Wednesday, October 30, 2013

On Sweatered Sherpas, Warbling Warblers, and Jim Nantz

This here be an entry into the Nachos Grande Blogger Bracket challenge, in which a group of us nerds writes posts at the behest of a Nacho card of less-than-random choosing. Enjoy. Also, a hearty congrats to Brandon Phillips on his 4th Gold Glove. Go Reds.
As in my first entry, please allow yourself to enjoy a musical selection to set the proper mood.

The cresting azaleas. The angelic, avian warbling passing over Amen Corner. The dogwoods and the doglegs. A new season is upon us, and our man, Juan Uribe, sits atop the leaderboard. Looking to trade a purple jersey for a green jacket, Uribe stares down his putt as if a fox stalking his pray. We bear witness to the American dream on the links today. A young man from the Dominican Republic aims to join homegrown legends Jack Nicklaus and Sam Snead in the annals of champions. This is truly a tradition unlike any other. The Blasters Tournament, on CBS. Sponsored by your Wal-Mart baseball card aisle.

Hello, friends. I'm Jim Nantz, your sweatered sherpa through the hills and valleys of Augusta, Georgia. Juan Uribe, one tap-in away from claiming the title for his home nation, went against his caddy's club selection in what can be described as an ill-conceived move. Eschewing his putter, Uribe pulls out a 32-ounce Louisville Slugger, replete with doughnut. I don't believe this qualifies as a regulation club, Pat.

"No, Jim, it does not. With the doughnut, our stats experts tell me the total club weight is nearly 50 ounces, well over tour specifications. The curved face of the bat is going to lead to an erratic trajectory and virtually no control of spin and placement. In my 297 years broadcasting sports, this is truly the oddest thing these eyes have seen."

I agree, Pat. This is highly unconventional. And...wait. It appears Uribe is pointing just over the heads of the audience in the bleachers on 18. He's calling his shot, Pat! Unbelievable. With Ruthian authority, Uribe seems intent on foregoing the putt and cranking this ball into the parking lot. The crowd has reached a fervorous ruckus I haven't seen since I was on the set of Happy Gilmore. Truly, a site to behold.

Uribe approaches his lie. There's no recompense to be had any more. A quick adjustment of his undercarriage and hearty loogie spat into the lake are the tell-tale signs that we're about to see some magic. Uribe pulls into his backswing, the majestic swoop of champion. He pauses for merely an instant. All muscles in his body are in perfect orchestra. There is a greater power at work here at The Blasters. Uribe has become one with his surroundings. Here it comes...the crack of the bat...the roar of the crowd...the whistle of the cowhide blistering past your ears. Contact has been made! The ball sails back...back...BACK!...and...

(to be continued)

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