First Tee Jitters

Well, it finally happened.

It’s near the middle of June. It had to happen sometime.

But yesterday it finally happened.

I played my first round of golf.

No practice. No driving range. No putting on the living room carpet.

I just showed up to play golf.

In a tournament.

No, not a fun best ball drive around in a cart drinking beer with your buddies tournament.

This was a tournament for our local zone. Playing with a partner, our combined scores would have to be good enough to qualify and advance to the district tournament in July. And from there, the regional, and from there the provincial. Qualify there, and you go on to the national tournament.

I’ve known about playing in this tournament now since March.

But there is little time for golf now, with being so busy at work, and my new responsibilities to our local Legion branch. And of course there’s the girls softball schedules and all star try outs. That leaves me very little time for golf.

Or much else, really.

When I arrived at the local course in Windsor to register, I met my partner for the first time. Larry looked the part of an avid golfer, black pants and red shirt, weather beaten golf hat and worn glove. Looking at Larry I knew I had the advantage of a good player for a partner.

The combined scoring format meant Larry was counting on me to pull my share of the load. I felt ashamed as I introduced myself to Larry. But as we shook hands, Larry confided to me that this was his first round of the year too. He stopped on his way to the course to hit a bucket at the range to try to get his swing back.

I didn’t even do that. And I told him so.

I explained how unprepared I was to Larry. Larry simply smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it”.

We paired up with another pair to make our foursome, a couple of seniors from another branch in our zone. These guys –further advanced in their years – were both retired – and both played every other day.

Oh dear.

We were the first foursome off the tee – the starting foursome. This of course means the whole tournament would be standing there watching us – judging us – as we teed off. A group of forty or so ambitious golfers would be standing there watching me take my first swing of a golf club since last September.

What was I thinking?

Our foursome was called to the tee, and as I was I was putting on last year’s old golf glove, Ian of the other pair said to the crowd “Show us the way there Fred”.

Now I’m scared.

I pulled a brand new ball out of my pocket with a tee, and as I bent down to put the tee in the ground with the ball on top of it, I felt my knees shake. I moved the writing on the ball so that the words “Titleist” pointed down the line I was aiming to the left side of the fairway.

I was sure to slice the first drive of the year. That is if I even hit the ball. I might just dribble it off the tee box to the white tees just ahead of me. And this crowd would all laugh at me.

I stood up and took one practice swing as I stood behind my ball looking down the fairway to my target. I could hear the mumblings in the crowd – small talk amongst themselves – as I approached the ball – taking one final swing with my left arm only to get a feel for the weight of my driver.

The mumblings in the crowd stopped as I addressed my ball, slightly behind my left foot and gave the club a final waggle.

The silence was deafening. But the thoughts in my head were so loud I thought everyone in the crowd would hear them.

“you can do this … nice and easy swing … don’t lift your head … bring that right hand over … “

There was no wind. The air was still. The crowd was silent.

I drew back the club and it felt good. My club head was in the right place. I came down through the ball pulling hard with the left arm and bringing the right hand over exactly as I struck the ball, I watched the tee do a couple of flips in the air as I followed through.

Then I looked up as I followed through – in that pose one takes after hitting a drive. It felt great. But the sky was grey – and my ball was white – and I couldn’t find it in the sky.

But it felt great. Where was it?

Then I heard the crowd behind me. I heard “Nice shot”, and “it’s drawing nice” and “he got all of that one” … but I still didn’t know where it was.

As I picked up my tee, and turned to join the crowd so that a player from the other pairing could hit his tee shot, I saw smiles in the crowd and nods of approval from the other golfers. “Nice shot” said Larry as I stood beside him.

I leaned over and in a whisper I said “I lost it in the sky. I have no idea where it went”.

You’re about 280 down there – just past the one fifty marker – in the first cut off the fairway”, and he offered his fist for me to punch with mine.

When Larry hit his, he blasted it down the middle – and the ball took a bad bounce and ended up in the first cut on the right side. We were side by side on opposite sides of the fairway. Ian and Dave – the other pairing in our foursome - were side by side in the middle of the fairway – Ian playing a big slice – and Dave hitting straight as an arrow. But both were some fifty yards behind us.

