You always have to appreciate a bit of contretemps in all sports, it’s nice and juicy to have stuff like an intense rivalry between individuals to spice things up and an issue or two that drives a wedge into a sport.

For the longest time, golf barely had any of it and that was actually kind of boring. It was, and is, something of a gentle game with tons of personal responsibility for upholding the values of the game.

There aren’t opponents, there are “playing partners” or “fellow competitors.”

There aren’t generally referees who police the sport, that tends to be left to the players themselves and it’s kind of quaint that they self-regulate.

Sure, the odd doofus with an HD TV and too much time on his or her hands could cause some kind of rules ruckus once a year or so but those days seem to be gone.

But now, though? Now we’ve got players ripping each other publicly and guys ganging up on other guys and a nice legit wedge issue that’s creating a very nice bit of controversy that’s fun to be watching.

Slow play has become the public issue on the men’s tour these days after bubbling below the surface for years and it’s made it a lot more interesting in many ways, watching guys get at each other and explain themselves and act like, well, angry athletes.

It’s kind of heart-warming, isn’t it? I don’t imagine anyone’s gonna go all Bob Barker on Happy Gilmore (pardon the odd bad word) in the middle of this week’s Such And Such Financial Institution Dew Drop Open Presented By This Car Company or anything but, man, that would be cool, no?

Look, I think most golfers dawdle a bit too much but it’s their living and I can kind of understand. But I also imagine it’s infuriating to be the same group with a chronic dawdler who plumb bobs 50-footers on every green and waits for either dead calm or a howling helping gale before striking a shot.

It is, however, refreshing from afar to see players getting at each other.

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Yeah, folks, we need to get cracking on the mailbag stuff for the weekend.

Just go to askdoug@thestar.ca, drop a line to say hello and add some probing question and the fruits of your labour will be rewarded on Sunday morning.

Go, do it now.

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Kelly Olynyk pulling out of the World Cup because his knee is banged up is about the last thing Canada needed.

And with the games about to pile up – back-to-back on the weekend, back-to-back the middle of next week and the United States in their final friendly – Nick’s got some work to do.

And as we get set to write a bit more about them, time to temper even the lowered expectations.

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Spare a pleasant thought for my friend She Who Supports Arsenal and her baseball chronicling buddies, would you?

It’s Camp Day at the ball yard with about 40,000 screeching urchins and a day game after a night game.

We’re thinking of you, kid.

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Being an old portsider myself, I was crushed to learn that I’d missed International Lefthanders Day yesterday but, believe me, we rule!

More creative. Duh!

Cooler. Of course!

More dexterous because all you dastardly righties have designed a world that we need to navigate backwards. It’s not exactly Ginger Rogers informing the world that she did everything Fred Astaire did but did it backwards – and wearing heels, as I recall the quote – but it’s awful dang close.

Of course, when you’re going down the list of all-time southpaws and you can rattle off:

Aristotle.

Da Vinci.

Obama.

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The Babe.

Napolean.

Sir Isaac Newton.

Bill Gates.

Oprah.

Me.

That’s some list, no?

So take your messed up can openers and backwards scissors a and notebooks that open on the wrong side and all those teachers all those years ago who tried to “fix” us and all the rest of your crazy right-handed crap and know that, in reality, the sinister side rules.

Plus, if you’re a “situational lefty” you can pitch into your 40s sometimes and make oodles of more money.

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Two more slow golf stories, if I may:

I did see one thing The Magic Tweeter Machine last week where one guy lauded a twosome playing on a Sunday for getting through their round in four hours and somehow suggesting that speediness would be most amid the controversy.

Hang on!

Four hours? Top touring pros? In a twosome? Without presumably having to look for a single ball in the woods? Without stopping for a sandwich or a sausage or a burger at the turn? Without waiting in the middle of every fourth fairway or so to wait the cart girl to come by?

Wow. Four hours. They must have been jogging.

There was also the time eons ago that Super Grandpa and I were on a holiday in Scotland and he didn’t play but I did and I ended up being paired with this delightful woman older than I at the time for a game at, if memory serves, Royal Dornoch.

Well, we scuffled around and had a lovely time, took far more shots than I would have liked and got done in what I thought was quick time.

“So, three hours, 45 minutes? We made good time, didn’t we,” I said.

“Aye, laddie. We were about half an hour too slow but you’re from America so I understand.”

Then I bet we had a wee dram.

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