I’m no golf guy, but there are some loyalties too important not to proclaim. I’ve only been on a golf course without windmills 6 or 8 times in my life, but as a member of The Loyal Order of Crooked-Armers, I extend a modest salute to Mr. Mickelson. Big Lefty has won the Masters, a sporting tradition hyped like no other. And Little Lefty, the crooked-armed upholder of the mighty maple leaf, Mike Weir, wasn’t far off the pace, tying for 11th. (Another Canuck, Stephen Ames, was right there with him, though it must be noted that he does hit from the wrong side of the ball.)

I’ve always said that golf is a game I’ll take up when I can’t run and play sports any more. (Oops. That day is dawning.) But I have always swung my hardwood (and, I confess, my aluminium) from the correct side of the plate, and Wayne and I know how to hold a hockey stick. I didn’t actually watch any of the lush and hushed semi-athletic drama from Augusta over the weekend — the pace is too brisk for me — but my golf-fiend big brother took it all in on my behalf. (I’d forgive him his enthusiasm if he didn’t hit from the wrong side. No sexual innuendo intended.) Anyway, my slicing and dicing aside, lefties rule. If it weren’t for that potbelly, I’d say that Mickelson might save golf.