As we got into our cart to drive away, both Larry and I breathed a sigh of relief in unison, and we both laughed.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it”, said Larry.

“I was trembling the whole damned time”, I confessed.

“Yeah, I know – I saw your knees shaking”, replied Larry. “Mine were too, but I’m wearing pants”.

We qualified to go on to the District tournament in July. But we didn’t shoot great. I had a nine on one hole, but I put together a string of pars and a birdie to offset it later in the round. Larry played bogey golf with the odd double. We only beat the other pair by one stroke. They qualified as well.

Later, drinking beers after the round, I confessed my terror on that first tee box to all at the table.

“You didn’t look scared to me” said Ian.

I saw your knees shaking”, said Dave.

But I’ll be playing and practicing before we go play District in July.

And I might just wear black pants like Larry instead of shorts – no matter how hot it is.

I don’t want them seeing my knees shaking at District.

My Open Letter To Tiger Woods

It’s Masters Week again – and all eyes are on the happenings at Augusta National Golf Course.

I love this weekend – if I could, I would hang little yellow flags and green jackets on the trees and bushes in my front yard.

But this year, I feel I just have to write an open letter to my favorite golfer – Mr. Tiger Woods.


Dear Mr. Woods,

I say this with all the sincerity I can muster.

It’s very hard to watch you play this way. The way you’re playing at this time.

It’s like watching somebody that looks like you. Red shirt and black pants and Nike cap. But it’s not the Tiger Woods that changed the way golf is played or the way golf is watched.

I’m sure you’ve had your fill of advice from know it all fans, and perhaps you may simply write me off as another. I hope not.

But if I may, please don’t approach this weekend thinking that you have something to live up to. Instead, approach this weekend again as the next opportunity to show everyone how great you still are. Expect every drive to be longer than anybody else. Expect every time you find yourself in the trees that there will be another occasion to show off how incredible you are at turning trouble into opportunity.


Every amazing shot I ever watched you hit – you hit because you knew that you were going to hit it.


You need to know that again. You need to believe in yourself again.

Masters Win 2005

Perhaps you could gain some inspiration from watching the highlight reels of your own play. Highlight reels of your first Masters win, your first British Open win at St. Andrews, your US Open win at Pebble Beach. And while you watch yourself – pretend you are not that guy on the screen. Imagine you’re a fan – a guy like me – watching a guy like you – who after watching you – has to grab his golf clubs and head to the range to try to hit like you.


Then pretend to be you.


Because I know you’re still in there Tiger.


Put everybody else out of your mind. Everyone but your Caddy.


Perhaps you could start scoring your rounds differently. Instead of counting over / unders – count high fives, hand slaps, knuckle punches and fist pumps.


Play for fun again. Play to show off again. Play for the love of playing again.


You do not owe golf anything. You have paid your dues to golf like few others ever have. And golf owes nothing to you – as you have reaped rewards from golf the greatest from years gone by cannot imagine.


Your slate with golf is clean. Your debt to fans is paid and up to date.


You don’t owe anybody a damned thing. And nobody owes you.


But you owe yourself the chance to fulfill your mission – perhaps it is to hold the most Majors in a career. But I think your personal mission is to beat everybody you play against – every time you play against them. Simple and plain.


And unyielding.


Just do it.


Do it for the passion you had as a kid. Be that kid again. Find that kid again inside you.


I know I can’t imagine what you have been through this past 18 months. I can’t fathom it one iota – whatever an iota is.


You’re too damn good to simply be content to be a middle of the pack player. The guy who makes the cut to play the weekend only to finish tied for 19th. But unless you somehow change your mindset – the Sunday announcers will reduce every great shot you hit in the future to be “glimpses of the Tiger Woods of old”.


If that passion is lacking, if golf isn’t fun anymore, if that kid inside you really did grow up and is now lost to you well, that’s a different story.


If you find that you cannot put all that has happened behind you soon and move on – and get your head back to the level of focus you had before – get your intensity back to the level that only you could find – well, I would like to offer the suggestion that … well …


Then Tiger, it pains me deeply to say – it’s time to hang it up.


With all due sincerity, I’ll be rooting for you Tiger. Me and a gazillion other golf fans just like me.


We’re still out here too.

