Perfection.

Absolute unadulterated perfection.

It is not often that one person comes along to make a mark and mark her day; Afar along the way, never astray aloft the loftiest of spheres. Sitting perched there, the clouds of insecurity dissipating with a mind suddenly so clear and the green shade bestrode by such flair.

Never before did such a combination of power and timing befall one. Power, yes, timing, maybe, but the two together, no. But this is Petra Kvitova we're talking of here. One so unique, indeed. Petra by name and the game to shoot straight to fame. A Queen fit for the jungle, but also a lady of the day.

She wasn't always a Queen, though. More like a Princess, one that would offer up delightful servings of mesmerising stroke-play one day, and the next, an error strewn monstrosity of a performance. A Princess searching for power, but unable to keep a grasp on it for any significant length of time. There was that first Wimbledon title in 2011. A talent had risen, or so it had seemed. There one moment, and quick as a flash, gone the next.

It wasn't that she didn't possess the most glorious of shots; She did. Really, though, it was the lack of consistency that was most puzzling. With a glaring lack of self-belief for one seemingly destined for greatness, maybe, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, she didn't know which way to turn. Not really comprehending what being a professional entailed, her fitness regime was of such low intensity that it was the equivalent of having a heart rate of "my career is going nowhere".

Of late, there is a new dedication to fitness and a sports psychologist has been employed. Which has led to increased power, both on a physical and mental level. What a difference six months makes.

They say Britain has never been conquered. Not so. Yesterday, this 6ft Amazonian Queen from Czechoslovakia rode into town and bequeathed many a grateful new disciple with a flawless display of power Tennis to marvel at. And not only did she take possession of Britain, Kvitova, just for good measure, grabbed hold of the colonies and gave them a good shake, too.

Canada's Eugenie Bouchard may not have appreciated this invasion, not that she had the slightest say in proceedings.

Such was Kvitova's Perfection. The 6-3, 6-0 kind of Perfection.

It's not just that she hit with her usual fearsome power, it also came with the detonation of immaculate precision. Such is the bravery of youth that Bouchard planted herself on the baseline and steadfastly refused to move. Normally this would be fine, but with Kvitova landing balls within inches of the baseline, Bouchard simply had no time to respond. Bouchard, it turned out, was a girl playing on a woman's court; Petra Kvitova's court.

Kvitova has always enjoyed the use of a left-handers swinging serve, and a forehand that has often threatened to break the speed of sound. On this stunning day, soon to appear was the ultimate weapon for someone with all the shots; A mind made of steel. Cold, hard, ruthless steel that refused to bend.

This was the one area Bouchard was supposedly superior in and it turns out that she was a minor in that regard, too. The Canadian has made much of her desire to succeed in the now. Not to be content with a Final's appearance as a learning tool for the future. Fair enough. After all, she has now reached the semi-finals of two grand slams and a Wimbledon Final all in the space of six months.

All this hard minded talk, such noble notions. Of course, she had that nobility knocked out of her by a tougher opponent. Which goes to show, have the mental toughness but not the ability, or vice versa and it all amounts to zip when up against a foe that possesses more of both.

In this case she was up against a player that offered a blast from the past that fast circumnavigated its way around all the oddities of one not yet worldly, and travelled forward in time to appear on the grandest stage of them all; Saturday July 5th on Centre Court of Wimbledon. The past and the present collided into a kaleidoscopic montage of exhilarating shot-making fare.

Bouchard's only hope was for some thunderous elements to prevail and unsettle Kvitova with a stoppage in play.

But even with inclement weather nearby, the Czech simply indulged in a race to see who could cause the most destruction first: Like with everything else on this day, Kvitova won.

Perfection.

Absolute unadulterated perfection.

Angelique Kerber is a giant killer in mind, and with shots that appear to go pop. How does a woman with the mildest of serves terminate the title hopes of one Maria Sharapova? You know, the one with the sizzling serve, not to mention barnstorming ground-strokes, that could issue many a storm warning and keep her foe holed up for weeks. The only storm warning Kerber's serve should or could send out is to itself to cover up if it does conjure up the spirit to wander onto centre court.

The German pulls off a three set victory, winning 6-4 in the third, armed with nothing more than a slug gun, while her Russian foe is sitting on her Countries entire nuclear arsenal, but unfortunately nobody gave her the instruction manual on how to operate it.

