nor anyone to support but myself. However, I do know that I still miss my mistress when she’s gone, and I appreciate her thoroughly when she’s still here.

I now reside in Southern California and have spent the majority of the past four winters here, so the only inhibitors to golf are rain and a debilitating hangover (although we all know that the latter is no excuse to not play golf). And I never forget to thank the golf gods for that. But I do know that back in Minnesota, my dad – a baby boomer and father of six – played golf through the end of November this year, and continues to yearn for it now that the snow has come. I can only hope to retain a love like that when I dive into the “real world.”

I’ve been watching Philly Dog since I was about 8. I’ve lived and died with every one of his Major appearances (mostly died until this year). Watching him tear around Kauai at the Grand Slam of Golf to a blistering 59 helped me realize that a new Phil has arrived.

Many thought that a new Philly was here after this year’s Masters, but we saw a little more of the same – albeit slightly better than normal – in this season’s final three Majors. Now I know he has arrived.

Philly, to you I raise a glass. And I look forward to an upcoming career grand slam.

Artest, Jackson and O’Neal should be ousted from the league for good. Their actions last week – simply put – exhibited such a supreme lack of class, an overwhelming prevalence of blatant stupidity and absolutely no semblance of self-control that I would be content to never see them step onto an NBA court ever again.

The real issue has nothing to do with what went on between players on the court. Tempers flare on the court all the time. It happens. That’s part of what intense sport is all about. I’m more concerned with what happened IN THE STANDS. Players climbing into the audience to find someone – anyone – to knock out is inexcusable. And why? Because someone threw a three-quarter full beer at you? Grow up. (Another thing: Why the beer was that full that late in the game is also of concern to me. Who orders a $6-dollar brew and doesn’t finish it before it is damned by the demon of lukewarmness? Shame on you.)

Artest, Jackson and O’Neal, I’d like to introduce you all to a process that seems to have evaded you: Becoming a man. Now, this doesn’t just mean knocking up your “baby mama” and having your accountant cut her a check each month. Part of becoming a man is having the patience, poise and self-control to walk away. If someone “steps to you” or whatever the hell you want to call it, walk away. Now, somewhere in Generation X or Y or whatever we’re on, weight-room-dwelling testosterone fiends have helped forge a new belief that the guy who walks away is some sort of pansie or many other words not suitable for type. But here’s the truth: He’s not. The one that walks away is the real man. Self-control is much more difficult – and rewarding – than barbarically unleashing rage on – as is the case with the Pacers and the fans – a pathetically inferior foe.

After watching Con Air on TBS twice in as many days last week, I remembered that Nicolas Cage’s character went to prison because his skills deemed him basically more than human. So are these guys. Their sheer reach must be at least a foot longer than any of the fans that participated in the melee. Their God-given size alone qualifies them as more than human. They should not be subject to the same rules and regulations as normal people.

The NBA should set a precedent. Davey needs to give a real punishment, not this suspension nonsense. Boot them from the league. Get rid of them. Show these guys not to mess with the fans. Punch Ben Wallace. He’s on the court with you. (Although, if you punch Ben Wallace, I would lobby for a psych evaluation rather than a suspension.) But don’t bring the fans into it. A lifetime ban would set a precedent not to mess with the people that help pay players’ nauseatingly inflated salaries.

To those that say, “but whose going to protect the players?” I would leave that to the legions of neckless security guards surrounding every event, not to mentiont the disproportionately powerful players’ union, which is expected to appeal the suspension. Artest had a little beer spilled on a uniform he doesn’t even wash himself. The fans – although I do concede that they fought back, albeit rather unsuccessfully, and I guess you could weakly argue that they started the brawl – received the crash of a full-power clenched fist from a 6-foot-11-inch monster. Who got it worse? The players don’t need any more protection. Apparently, the fans are the ones in need.

Fans should not have to go to a sporting event fearing that one of the animals might get out of the cage. Boot these guys from the league. Send them to Canada. Better yet, release them on our newly reelected President’s existing “Global War on Terror.” Killing foreigners always seems an acceptable vent. Fighting an un-winnable war will not only unleash that barbaric angst, it’ll also keep them busy for a while, at least until they can no longer play in the NBA. Problem solved.

I met this guy this summer and asked him a simple question. He spewed a response with a false sense of superiority and patronization so substantial it almost knocked me over. The mundane question was neither ill-informed nor of ill-will. It truly was a simple, unconsequential question.

But not to ol’ Stevey, the most famous bagboy in the world. His unprovoked rudeness navigated past his buck teeth without pause. I’m a pacifist, but he made me want to take off my golf spike and hit him in the face with it. And I know I’m not the only one.