The Masters … Tiger’s First Shot At Redemption

Augusta National

It's Masters week again.

This is truly my favorite sporting event of the year.

Augusta National Golf Course is my favorite sporting venue.

Bobby Jones, the amateur golfer of the early 20^th century who won the grand slam and never earned a dime in the process as a golfer; the founder of Augusta National and the originator of the Masters tournament - is to me, the most inspirational sporting figure the world has to offer.

And Tiger Woods is back. No longer an inspiration.

Let me state this clearly. Let me make this plain and inconveniently clear.

"I am a Tiger Woods fan".

I was before this debacle, and I am today as he readies to play round one of the Masters tomorrow afternoon.

He is clearly the most talented golfer on the planet. As clear as when Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player to ever play the game. As clear as Wayne Gretzky was the greatest hockey player or Pelé the most brilliant footballer (soccer player) of all time.

My advice to anyone who will listen is that when someone is the best at anything – and they exhibit that skill in a venue for you to watch them do it – please watch them do it.

Do I condone the behavior that led to Tiger Woods fall from grace.

Goodness no.

But I am not qualified to judge other peoples personal behaviors.

Chairman Billy Payne

But when Augusta National's Chairman Billy Payne spoke in his annual address to the media today as part of the Masters Tournament tradition – he spoke the words I wish I could say to Tiger - if it were my place to do so.

"It is simply not the degree of his conduct that is so egregious here, it is the fact that he disappointed all of us, and more importantly, our kids and our grandkids. Our hero did not live up to the expectations of the role model we saw for our children."

Payne went on …

"Is there a way forward? I hope yes. I think yes," but certainly, his future will never again be measured only by his performance against par; but measured by the sincerity of his efforts to change."

"I hope he now realizes that every kid he passes on the course wants his swing, but would settle for his smile."

I have a friend at work who told me the story of travelling over to the Buick Open last fall with a young nephew. As he tells the story, they got to the course – Warwick Hills in Grand Blanc, Michigan very early. Tiger Woods was practicing his putting on the practice green.

My friend approached Woods to ask if he would sign an autograph or have a picture taken with the young boy. No one else was around. Tiger looked past my friend, and simply said:

"I'm not doing that today".

End of story.

You might be justified in saying my friend intruded on Tigers private practice time. But really, how inconvenienced was he. Would it have been a great sacrifice to pause for a second to accommodate a fan and a young boy who idolized him as a hero.

As I see it – from very far away – but after great consideration – I believe that Tiger Woods went through a transformation. He went from a little boy who wanted to be great – to a human corporation founded on the basis of greatness.

And corporations have to succeed.

The person Tiger Woods became was the same selfish executive leaders we have seen recently exposed for their greed - like ENRON CEO Kenneth May. Only Tiger's greed was realized as lust.

There's not one of us alive that wouldn't want a second chance to prove themselves.

Not on the golf course … but as a person.

And while it's easy to want to see the great ones fall to Earth after being held up so high, think that you can be the better person for once ...

... better than Tiger Woods …

... and a allow Tiger his second chance to prove to you that he is indeed once again a human being, and no longer the tyrannical self-absorbed womanizing sexual deviant he was exposed to be over the last five months.

Imagine that, if it was you, your worst demons and most embarrassing intimacies published and fodder for gossip, convicted without a word in your own defence (not that he has a defence) – would you deal with it nearly with nearly the poise he has shown?

At least when he was visible to be seen ...
So this week, as this grand tournament unfolds on the most beautiful golf course in the world, the tournament most revered by players of this most beautiful game – and the camera cuts to Tiger Woods on the tee box, or fairway, or on the green leaning over a putt for birdie … I ask only that you consider Mr. Payne's closing words :

"We at Augusta hope and pray that our great champion will begin his new life here tomorrow in a positive, hopeful and constructive manner, but this time, with a significant difference from the past. This year, it will not be just for him, but for all of us who believe in second chances."

I hope Tiger wins the damn thing.

But first I hope Tiger revists the legend of Bobby Jones. And remembers what the Masters really means.

 (photo credit Reuters)
(Billy Payne Excerpts taken from TheGlobeAndMail.com article "Tiger Gets A Scolding")

Check One Item Off Tiger’s To-Do List

Tiger came out of hiding today.