This was like David ( 5ft8") versus Goliath (6ft2"), except this time it was Davina and Davina turned out to be divine and divine was Angelique who became a quarterfinalist.

Once again, how did she win? It can only be mind. They say ninety-five percent of top level sport is those top few inches. In Kerber we now have irrefutable proof. This Woman has no right to win. At least not in this encounter. Yes, she is ranked number seven in the World - And that in itself is remarkable - but this is a bent so undermanned that you keep expecting her to send out an SOS at any given moment.

Her serve has the velocity of a mid summers breeze - And that's just her first serve. Neither does it have the acuteness of a Petra Kvitova. So, no wide serve from the Ad side of the court and no other discernible threats . . . And she wins. Remarkable. Without an improved serve it is undeniable that she will not threaten the number one ranking. What this nugget of timeless effort will do, with that sturdy mind, is jump straight back up every time she is knocked down and continue pestering the hell out of some very exasperated foes.

Which is effectively what she did to Sharapova. It's not like the fifth seed didn't offer any resistance. To the contrary, Sharapova regularly manipulated Kerber around the wearing greenery of centre court, moving her from side to side, wrong footing her with inside out forehands and the like. But Kerber scrapped and fought and clawed and scratched, whatever it took. Many a time she appeared on the ropes and dazed in anticipation of that final knockout punch. Yet, one more shot kept coming back and inevitably Sharapova would generate errors at the costliest of times.

That is the thing with Kerber though, she is very definitely the real deal. What you see is what you get. This is no fraudulent fraulein. Win or lose, you know her all has been given. She'll run, she'll scamper and she'll put a dampener on the hope of a good sprinkling of most competitors.

Especially with that mind. Yes, that mind. This is a Lady that should avoid going through airport security anytime soon for fear of attracting any untoward attention. Such is the state of her mind, it appears to be fitted out in the steeliest of impregnable fortitude. She doesn't have the angles to her strokes that Sharapova has. Put simply, she doesn't have Sharapova's talent. What she does have is the capacity to play to her optimum for three sets. She did. With nerves of steel. The Russian did not. At 5-4 up in the third and attempting to break serve to close out the encounter, she had numerous match points. She wasted some of those opportunities, but kept fighting. It took awhile, but finally she closed it out. Fortunately she did, for there is only so long the lesser talent can hold on for.

With Serena Williams already knocked out, Sharapova was many people's favourite to take title. Not anymore. If Kerber is to cause more upsets, she will need to go through Bouchard first, then Halep or Sabine Lisicki and possibly Kvitova. That's a lot of power to contend with.

Sharapova will, of course, go home titleless again. Ten years since she won her solitary Wimbledon title, there is still time to garner another as she is only twenty-seven. The young guns are barking, though. Before long the likes of Kvitova, Bouchard, Halep, Stephens and co will be biting. Best to take her shot soon, because when that bite does come, she may never recover.

And even if they don't, there is always Angelique Kerber to put paid to the best laid plans.

The Spanish inquisition is back on. For Rafael Nadal has delved into his kitbag and discovered the ravages of his lost youth. Watch the French Open if you want proof. Such does his Tennis hand land multiple blows to bloodied opponents that he is now cemented in the psyche of World Tennis as the greatest clay courter of all time. Yes, even better than Bjorn Borg.

Strike a blow, beat them down, knock them out - Lo. Relentless in his crusade, genius flows through his arteries. Those arterial routes are showing themselves at Roland Garros - Lo. For, come Sunday, two semi-finals down and fate has greeted the Spaniard with a potentially epic clash against World number two, Novak Djockovic, in a Final showdown.

Three setters are his favoured delicacy. Not for him to waste time on five sets -such inadequacy. Well, not usually, anyway. Occasionally he will relent and allow an underling one set. It's not that it overly pleases him, but that's what you get when presiding over a hard earned kingdom; The rats of servitude getting notions above their station in life.

Of course struggles reside.

Every so often it isn't just a set they sneak. No, they launch a full scale invasion. There are many battles in what is at times a long and arduous war. Only this last few months those incursions have become numerous as the pests of wannabe stardom seek out their own niche in the world. First, Djockovic attacked. Two times he has downed Nadal and one of those was on enemy territory - Clay. To make matters worse, David Ferrer fired shots at Nadal in the Quarterfinal of the Monte Carlo Masters and won. It was one thing the talented Djockovic making inroads, but the journeyman Ferrer; That must have hurt.