So what’s this guy’s deal? Does Tiger want him to act like this? Is it some sort of first line of defense for keeping the untouchables out of Tiger’s way? Or is the highest paid “athlete” in New Zealand just a bona-fide a-hole? And I question the word athlete. I know many people that could walk five miles a day with a backpack on, that doesn’t make them athletes. It makes them pedestrians. On that note, what does he do anyway that someone else couldn’t? So he reads putts and walks off yardages. Congratulations. Tiger could do that by himself.

Bottom line: He carries Tiger’s stuff. Get a monkey in the weight room, and he could do that job. The only qualification Steve-o holds over the monkey is the fact that he doesn’t throw his poo at the spectators, I hope.

To you, Steve: Take your nose out of Tiger’s caboose long enough to put things into perspective. You carry someone’s bag. That someone just happens to be one of the greatest players in history. He was good before you were with him, and he will be good after. In the grand scheme of things, you’re rather minuscule. Your contribution to the game: negligible. Get over yourself.

It’s all the same. Everyone is trying to do the same things with pretty much the same materials. Titleist, Taylor Made, Callaway, Cobra, Cleveland, Adams, Ping and even Nike. They make all the same stuff. Yes, there are differences in materials and club design, but these qualify as little more than glorified gimmicks, at best. The specific differences are generally moot to the average or less-than-average player.

Besides PGA Professionals and scratch or single-digit handicappers, no one should care where the weight chips are placed in the sole of the clubhead. No one should care what those weight chips are made of. No one should care what’s behind the club face or the composition of some new composite. It doesn’t matter. The bottom line is that every average player needs a playable club with a large sweet spot, a low center of gravity and – for drivers – a high COR. If you slice, as the majority of average players do, possibly a little offset or draw bias. That’s all you really need. Every equipment company will provide that in some way or another. And to you, it really doesn’t matter how, as long as they all work, which they generally do.

To the true hackers out there, to whom a draw means nothing more than what you do on your notepad when you’re bored at work, a word of advice: Just skip the pro-line section and pass right on into the crap. You can dribble the ball off the first tee box with a 2-by-4. You don’t need to spend $1500 to suck. You can do that for much cheaper.

So the Red Sox finally won. Well done. I was sincerely cheering for the Fenway crew. I wanted to see it happen, mostly because the moment had been saturated by hype since the ALCS – if not before – and I am relieved to see an end to it. However, I am tired of this Curse talk. It’s done. It’s over. There was no Curse. As much as we want to believe it because it stimulates our sports folklore libido, it’s just not there.

The verbage, “The Curse of the Bambino” didn’t even appear until after the Buckner debacle in 1986. Before that, while flipping through the pages of history, I simply saw example after example of Red Sox teams deflating into mumbling, bumbling morons at the hands of what became the Yankees’ mystique. It was intimidation: plain and simple, and it’s nobody’s fault but the Sox. The only “curse” was the subconscious – or perhaps conscious – belief that they thought they were going to lose. Psychologically, when you believe you’re going to lose, you’re going to lose.

And Buckner? Lay off. The guy was a dumbass. He made an error. It just happened to be a tragically inopportune error. That’s it.

So go ahead and scoff. Call me retahhded. But here’s your Curse: a history of collapsing under pressure and intimidation from a single team, accented by a couple of dumbasses – Harry Frazee and Bill Buckner. It’s not the Babe’s fault, nor is it the Yankees’. It’s your own. The Curse is a scapegoat. You got beat. Montreal never blamed folklore for the Expos sucking.

If anything, the Curse of recent history is the sale of Steinbrenner’s soul to Satan. It has nothing to do with Boston, except that the Red Sox happened to bear the blunt end of Lucifer’s recent playoff gifts to his indentured servant. In addition, Steinbrenner has played a significant role in bastardizing the integrity of sports, which has become more and more of an oxy moron in recent years (Hello, NHL, or lack thereof). If anything, he’s a Curse to all of sports.

Either way, congratulations on the World Series title. Now shut up about that freakin’ Curse.

We’ve all seen Happy Gilmour and his collection of oversized checks filling his backseat (or is it his trunk? I said I’ve seen it. I never said I’ve seen it lately.) What’s the deal with these things and why do we continue to give them out? Where is this oversized bank that cashes them? Do supple Amazonian women smirk gently while they wrap their generous Andre the Giant-esque hands around gigantic pens to help us fill out a deposit slip? Or are they deposited in an ATM somewhere that looks like the Big World in Mario 3 where William “The Fridge” Perry and “The Ninth Wonder of the World” Chyna are the first couple?

Alright, so maybe the big checks are not the most hallowed tradition in the halls of golf, but it still raises one question: What traditions should go and what should stay? Golf is a game in which beauty comes in many forms, tradition being one of them. What traditions do we embrace as a part of the game we all love? And what traditions could we bid adieu to without thinking twice?