Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Great call from Pat Hughes on the game-winning hit. And possibly the first time the Cubs ever have gotten to Chris Sampson.

So how does the season feel now, Mister Faded Glory?

We’ll keep you posted.

Tom Watson didn’t win The British Open today. No, no he didn’t.

This sounds corny, but we all did.

Stewart Cink, a decent pro, a good guy, and a deserving major champion, beat Watson in an anticlimactic playoff when the old pro had nothing left.

We’ve seen stories like this before. After his round Saturday, Joe Posnanski penned a great analogy to Watson’s success. Pos seemed to think the announcers weren’t doing Watson’s phenomenal third round justice – but they totally were. Watson wouldn’t want to be regarded as a curiosity or a freak occurrence – he still fancies himself a competitive pro golfer. And he just finished second at The British Open, tantalizing close to his sixth Claret Jug. Who could argue?

I actually give ABC kudos for not overselling the moment. That never happens – not at the network feverishly working to discover Who’s Now, and promoting their phony awards show tonight. But Tom Rinaldi, interviewing Watson after the round Saturday, let his emotions show, and uttered a phrase hopelessly correct:

Tom, this is why we watch sports.

And it truly is. Golf is unique because it’s a solitary pursuit, demanding perfection and fortitude and confidence beyond any other sport – and forcing the greatest to beat entire fields of players. Golf also is unique because it captures the faces and countenances and celebrations and frustrations of the very best players – caught up in moments often beyond their control.

On Saturday, Watson walked up 18, knowing he had the third-round lead in The British Open. He smiled, his eyes light. He scanned the crowd, the gallery, the green, the clubhouse, the scene at a course he probably loves and a tournament he loves probably more, in a game that he loves the most of all.

He’s 59 years old, almost 60. As he stood on the green, breathing the crisp air and the respite of another round complete – his face said it all. Watson had to know this was probably as close as he’d ever get again. His confidence and athletic persona would deny it, but his eyes, his face, his pursed smile knew.

You wouldn’t have blamed him if he cried. Already on Saturday, this close to perfection, this close to a return to greatness, this story perhaps the greatest in all sports history, you knew he sensed it all, and that more than just diffusing the moment, he was forcing himself to take it all in, to realize how great, serene, and perfect that Saturday twilight was. You almost cried along with him, and both you, the viewer, and Tom, the player solemnly knew how inspiring that moment was.

You knew that this moment, this glorious moment, could somehow be enough for him, except it wouldn’t be. But this is sports, this is life, this is why we watch and root and cheer and ache. Would we all to be so close to perfection during our last gasps of careers – whatever they are. Would we all to silence the doubters, the young, the challengers, those who couldn’t believe.

And would we all to know it, to comprehend it at that moment. Tom Watson has won eight majors, throughout a life in golf spanning almost four decades. And perhaps – just perhaps – Saturday’s moment on 18 is his greatest moment. And perhaps he knows it.

And perhaps it’s why we watch sports, indeed.

I mean, after all, the Cubs put the finishing touches on a four-game sweep, now sit at four games over .500, and are still painfully close to the Central lead in the loss column.

But it was the Nationals. And in addition to dreadful home red jerseys, Washington actually has an outside shot at finishing up as the worst team of all time. These guys have won 26 games! Holy cow! How is no one talking about this?

Still, the Cubs played with a poise and confidence – or at least feigned interest – that we haven’t really seen in quite some time. Alfonso Soriano began smacking pitches the opposite way, and actually had a good series. Derrek Lee and Ryan Theriot continued to be consistent. Aramis Ramirez looked better. Koyie Hill gunned down runners left and right. Adam Dunn didn’t hit 10 homers against us.

Carlos Marmol lived on the edge, but survived. Kevin Gregg looked sharp. Aaron Heilman pitched efficiently.

But, again, it was the Nationals. The Cubs now head to Philly, to face the class of the NL. If they return home with a 5-2 road trip, I’ll be happy. And as tired refrains reminded us, the 2003 division champs were 43-43 at the break, and the 2007 champs were 44-43 at the break. The difference, however, appears in the on-field product. This weekend was the first time we detected more than a flickering pulse.

Maybe this .500 team just wants to keep us interested and fail cruelly. But guess what? I don’t care. Let them. As you looked across the field at the Nationals’ dugout, the alternative could be much, much worse.

Go Cubs – rise to the challenge in Philly tomorrow. And we’ll see.

(Since you didn’t ask, the blog isn’t broken. I just was being funny. My current project is a short story for a national contest, so posts during the remainder of July may be sparse. If I don’t win, I’ll publish the story here.)

Believe it or not, some non-blog things pulling us in different directions this week. Try to hold back the tears.

Your fourth of July weekend is here. Strangely enough, while you’re all drunk on cheap beer by noon, Mister Faded Glory will be toiling at work, somehow, somewhy.

It’s enough to make you detest America’s Birthday summer’s annual celebration of excess. But not as much as our friends at Slate. Sigh. I’m betting on June of 2011 for the “Puppies Suck” article.