But they never win the war.

He might have taken a pounding and his body often resembles an injury wreaked cavity of twenty-eight year old bones rattling around aimlessly while wondering where his next stride will miraculously appear from. That body, those muscles, twisted and rotated and saturated with the contortion of an unnaturally violent style of action packed ferocity. Heavily top spun forehands, heavily top spun backhands, just heavily top spun. All of which takes its toll on the body of this thirteen year veteran of the circuit.

Those old bones though are made to look youthful through the iron-willed desire presiding within. Initially a one trick wonder who could do no wrong on clay but could play little else, wanted it all. He practiced and he played and he strayed onto grass and hard courts and strived and finally arrived into the realms of all round success. Four years of gruelling graft and finally he broke Roger Federer's veneer of invincibility with a win in what was one of Wimbledon's greatest ever finals. And that's on grass. No not that kind, the real thing, he's legit. Never one to take short cuts, hard work and dedication were and are his drug of choice.

Everyone starts somewhere. Everyone at one stage or another are just a mere upstart. You see, what is now Nadal's wasn't always. Federer used to dominate all before him. Then when Federer was at his peak, someone better came along; Nadal. What used to belong to a Swiss now belongs to a Spaniard.

As you can see, this dynasty was not procured overnight. It was solidified over many a year. Initially the cost of this tournament was dirt cheap, but it soon became a valuable commodity. Now it has become so prosperous that his dominion over this empire has spread to the sum of eight titles. Sure, it has a leasehold to be paid in the form of beating seven foe each year. So much blood, sweat and tears and that is mainly his opposition, such is his dominance.

In a particularly ruthless mood this last fortnight, it has seen him garner six victories at the piffling cost of just one set lost. Such imperious form, even Andy Murray, in the semi-final, could only conjure up a measly six games.

Now it is the big one, up against Djockovic. He can smell the rich aromas of Grand Slam title number fourteen wafting his way in 2014. The topspin heavy ground-strokes of Nadal up against the flattened out shots of Djockovic. Two relentless retrievers defending and attacking and counter-attacking, such a heavenly encounter with two of the brightest stars battling it out for a spot in the sun.

In the end, on clay, it is always Nadal's way or the highway. Don't want to live under his rule, he will banish you from his long held territory - Lo.

The World is a different place today. Fads come and fads go, as is their wont. Values change. Well, duh, you say. Still, back in the day they would chop a tree down(get over it Greenies)with an axe, now it's a chainsaw. Nothing wrong with that of course, progress and all, except that these days it seems like there is forever someone looking for a short cut to success, like getting someone else to do the job for them. Or, in this day and age of instant gratification, if success doesn't occur, move on. They often do. Or maybe, in the case of Tennis, if a set appears a lost cause, hold back on the effort and wait until the second set.

It wouldn't have happened fifty years ago, but then values have changed. And the mighty dollar has taken over. Those values again. Or lack thereof.

Fortunately though, there is still hope for some of the young folk out there.

Like Eugenie Bouchard. Here is a young lady that doesn't go in for all the modern claptrap that is often spouted. Here's a lady that finds herself down 5-2 in the first set. So what does she do? One, sing the theme song to the Monkeys' and do what some others would do and throw the set and start afresh in set two, albeit one set down? Two, fight back with all her might and take said first set 7-6 in the tiebreaker?

You betcha the Canadian would find the maturity to select option two. She didn't even have to send out a search party. Such an easy decision. After all, let a foe win one set and gather momentum and you may not be able to put a halt to the tidal wave of effervescent confidence of a frontrunner. So, toughen up and search for the hurt, alert for a way back, don't slack.

Gain the respect of your peers for a never say die attitude, or at the very least, show the blighters what is coming their way when they next attempt to tangle with you.

But this isn't just about the winning of an encounter in the present. No, it runs deeper than the cosmetic sheen of a slithering mind falsely enlightened by the shallow beat of the laziest of souls. It's about respecting oneself. No lazy deed is rewarded by long term success. Instead, taking pride in a performance, developing habits to the good for a lifetime and an attitude where one never backs down, no matter what.

