Goodness gracious.  In Louisville yesterday, the Americans won golf’s Ryder Cup over the British European team, captained by Nick Faldo.  Great Britain’s press is not happy. From the Times of London:

The Times of London said that while U.S. captain Paul Azinger instilled belief in his team, “Faldo inspired chaos.”

“Faldo’s thin skin, the need to have his sports shrink by his side even out on the course and his grating sense of humor, had confirmed what we knew all along, which is that he is no natural leader,” the paper said.

From the Daily Mail:

“His list will go down as one of the great leadership howlers and it confirmed the sense we had of Faldo being swept along by instinct and whim,” the Mail said.

And from the London Telegraph:

“Faldo’s gamble on the big finish … left Ian Poulter, Lee Westwood and Padraig Harrington, thrashing at thin air, their legs amputated by a hopelessly incontinent ego.”

Jeez, guys.  You can keep the pitchforks, but a lot of us here in Louisville are still without power after last week’s storm.  Would you mind leaving us the torches?

If anyone said any of these things about me, I wouldn’t get angry.  I’d start weeping pitifully and go to bed early.  I’ve never been to England before, but judging from these reactions, it is a place in which people find something tall to stand on, like an apple cart or tea table, and shriek well-worded bombast until the sun sets.  Admittedly, though, it’s really fun to read — kind of the educated man’s answer to the bug zapper.  American sports are rarely written with this combination of anger and articulation.  But it might be fun.  Let’s give it a try.

Chiefs quarterback Tyler Thigpen’s three-interception performance against the Falcons yesterday:

Thigpen, with a special sort of noble haste, hurried to construct a monument to Balchazoar, the God of Pained Futility.  He worked with carelessness and thoughtlessness in the same way a mason might work with brick and mortar.  And by the time the game was done, the obelisk stood a mile tall, made with [feces] baking in the hazy afternoon light of the Sun.”

The New York Mets’ potential collapse down the stretch:

Notice to readers: both the Morning and Evening version of the Daily Boiled Ham will feature a few new characters which we hope to introduce to the English language.  These characters have been forged out of necessity to more concisely relate the plight of the New York Mets.  Our new type-set arrives Mon-day, but until then: the characters will be hierogylph-like illustrations of a man jabbing the tail end of a soup ladel into his eye, a burning fire engine, and a chimpanzee being shot into the cosmo-sphere.

Sox outfielder Nick Swisher’s low batting average:

This tea is delicious!   I am going to sip it slowly, pausing often to say the word, “row.”  Only, it’s pronounced with a long “o” like one would say, “cow.”  I am going to say it all the time, because everything is always a controversy in this country.  I am also going to refer to sports as “the sport,” as if sports are grains of sand.  Nick Swisher sucks.