| | | It's a Monday morning by The Cooler, and all I see is tumbleweed blowing down the hallways. It is well past 9 a.m., we've been on the company clock for a good
half-hour, and nobody is showing up for my "Wimbledon Round Table" at The Cooler.
|  | | Pete Sampras was denied in his bid for an eighth Wimbledon title ... not that anyone in the United States noticed. |
I posted fliers in the john. I promised White Castle Burgers, provided somebody else pays. I hinted on a company e-mail that I had access to boudoir photos of Gaby Sabatini.
I even wore my special, Bjorn Borg-autographed Bud Collins Pants, which apparently tripped an alarm coming in, as evidenced by my 20-minute detainment by security.
But despite the veritable shout-out my pants gave, nobody came to The Cooler.
I waited. And waited. With little else to do, I exchanged instant messages online with my boy Johnny in Dubai -- you remember him, the shoeshine guy from the old "Police Squad!" episodes -- and got the 411 on the haps in the Middle East. (Apparently, Johnny has had cooler summers than Dubai in July. And apparently, the rap that landed him all those birds back in March when Tiger and Bjorn locked horns isn't working anymore,. Johnny is at home a lot, watching "One Day at a Time" reruns, which, interestingly, are featured in prime time in Dubai. But I digress.)
What more could I do? I logged on to ESPN.com, 'cause I heard the site had some serious fantasy games. Otherwise, why bother?
There it was: A Wimbledon Interest Poll.
I would contribute. Surely, the sporting nation was enraptured by the advancement of Kim Clijsters. Surely, wagering on the Tim Henman-Todd Martin match was approaching championship cockfight levels. Asked to gauge my interest, I happily checked the "Held My Interest All Week Long" box, then secretly hoped that ESPN.com would not use my vote as some sort of computer "cookie" that would eventually warrant an investigation of my financial history by some federal bureau.
The poll result returned.
|  | | Hey, America: This is Jennifer Capriati, and she has a shot at the Grand Slam. |
I was firmly aligned with 17.8 percent of the population.
Apparently, 82.2 percent of the sporting nation could give a rat's ass about Wimbledon. And really, has anybody ever calculated the value of a rat's ass in these recessionary times?
I was crestfallen. My childhood memories of Chrissy Evert ripping forehands with the relentlessness of a Robert Brazile pass rush seemed devalued. My childhood memories of John McEnroe throwing rackets the way Tommy Bolt heaved 5-irons suddenly took on a saddish hue. My childhood memories of Jimmy Connors shagging a Playboy playmate, however, still held a golden glow.
Americans, what hath gone wrong with you and Wimbledon?
It is Final Four, Masters-type stuff, truly epic sports theatre. It's over early in the morning, it has no artificial turf and the girls wear real short skirts.
I can only hope the apathy is a blip on the radar screen, although I fear America's attention span can't hold long enough to assess whether or not it was a blip, or even what a blip is.
I'm saddened, and have no choice but to e-mail Johnny my Weekend List of Five, since he has nothing else to do. (Apparently, his local cineplex is
featuring Dubai's latest release, "Weekend at Bernie's 2.") The list:
1. Finally, golfers as bad as we are
|  | | Bruce Fleisher won the war of attrition known as the U.S Senior Open. |
I have this problem going with my car. It's a major-league hoopdie, and I don't make enough bank to get a new one. So, I gotta live with these tires that make a racket sufficiently loud to announce my presence a full two blocks away, which would be great if my chariot was fresh enough to warrant a two-block heads-up to the hoi polloi.
So Sunday, my babe goes to the gym, watches a little U.S. Senior Open while on the treadmill and comes home with this bomb: "Hey, you think your wheels make a lot of noise? That's nothin' compared to the cacophony made by the collective wheels falling off of every player at the Senior Open!"
Rimshot, please. She's a funny chick. But seriously, watching Isao Aoki, Jim Colbert and Gil Morgan spray balls all over New England down the stretch, you almost wanted to yell at the screen: "Hey, old man! Can I play through?" I think Bruce Fleisher won, but I'm not sure, 'cause I think Colbert's still looking for his third shot.
2. Lefty: King of Hartford
Years from now, when you're engaging in some of the great barroom sports arguments of our time, and somebody slams his fist down on the table and shouts out, "Greater Hartford Opens, all-time Top Five champs!", you have no choice but to bang back with: "Phil Mickelson! At least top five!"
Lefty, thus is your legacy, pal. You close at Hartford, you take the gag at Augusta. You're money at Torrey Pines, you're all over the map at a U.S. Open.
|  | | Forget Augusta! Phil Mickelson is the King of Hartford. |
Bottom line: You're drinking with Phil at a bar, he's king of Pop-a-Shot. You put a round of beers on Pop-a-Shot, and Lefty will be lobbing airballs. Then again, with his winner's checks from the Hartfords of the world, he's got himself a house bigger than Connecticut, plus a rig with quiet tires, so you've got to weigh all factors in assessing
a man's life.
3. U.S. Soccer: Not ready for prime time
I'm big into the American soccer juggernaut. I say we're bringing home at least one big-time scalp from World Cup 2002. But I've got to watch the big match from Mexico live on Spanish television? Inexcusably weak, even for a country that is blowing off Wimbledon.
Coming soon to a sports bar near you: The NBA Finals, live on Croatian TV! The Super Bowl, featuring exclusive Swahili commentary! (Don't put that last idea in Tags' head. He might put a franchise in Kenya, if they'll build him a stadium.)
4. The Yanks: Quietly loading up
Put Justice on the DL. Put Duque on the DL. Put Tino on the trade block. Like it matters? What amuses me is how the Bombers effectively do stretching exercises before they stock the cupboard for a fourth consecutive World Series.
In about four weeks, they'll blow us away with a kick-ass acquisition. But first, they have to play long toss. So they sign Gerald Williams. Then, they have to run wind sprints. So they trade for Mark Wohlers. Consider the moves like spring training.
The braintrust is just loosening up, ball fans, and won't get warm until Jason Giambi is wearing pinstripes. Classic.
5. Kirsten Dunst or Carmen Electra?
|  | | Say what you will, but Kirsten Dunst's father might have played high school football. |
So while browsing ESPN.com -- I really should visit it more often, they even have scores and stuff -- I see 10 Burning Questions for Dunst. Hilarious.
The sports angle is so thin as to be rice paper. I can see the meeting now in Bristol: "Um, Kirsten Dunst's father might have played high school football. Can I talk to her, please?"
Meanwhile, I'm getting e-mails saying Carmen Electra is the spokesperson for Ultimate Fighting Championship which, by the way, might be one of the greatest forms of entertainment God ever invented, second only to the World's Strongest Man competitions. The e-mails say: How 'bout a little love for Carmen Electra?
I'm torn in ESPN.com lust: Carmen, or Kirsten? Kirsten, or Carmen?
Sounds like an excuse for another Cooler Round Table. Maybe this one'll draw some interest.
Brian Murphy of the San Francisco Chronicle writes the "Monday Morning Water Cooler" every week for Page 2. Send this story to a friend | Most sent stories
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