Sure, there is always an easy way out. Give away that set you thought was gone, give away a chance to progress to the next round. For there was fear, but to care and dare would dare the jeers of doubt to wear the flare of rare and near flawless fare veering beyond the tears of all peer. Give away a potential semi-final spot. Go on, do it, take that risk. If that's for you, fine.

Centre court of Roland Garros, the loveliest of all things Paris. Eugenie Bouchard wants that experience. Already a Semi-Finalist in Australia last January, why not aspire to consistency as well as being a Princess of brilliance.

Fight, fight back from 2-5 down and show the Tennis world what a decade there is to come.

And that fight back paid off for the twenty year old as her opponent, Carla Suarez-Navarro, fought her way back to take the second set. Just think what might not have been if Bouchard had passed on that first set. Possibly not a 7-5 win in the third.

But it was only that fight back that would enable this potential Grand Slam winner with the mass of talent to land herself a berth in the final four.

Often in life there are opportunities available for the taking. In sport they come and, then, they dissipate just as quickly. One lost one day, another here tomorrow. Some take them, some don't. There are sights we all want to spy such as the towering twosome of the Williams sisters opposing each other in round three in Paris. But that was one opportunity they could not bring to fruition.

Whether, deep down, they would want to face each other is another matter. It is well known that neither enjoy playing the other. Never have, never will, for the two have always been close. They have gone through a lot together, their careers virtually joined at the hip. One year apart in age, and despite Venus having a wee head start on that count, Serena was the first to garner a grand slam title, in 1999 at Flushing Meadows. Only a year later Venus joined in what was to become a rampage of glutinous domination over the next four and a half years as they won twelve between them and have since gone on to win twenty-six singles slam titles during their illustrious careers.

This is before even considering the narrative of two black girls brought up the on wrong side of the tracks, not to mention encountering the well to do tennis environment of the conservative white middle class. Yeah, they've gone through some. They had a father to push them along. They more than likely have Richard Williams to thank for the position they now find themselves in life. Two of the greats of the game, more money than they know what to do with and plush homes to reside in. He protected them, as much as is possible. He pushed them, they became great.

It can't have been easy though. Dealing with the racial overtones and negative comments with which white parents of their peers often made. To feel the pain of discrimination - Nobody deserves such. And then there was their older half-sister who was brutally murdered in 2003. Shot. Coldly. Now that is life. One life cruelly disposed of and at least two others affected for life. Neither sister won a Slam title for another two years and we haven't even got to Indian Wells yet.

Indian Wells, was it racism or Venus pulling out of her match against Serena four minutes before the game was due to begin to avoid the sisters playing each other, both of or none of the above? To that, none of us will ever know. The only way to know if racism was rearing its ugly head in the form of a torrent of booing is for the same to have occurred with two white sisters. Maybe there was racism, maybe there wasn't. It could have been a simple case of a crowd upset at being denied the chance to get their money's worth. That said, both Venus and Serena have refused to play the event since. That's thirteen years and counting. They stand on principle. And the Sisters have played each other since.

Did it happen in Paris? Two sisters losing deliberately to avoid a confrontation? Well, NO. Down conspiracy theorists. Didn't happen. Quite simply, on one side we have Venus, a Woman who is a mere shadow of her former self and suffers from sjogren's syndrome. She gets tired easily. Simple as that. She will never be the same player again. And then there was Serena who competed an hour later and would have known her Sister had already lost. Go home conspiracy theorists.

We all get Venus, but what of Serena? Where to now for the Woman that many regard as the greatest female player of all time. There are five ahead of her on the all time list of Singles winners. Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Helen Wills-Moody, Steffi Graf and Margaret Court. Of those five, with the exception of Graf, she would have been too strong for the rest and she has had to compete in an era where the depth is significantly stauncher.

There will be those that say the others would adjusted to the modern game. Maybe, maybe not. Let it be said though that within a year of Graf appearing on the scene, her power quickly overwhelmed Navratilova, until then regarded as the greatest. The thing with Graf was not just her power but her mental faculties were second to none. Very rarely did she lose early in a tournament, certainly not to the extent of Williams. Very rarely did she misfire in the heat of a Final. Though she may not have won every time, she sure didn't go down without a fight.

