this being Masters Saturday, I propose a quick round of odd one out.
Which two of these golfers are made up: Bo Van Pelt; Rod Pampling; Vrid McDiwight; Phaks Klantcene; Boo Weekley; Notah Begay? No googling; answers in due course.
Yep, it's that time of year when the sporting world overlooks the repugnant history of racism, sexism and elitism that wreathes Augusta National Golf Club in the heart of Jaw-jah and genuflects at the spotless (physically if not ethically) synthesis of golfing and horticultural supremacy that is the Masters. Cue endless gushing on all media about how the dogwoods, azaleas and loblolly pines create the perfect natural amphitheatre for the titans of … zzzz. Sorry; nodded off there.
Granted, the golf is unwaveringly invigorating and the TV coverage reliably silly, especially when the home broadcaster's toadying to the Masters myth is at its most intense, but what I get the biggest buzz from is the names that litter the leaderboards of this and most other US tournaments.
As a youth I'd get a rare chuckle from the names of Fuzzy Zoeller (three zeds in one name? Nurse - the salts!), Calvin Peete - a comically consistent black golfer whose restricted swing owes its quirk to a childhood broken arm that set badly - and Lanny Wadkins. Men where I grew up were called Jimmy, Ken and David. At a push, Aldo (it was the Ayrshire coast, after all). Not Fuzzy.
The annals of American golf in particular are mired in risible names: Bubba Watson (whose apparel and gear are as outlandishly dumb as his sobriquet), Davis Love III (not the first, second, or even the fourth), Curtis Strange (ironically, one of the most orthodox golfers on the planet).
Queer names aren't the sole preserve of the Yanks, mind you -England has Robert Rock (not, ochone, the record producer Bob Rock, whose breezy avuncularity leavens the Metallica film Some Kind Of Monster) and South African golf can count Retief Goosen (pronounced "hoo-sin", obvs), Tienie Britz (apologies to diminutive pro-Union readers) and Lonnie Pantpoom (hold your nose) among its flock.
Actually, that last name is a red herring. During our misspent youth, my band mates and I would while away the hours in tour vans conjuring fictional hackers. There was no dearth of inspiration. Lonnie Pantpoom, Vrid McDiwight and Phaks Klantcene stretched the bounds of credibility; En Ex Lambda XXXVII blew them out of the water. Or so we thought. Then Rod Pampling came along.
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