"In 1968, I was watching with my mother when Robert De Vicenzo signed an incorrect scorecard and was disqualified."

I'm not going to sleep as well tonight knowing that Condi Rice is angling not for a job with the PGA Tour, but instead, as a golf writer.

Writing--if you could call it that--for The Daily Beast.

Long before I picked up a golf club four years ago, I watched the Masters every year. In 1968, I was watching with my mother when Robert De Vicenzo signed an incorrect scorecard and was disqualified. Mother was outraged because she thought that the mistake might have been a result of the language barrier.

Still spelling his name wrong, after all these years. Though I doubt he's had much trouble with folks messing up the Roberto part.

Look at the lyrical quality of this passage.

I know Tiger from our Stanford connection. I once sat with him at a Stanford-Duke basketball game. Stanford won on a buzzer-beater, and we stormed the court together. With that kind of bonding, whom else would I pull for? I had decided that if Tiger did not win, I would champion the cause of Phil Mickelson (met him at the White House and he’s a really nice guy); Stewart Cink (met him in Atlanta and he’s a really nice guy); or Anthony Kim (haven’t met him but I like his swagger).