That is not to say Williams does not fight, but inconsistencies persist. To lose 6-2,6-2 in the second round of the French Open, or any Slam event, is verging on unbecoming. What did Oscar Wilde say? Something about losing early once may be regarded as a misfortune, to lose twice looks like carelessness. Or words to that affect. The mind boggles on what it may be to lose early many more times than twice, and, for Williams, it has become a regular occurrence.

This performance was an errant vista of error strewn shot-making seeping treacherously from an over-indulgent mind. A mind clearly not on the job, there is only one person who knows where to locate the consistency of mental toughness required to bring about a legacy for the ages.

Five slams behind Graf, to be revered as the greatest, she is going to have to overtake the German wonder by some considerable margin to go down as the greatest.

There are many attributes required to succeed at the loftiest heights of sporting endeavour.

They all contribute to an all-round performance.

Courage and mental toughness, that which brings out the ability to play through pain, being amongst them. All prerequisite's to make success concur with one's wishes.

The courage to push through the pain barrier and go the extra one percent for the benefit of the team. When oxygen depleted cells are screaming for relief, mental toughness enters to give courage a gentle nudge in the right direction.

All so valuable, but one trait to bait the coming out of a dream is speed.

Speed.

The agility of speeds ability to commandeer many a soul to demean. With that, the speed to take another's paradise and turn it into a searing gate of hell.

Speed, plenty of speed, fleet of foot and acute of mind, speed in all facets. Where the mind goes, speed soon follows. When speed fades, talent bids farewell. Speed, not many possess and not many does a champion make.

With such velocity goes yet another dream towards the upper echelons of the night sky. Year upon year, one success after another and finding flight from within, the wins become him. Speed, such speed, the speed to thrill and the speed to kill a contender's hope. The speed to elevate to the loftiest of heights and the speed to engrave a reputation for life and beyond. That thrill, the thrill of a goal achieved, the thrill of adoration that comes with being number one, the thrill, the thrill.

Gareth Bale has that speed. And man can he thrill.

For he had a dream. A dream to play for Real Madrid. That dream became a reality and his reality became his dream. It took something special to bring about that success though.

He was mocked for being an overpaid show pony who would offer nothing to this team. And that was before he had kicked a ball in anger, but he persevered despite the perceptions.

And what changed those perceptions? One run. One scintillating run down one narrow corridor on his side's left edge. Just one run. One run. With that one run, the world became his oyster. No longer was he open to ridicule as he scorched his way down field, kicked ahead, sprinted around a foe and outside of the left touchline, back in, cut a swath across field and scored. Speed.

To any other, not possible. To Gareth Bale, all in a day's work. For that is the intangible of speed. Have it and you will make the otherworldly appear increasingly like the normal. It constantly stuns one with the brightest of vistas.

He had taken awhile to regain his fitness after injuries and the perceptions of him as a player lingered, yet once he applied the salve of speed, all was right in his world.

As he sped his way down that left edge that defining day, there were dreams of greatness. There were dreams of becoming a hero for the club he had idolised since he was a young boy. And, of course, there were dreams of becoming not just the World's highest paid player, but one of the World's elite in every sense of the word.

To this he achieved, and why? One word, speed. The speed to speed to the speediest of speedy climax's.

Say it again; Speed. One word yet worth so much. In Gareth Bales case, eighty-five million pounds.

Again, speed: A winner's salvation and a loser's condemnation at the mercy of the ultimate power.

Speed.

That is what makes one Gareth Bale and another soon forgotten.

Lydia Ko is changing coaches.

Why?

As silence spreads itself around the lush green green's of a stunned golfing world, many ponder the fickle winds of professional sport's razor edge. One minute so serene . . . The next, so mean.

Such a successful pairing with Guy Wilson, her coach: together for so long. A bond so entwined within the psyche of a kindred. A Coach, a mentor and a protector all in one.

Yet after a decade of moulding the delightful Ko into a smiling assassin, that assassin turned on him. Such cruelty. A decade of dedicated service savagely blindsided in one stroke by this seriously stubborn young lady. What an ace.

She's no diva, though. What is best and what is next to be the best. It is a hard grind out there, and like all the greats she is constantly searching for ways to improve.

Friendships fray at the seams, the innocence of amateur sport is lost within the depths of a tangled forest, with those mere mortals of the Woman's tour struggling to see the wood from the trees, let alone set the World alight. They fight and they fight, but a one-off talent radiates such fright.

There was criticism, it came thick and fast. The media, golf followers and the public alike . . . they all knew best.

