Ryo: Schmaltz magnet
Sports journalism loves a narrative. A sick wife, a troubled family, maybe a rebound from drug addiction or alcoholism: any grain of human interest that can lend shape or broader appeal to the unglamorous reality of– let’s be honest here– poorly dressed men wandering around a field hitting white balls with sticks. We love it, yes, but it doesn’t make copy in the way a soaring tale of undying love or redemption does. Sometimes, though, the search for the sentimental heart of a tournament leads to instances of gross insensitivity.
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