The Thrill Is Back!: Mickelson Botches U.S. Open, 65th at Western Open

It is, by any measurable standard, a perilous world which we occupy, confronted as we are at every turn with treacherous and worrying developments, most of which involve Phil Mickelson. That Phil Mickelson is my everpresent nemesis is a matter of carefully documented record. I don't like Phil Mickelson, and I have a very strong sense that even though he does not know exactly who I am, Phil Mickelson also does not like me. For one need not always be able to identify their adversary via name or appearance in order to know that he is out there, silently rooting for the forces of darkness to mass on their door, maliciously casting hex and curse in your direction, hour after hour, day after day.

I want to clarify something though, a common misconception, one which I myself am probably in part responsible for giving rise to. I am not angry at Phil Mickelson, as so many apparently mistakenly believe. While it is accurate to say that the very invocation of this lumbering loon of the links, the mere mention of his name, inspires in me an explosion of colorful and varied emotions, I must emphasize that anger is not amongst them. Those who know me best, noting my somewhat untethered emotional state dating back to last summer around the time of his ill gotten victory at the PGA Championship- a state which worsened considerably in April after Lefty's admittedly convincing march through Augusta at the Masters- have speculated that perhaps all of this is more than coincidence. Well okay. Regarding these matters I don't wish to argue, for I am perhaps not the greatest objective arbiter of my own mental condition. I do not think I'm "crazy" as some have been overheard to chucklingly whisper, though I guess in the interests of level reportage you could state that I have been a touch "wound up".

Yes, things have gone well for Mickelson this year, and it has taken a certain toll on me, such is the inverse cause and effect nature of our double life. Where he has been assured of his game, playing confidently and conservatively to his strengths, allowing his natural talent to surface and carry him to victory, eschewing the questionable judgment that has so often undermined him through many a glorious failure, my own behavior has been largely, dramatically in contrast. I have not, metaphorically speaking, kept the ball in the fairway these last several months. You might say I have been spraying it all over the course. My swing plane is a mess. Short game abrupt, impatient. I couldn't hit a putt into a manhole. Candidly, to summarize, I have no idea what I am doing out here on the course. My handicap, once respectable, has now bloated into something obscene, grotesque. I was club champion, and now my membership is nearly revoked.

Okay, fine then. Duly noted. But then as assuredly as the melting of icecaps will soon render us a race of dorsal finned amphibians, so has the tide begun to turn with respect to mine and the Mick's fortunes. Who amongst us was not thrilled to their core by the sight of Mickelson's elegant screwballing of the 18th hole at the US Open, snatching humiliating defeat from the jaws of historic victory with a veritable Abbot and Costello routine of absurd misjudgments? As he approached that final tee, seemingly riding a lightning shaft of invincibility towards his third consecutive major, I felt myself at death's door. My knotting innards told the tale of imminent deep sleep. I made a certain peace with the facts that I was not made for these times- Mickelson times.

But then the folly commenced! And with what hilarity the husky harlequin proceeded. As his boggled gallery of staunch supporters stared on with stuttering astonishment, the villian seemed transported back to those lamented, halcyon days when his genius for creative losing made him the hallmark of many a gleeful Sunday for me. I too was changed back to a happier, previous form. As hook followed shank followed I don't know what that was supposed to be, I could feel the blood returning to my brain and muscles. Longstanding anxities receded. I suddenly recollected the answers to several complex mathematical equations, long since abandoned, forgotten, perhaps willed away- all suddenly accessible to me. The rejuvenation was quite complete. A man in my building- a complete stranger, with handsome olive skin- commented that I looked "lively", and I confess he was quite right.

Postscript:

Last weekend Lefty made his first start since the magnificent humiliation at Winged Foot. Following a stellar 67 on the first day, he proceeded to shoot his way out of the tournament with 74 and 75 on Friday and Saturday respectively, finally finishing in a pathetic tie for 65th. So, is Mickelson in decline? Am I in ascent? These are the key questions which bear monitoring as we approach the seasons last two majors, beginning with the British Open in two weeks. Is it unrealistic to think that he might get caught in one of those pot bunkers during the weekend, score a fourteen on one hole and shoot 90? Am I aiming too high here? Did Beowulf aim too high when he defeated Grendel? Is this thing on???