That is what sets our Lydia apart, the relentless pursuit of all things great. The ability to take no notice of the masses and forge ahead all-knowing in what it is she wishes to achieve. And which is the best way to accomplish this is.

It didn't end there, though. Just recently, this wonder kid was slaughtered for receiving hand-outs from Sport New Zealand. Or, at least, supposedly so. Did she really go on the hunt for more dough? Strange, when one considers the multimillion dollar sponsorships she receives. Perhaps it could be Sport New Zealand announcing a grant without Ko's knowledge. After all, why would she require such funds?

Sure enough, the barbs began before breakfast's beginning. Or a practice shot had been fired that day. But that is life in the all seeing eye of the public sphere when one is so richly endowed with talent. And money.

Destiny, it is her destiny. This is the lass that practiced day and night from the age of five. Dedicated - She knew what she wanted out of life - full of energy, a work ethic to shame second best, this lass never ran out of gas. Such sass. It is her destiny to fight with might and strike the height of night's leading light. O what a sight, and such bite to her game. To clamp the claws of petty spite and ring the rounds of change as change did charge amongst the hovering tides of titles waiting to be claimed.

She's sixteen, sweet sixteen, oh heavenly sixteen, she was a girl, just a girl, though a girl with the game of the mightiest of women. From the time of turning pro to now and all the way back into her amateur endeavours, her talent sure did glow.

Already a name and surging toward worldwide fame, now seventeen and on her game.

Number two and already a slew of opposition down to a few. Such is her dominance, and only pro for six months with a mind that is far from slow. Such is the way with the very best, a cerebral mind leads to an even sharper game. This is the girl, that as an amateur - And studying part time - scored ninety-seven percent in her math exam. Most of us would be happy to score this over eighteen holes, let alone in Math.

As an amateur, amazing feats flowed freely from her heightened talent.

Advice would come from every direction. Most knew best. Turn pro, they would say. Stay an amateur, others would bray. There is money to be made, rotate your bent into a fortune and turn pro. Fifteen is too young, live life some. You'll burn out.

Lydia Ko is turning pro.

But not all knew best.

Michelle Wie, a head so young and a head beyond her years. Such a pity she and Ko are destined to be long-term foes, for Wie is exactly the level headed type the youngster would do well to befriend.

While others thought not to mind their own business, Wie produced the most level headed response of all as to whether Ko should go pro.

*** “I have no advice for her,” Wie said. “Turning pro or not turning pro, going to college, not going to college, it’s a very personal decision. It’s not something someone can say: `I think you should turn pro. I think you should stay an amateur. I think you should do this or that.’
“It’s her life; it’s her career. When I turned pro, I really wanted to turn pro. That was a very personal decision for me. I really wanted to do that, and I have no regrets. I hope she makes the right decision for her. Whatever decision she makes, it has to really just be on her and what she wants to do.” ***

Unlike the more flatulent of egos with which the foul stench of pomposity reeks ever-more with each morally high-handed pronouncement on how others should live, here was a woman that had experienced the highs and, of course, the lows who chose to take the entirely reasonable approach of declining to tender advice that had not been requested.

This, of course, is what Ko and her hardened mind did; think for herself. Perhaps this will aid her as she goes forth into an even harder world.

Because gone is sweet sixteen, seventeen - sure to be a passing faze into the killer instinct of a ferocious will forcing itself upon the golfing world. The mind of an adult in the body of a teenager supplemented with the game of the otherworldly. With the hardened steel, rigid in its application, she is ready.

Ready to climb.

For one so slight - such might, she must take flight to her heavenly height. To make light of opposing foes through the day and celebrate long into the night.

Except that is not her way. Celebrations being the cold front of success, randomly wrecking havoc upon any future opportunity to soar to the hoary capped heights of the highest of mountains.

Hard work, hard work, this is all there is, for those mountains are sheer, no matter the bent.

February 27, 2014. A momentous day. A day the seventeen year old made us all forget the number seventeen. A day when Lydia the person blended into adulthood, but Lydia the talent left many an adult behind. A day, this day, when she won her first LPGA Tour event, in California.

You see, Lydia Ko is changing Women's golf.

Why?

Because this is what one does when one can.



***
This quote came from an article by Randall Mell of Golf Channel.com on February 13, 2013