sports on sunday

there was nothing wrong with Tiger Woods not winning the 2007 US Open. the Oakmont golf course was an undulating, unforgiving course. he's not living in the roger federer world where he can win every tournament. golf is more in-depth when it comes to the competition. one not so well-known with a round of his life could steal a major sunday. it's 18 holes. aaron baddeley faded awkwardly in the first hole and he was leading after 54 holes. tiger was in contention until the cruel 18th. he played the final group as well at the masters. winning a major golf competition is not basic child's play, obviously. for some people it's just a one-off. nothing wrong with that. for every tiger and for every phil mickelson, there's a ben curtis, there's a todd hamilton.

angel cabrera was not born a kennedy or a member of argentina's wealthiest. who wouldn't deny a former caddie the father's day trophy of golf? i always see cabrera as the grinding paunch for years because he was always visible in the majors then throw it all away with one shot. but now he's a major champion. well done.

let's forget about beckham and real madrid. so from these days onwards, posh spice will constantly splash her size zero figure on E!? oh, to be a spice girl. now for that one sprinkle of british sports accomplishment --- lewis hamilton won indianapolis ( my hubby was watching formula 1 -- well, well, wonders never cease). hamilton's is not actually rags to riches story like cabrera's but close. his dad, who looks youthful on TV, had to work three jobs in order to subsidize his son's racing career. as the world of car racing is forever synonymous with posh boys, it's wonderful to see someone from the working class doing magnificently well. beat that daily mail, lewis hamilton is black.

i was able to brush up my nba vocabulary during game 4 of the finals also on sunday. i could only watch the recorded version to rush through the adverts and analyses. that match-up didn't require rocket science punditry. first, i saw too much make-up on eva longoria. i reckon she's prettier with less. second, lebron james looks thirty or 32. he's 22. third, i got acquainted with a player named anderson varejao. then one of the most handsome men alive, robert horry had just won seven championship rings. i might watch more nba games next season. or not. if kobe wants a trade, give it to him. i would just utter the proverbial latin phrase for the ungratefuls. quo vadis, kobe bryant (photos-- si.com; yahoo.com).

levitating in dreamland

summer is my favorite season. never been a fan of the autumn/winter collection and definitely not one to say no to longer days and shorter nights, the breeze is just ideal for my not-so friendly mien these days. despite having a jungle in our backyard ( i should be trimming grass rather than writing this blog), summer is an ethereal state that never lasts.

i was still in an ethereal state when i dropped out of consciousness. my foreboding idea of anaesthetics had not been enhanced by one reminder in the daily brush with reality. halting, questioning, ambivalent, was it bad idea to witness the clinical proceedings? teetering from pitch darkness to tangibility, the recovery room unveiled smiley faces. after the fact, i was merely a patient being pushed in the trolley, energized, relieved, bouyant. recuperating and still inclined in the wheeled bed, it was a nurse who supplied the edifying truths. if only seeking answers from the doctors would reveal similar truths.

almost halfway through the pages, jane eyre has been my solace from my maudlin theme. i wasn't that enamored with wuthering heights. the strength of jane eyre -- the character, is as alluring as the actress who played charlotte bronte in devotion, olivia de havilland. a fast reader in my youth, i've now succumbed to the slow reader syndrome. it's old age. or there are more distractions in this day and age -- the web, to hundreds of channels on television, the mini golf game in my phone, work stuff, studying music lyrics. pablo honey is somewhere out there (jane eyre photo--wikipedia.org).

glory hunting in sports

i shouldn't really have clicked on discussion pages featuring who's the greatest tennis player ever. it's going to be federer before his career is done. that coming from a sampras fan is a huge acquiescence. the french open final on sunday highlighted the weaknesses of the serve and volley technique in beating one rafael nadal on the red clay of roland garros. against davydenko, federer was so poised and composed, relying on his usual intimidating groundstrokes. two days later, those masterful tennis motions were incapacitated by splendid baseline dynamics. under the intense heat of a paris summer, nadal was stronger in the rallies.

unlike the slickness of grass, claycourt tennis is not for the feeble and timid. that was why sampras capitulated. he couldn't survive the dirt in the heat even against super unknowns. plus he was used to serve and volleying in all the other surfaces that he forgot to adapt his game to clay. barring fatigue or injury or a rejuvenated marat safin or an awakened eastern european from the balkan state (ancic, karlovic, djokovic et al), the swiss champion would have an easier time at the fabled SW19 (si.com photo).

would it be considered glory hunting if one tend to cheer on lewis hamilton in F1 racing? he's a 22 year old rookie who leads his teammate by eight points. he comes from a working class family, a departure from Jenson Button who more or less can brag of better connections in the racing circuit. he's more likable than either Alonzo or Raikkonen. likable, though, is a subjective term.

submitting meekly in the darts in the other channel and in the same time slot as the tennis, was phil taylor to raymund van barneveld, 11-4. rivalries, rivalries. i didn't check the results of the world table tennis championships before watching the match. through the wonders of tv recording, i creeped through the men's match more than a week later, wang liqin was down and out before ripping forehands on the table and shocked the perpetually animated ma lin in the men's event. there's a new champion in the women's side, still chinese and only 18, guo yue. zhang yining, who lost in the semis, is still number one.

although i haven't seen a single nba match this year, i would have to skip game 3 of the series and try to record game 4 or wake up in the wee hours to watch the game live. only four years since his draft and all the hype, lebron james is in the final. it took MJ seven but after that he didn't look back (nba.com photo).

in between the blues

drenched in the blimp of mystery, i'm still in the midst of inquisition. my GP told me not to speculate on anything until you've got some concrete confirmations. my energy is deflated. i can't even have my bloods checked. it's just too scary to be growled at again by the bespectacled phlebotomist from the cricket playing world of Brian Lara. the sight of ladies with their lovely bumps, like the bomb that's about to explode, makes my clock tick fast with tenacity.

over the years i've tried not to dwell on the meandering murmurings of actual blabbermouths. there are opinions and there are opinions. until the philippines becomes an economic powerhouse, westerners pervading notions of our people, that of condescension, would not change. we can read and write, solve equations, pursue academic aspirations as the best of these anglicans but the stereotype of a filipina not only as the one purported in oxford dictionary but that of "tingtong," on little britain is bewildering and hurtful. first world arrogance sometimes streams beyond understanding.

searching for some enlightening celebrity bloggers in the past weeks, i've bumped into a few interesting ones. it's lovely to discover that ms lea composes intricate sentences and maintains three blog sites. there's ella, a second cousin to the prince of wales, whose articles appear in the highly-partisan daily mail and counts designer Valentino, among others as family friend, has a portal on her list of written works. growing up rich makes finding a publisher way, way easier. pretty faces with their blogs have much more impact on the comments box the way non-celebs like you and me get brush aside. we check out kooki's because she is familiar and the megastar's daughter and she gets hundreds of comments. it's always the same people posting comments on my friends' blogs. other pals prefer the silence but in no way less supportive.

a few days ago, i was pondering whether mr. kiedis has a blog or i'll just settle for d navarro's ravings. as expertly cracking google didn't lead me to the kiedis' prose, i'll just find the time to get a copy of his bio. i've been meaning to acquire scar tissue since it came out in '04 but i was lounging in the cliches surrounding time and its essence. i'm not even listening to any tunes these days but kiedis words and lyrics always haunt me. so do with bellamy of muse, but the devon rocker doesn't blog either.

today, the issue of deep-seated emotional pain perpetuates its resonance. those walls. those gates. the service. the family. the friends. the tears. dealing with these stirring pathos twice waves through the fervor of intense hurt (kiedis photo from barnes & noble).