There has been much talk recently about the feminization of the American male. Proponents of this theory point to trends in men's fashion as well as the proliferation of the metrosexual in print and on screen. They hold out these examples as proof that men are steadily being stripped of those qualities traditionally considered masculine. They refer us to Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, Kiehl's face lotion, and pedicures. According to some writers who advance this view, and I'm paraphrasing here, American men between the ages of 18 and 35 are becoming panty-waisted semen swallowers.
Growing up in the Bay Area, I'm in no position to argue against this phenomenon but neither am I prepared to give my manhood its last rites. These harbingers of doom are pointing to trends in fashion for the love of christ; it's not like they're portending a total flip-flop of gender roles. Call me when NFL linebackers stop eating meat and start driving Hybrids.
That does not mean I'm not more than a little concerned, however. When I was growing up, I had Mark McGwire and Ronnie Lott. One wore a Vikingesque shock of red hair and hit 90 mph fastballs 440 feet, the other was the most feared safety in football who once opted to have the tip of a finger cut off rather than surgically repaired so he could play the following week.
I watched them and admired them because they were awesome and they were what was on television. In 2005, this is no longer the case. Baseball and football are being forced aside by, among other things, professional golf. Golf coverage absorbs large blocks of time on cable channels during the week and even bigger chunks of time on the networks during the weekend. It makes me wonder who the 12 year-old boys of today are going to look to.
Sergio Garcia? He wears far too much pastel and he dates homely looking Swiss tennis players.
Notah Begay III? Say 'Notah Begay' slowly to yourself. Don't worry it's pronounced exactly as it looks. He's the Millhouse of the PGA Tour; never mind that his game went in the shitter quicker than that Polish kid at the beginning of Schindler's List.
Just look at the golfers upon whom the mainstream media fix their gaze:
Tiger Woods in his clingy, shiny Nike shirts. They look like Under Armor fucked Ralph Lauren and he had their baby. Gary McCord and Fancy Nantz constantly refer to his perfect, sinewy musculature and gush about how perfect his body is for the game of golf. Sure, he's married to a hot Swedish model but he still went to Stanford...so fuck him.
Phil Mickelson, his bitch tits, and that ridiculous visor that looks like the top half of a goose's head. Until last year, this guy was the poster child for "it's not about winning or losing, it's how you play the game." Fuck that doe-eyed, aww-shucks bullshit.
John Daly and the endless string of weekend collapses brought on by the shakes and a shortage of Pall Malls in his golf bag. The only thing rounder than his huge beer gut is the bowl haircut his wife gives him the family Flo-Bee.
Can I make the masculinity gap any clearer? What do I have to do, picket outside of Michael's and House of Fabrics with coupons for Big 5 and Sports Authority? I know the cultural landscape has softened in various ways over the last 40 years, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. And if you don't think Ground Zero for the adulteration of American masculinity sits squarely at the feet of professional golf and the children of the Baby Boomer generation then you are painfully out of touch. Their contaminating influence is so thorough in some places they should be designated Superfund sites.
I am never more worried about this than during the build-up to the Masters every March and April on CBS. It starts during NCAA Tournament games. Billy Packer tosses it to commercial for the mandatory under-8 TV timeout and before you can say 'Amen Corner' there's Jim Nantz seated in one of those hideous wingback chairs by the fireplace in Eisenhower Cabin.
Sitting through a Jim Nantz Masters promo is one of the few true tests of will left for young men nowadays. Do you get misty from all the "tradition" and let your testicles ascend into your abdomen where they can become ovaries? Or do you get angry at Nantz for being such an unrepentant pussy and go into the kitchen to make a sandwich before Valparaiso inbounds from midcourt with a chance to cut the deficit to single digits? What's truly frightening about this coming-of-age test of will is that more and more fathers are embracing Nantz' sentimentalism in the presence of their impressionable sons. How do you compete with that? Billy Packer and Jay Bilas certainly aren't going to cut it.
Even still, HOW DO YOU LOSE THE HEARTS AND MIND OF YOUNG MEN TO JIM FUCKING NANTZ!? He speaks with this soft, hushed voice that takes on an eerie pre-orgasmic tone every time the subject turns to azaleas or some useless historical footnote about Sarazen Bridge.
I would be legitimately frightened if I were a production assistant for CBS and part of my duties included wiping down Jim Nantz' wingback chair after signing off from each day's Masters telecast. There is no amount of Febreeze on this planet that could soften the potential blow of discovering a white opaque film caked to the front lip of the chair and the carpet immediately beneath it. If it weren't for the frequency of floor-up shots CBS uses, I would be convinced he does the wrap-up shows without pants. The prospect is not only distracting, but it's downright disconcerting. Yet every year around tourney time, there's Nantz with his hair helmet and his "please slam your putter in my rectum again" voice as he regales us with tales of a tradition unlike any other.
How has he not been replaced by someone who doesn't make you feel like you're abetting a child pornographer? It's one of those great sports television mysteries that go unnoticed until someone with far too much time on their hands dwells upon it for an entire cross-country flight. I'm still wondering where Merlin Olsen disappeared to.
The permanence of Jim Nantz on the Masters telecast is due in no small part, I'm sure, to the fact that he is the epitome of the traditional golf enthusiast. For the longest time, golf was considered the domain of affluent, middle-aged white men in funny pants. Interest in the gentleman's game was directly proportional to both the likelihood one was able to gain entrance to a private country club and the likelihood one threw like a girl. Jim Nantz in his own nauseating, fawning manner fits that description to a T and it's the biggest reason he still anchors CBS' coverage.
The counterpoint to Jim Nantz came in the mid-to-late 90s when Tiger Woods, David Duvall and Phil Mickelson led an influx of young, dominant golfers. They single-handedly made golf cool across the great generational divide. "Tiger" and "Lefty" became household names that spurred record television contracts, record merchandising revenue, and record gallery sizes. The problem is that golf got swallowed up by its own momentum and sucked all the 'cool' right out of its new, young fanbase. Instead of an easy give-and-take between sport and fan, we are left with a really fun activity that thinks it's the coolest thing since free internet porn but is patronized feverishly by a horde of drooling sales executives who look like they just got cut from an audition for that Dockers commercial set on the wraparound porch.
As Yoda would say, 'a good combination for the young men this does not make.'
To be fair, it would be a mistake to believe that golf fans are somehow different than other large gatherings of people dedicated to a single, common purpose. The guys in the gallery are just as bad as the coke-addled whores on Lake Havasu during spring break or the spoiled, clueless ideologues at the Democratic National Convention. Once things really start to get going at these things the scene becomes a retarded, hysteria-induced dance of attention-whoring and one-upmanship. Golf fans just happen to be the only group that threatens the survival of traditional masculinity.
To Be Continued...
Posted by nils at 7:21 PM