So by now you’ve read this site—quite possibly every day, because we are awesome—and have noticed that it exists to celebrate not only sports, but also the delicious packages of ManCandy that play said sports. Right before we launched the site, all of the writers suggested hott-with-two-t’s athletes for the banner so our site radiated more heat than a defective electric blanket. All of the writers but me…
See, my long-standing athlete crush is a bit odd. Maybe it’s because he’s been alive longer than Alaska’s been a state. Or maybe because he plays a sport that some of you would consider to be a hobby, like cross-stitching, double-dutch, or setting small fires. But I think he’s hot and at least 2 of his 3 former wives would agree with me.
Allow me to preface this post with the confession that, well, I like old guys. Not creepy ‘is that an erection or is it rigor mortis’ old, but old enough to remember when a sport was a sport, when groovin’ was groovin’, when dancing was everything, and Ted Kennedy’s head wasn’t large enough to control the tides.
I’ve been this way for my entire life. My first big crush was Huey Lewis. I remember throwing a tantrum in Elliott’s grocery store, begging my mother to buy the issue of People magazine that had him on the cover, which I immediately tore off and hung on my wall. It seems like maybe this would have been a warning sign to my parents when all of my friends liked Kirk Cameron and Corey Haim and I was in love with a 38 year old married father of two.
So yeah, for the better part of ten years, I’ve been digging on professional golfer/CBS broadcaster/serial adulterer Nick Faldo. What can I say? There’s something sexy about 6 major championships, more green jackets than the night manager at Bennigan’s, and a loose moral code.
I was actually at Augusta for his last major win, the 1996 Masters. That was the year that Nick didn’t win as much as Greg Norman choked harder than the late Linda Lovelace ever did. I followed him around the links but don’t think he ever saw me, which in hindsight is probably for the best since it was 1996 and I was fond of coral lipstick and skorts. The only other time I’ve ever seen him in person was the 1999 US Open, where I wore a tank top that looked like the Union Jack. Please read that last sentence again.
After a decade of digging him, I’m still not sure why I chose him to be my obsession. It’s probably a combination of his killer good looks, his gradual movement away from pleated pants and sweater vests, and that he left his 2nd wife for a college golfer who was only four years older than me. In a twisted, Lifetime movie kind of way, that made me think I had a shot. You know, despite my horrid fashion sense and the fact that my most notable accomplishment on the course was being permanently banned from a Myrtle Beach Mini-Golf for feeding a chili dog to an egret.
Admittedly, he’s the only reason I watch golf now, since he’s traded the Masters for a microphone to become CBS’ lead golf analyst. Most weekends you can find him in the booth looking adorable and staring directly at me through the TV screen. See me, Nick. See me.
And, Nick, if you’re reading this, promise that the next time you kiss a claret jug (and let’s be honest, you’re going to have to do this with one you already have), that you’ll think of me.