Tiger Woods has come out and read his speech and followed the coaching of his public relations people – looking around at the audience – meeting their eyes – looking into the camera – meeting the home viewers eyes – and did his best attempt at a sincere apology.

A quick glimpse of his Mum in the audience revealed a very sour faced Mrs. Woods.

What did it mean?

Honestly – it meant nothing. It was an item on a to-do list. An agenda item that can now be marked completed.

A line item in a project plan on the critical path to Tiger's return to golf.

Was it successful?

It didn't have to be.

It merely had to be done.

He pulled it off without a smile.

He nailed the landing like a Russian figure skater at the Winter Olympics landing a quadruple sow-cow.

"Did anybody buy it?", he may very well have asked as he walked out of the building and got into a waiting helicopter to fly him back to his yacht called Sanctity.

"They didn't have to, Mr. Woods", would say the polished public relations assistant escorting him.

And he clicked the item completed on his blackberry calendars' list of agenda items.

It doesn't matter one little bit.

Tiger cheated on his wife. He cheated a lot. And to me, that is all between Tiger and his most beautiful wife Elin – a woman more beautiful and classy than any of the women he cheated on her with.

Stupid ass.

Will he do it again? Who knows. I don't need to know about it if he does.

Because while Tiger Woods has been away from the PGA Tour – the golf has stunk.

I have been an avid follower of the PGA for nearly thirty years now. From the end of Jack Nicklaus' dynasty in the 1980's to the present day.

And through the eighties and nineties I cheered for such lack luster personalities as Tom Watson, Tom Kite, Freddy Couples, Curtis Strange, Nick Price, and Ernie Els.

Only Greg Norman and Payne Stewart held any spark of personality. Both fairly colorful figures.

And John Daly. Everyone loves big John grip-it-and-rip-it Daly.

I remember being excited when Phil Mickelson came along – a young trickster of the short game setting up to put the golf world on its ear with his flop shots and stylish play around the green.

But then came Tiger. I watched him win all three of the U.S. Ameteurs in edge of the seat style and drama.

And then Tiger turned pro.

And then he won the Masters.

And then he won – good grief – a whole lot more than I care to research.

With excitement and drama and going for it – and pulling it off. Hooks around trees that then faded back after the wind caught it to make the shot in the shape of the letter S. On purpose.

And his name was Tiger.

And he was fun.

And he was cool.

And we thought he was as amazing a person as he was a golfer – albeit we were in denial and refused to acknowledge his thrown clubs and excessive cursing and rudeness at times to the fans.

Having lunch today – a good friend of mine told us the story of taking a young relative to the Buick Open. As he tells the story – it was 6:30 AM and Tiger was practicing putting on the green. My friend took his young nephew up to Tiger – when no one else was around – apologized for bothering him, and asked if Tiger would sign something for the boy.

"I'm not doing that today", said Tiger to my friend, and walked away. The young boy was crushed.

This was last summer. Before Tiger's world fell apart.

Would he have done that if a camera were there. Likely not.

So I think that it's fair to say that the persona of Tiger Woods is a fabricated one. Built to match and enhance the legend that his real skill has created.

Do I care?

No.

Okay, truth be told, I fell for his image. Hook line and sinker.

But shame on me for being so naïve. Like Gomer Pyle used to say:

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me".

Shazaam.

Now during this period of absence – PGA golf has just been incredibly boring. Even the PGA knew it was boring – creating hilarious ads when Tiger returned to the Tour last summer to show us they knew that we knew that the tour was boring without Tiger.

And Phil Mickelson got caught cheating – even worse so than Tiger – during this period. He was caught cheating on the golf course – carrying a now-illegal wedge because of the grooves – and he knew he was cheating.

Tiger never cheated on the golf course. He swore – and he threw tantrums – but he never cheated on the course.

So what's next on Tigers' agenda?

Well, I guess he has to finish his rehab.

Rehab? For sex addiction?

Okay, sure.

Then he has to come out and tell everyone he is a new man.

And say "I'm sorry again".

And face reporters.

And answer questions.

And then actually play in a tournament. But it won't be much a golf tournament if all that is talked about is "Tigers back".

I can imagine the broadcast.

" … how do you feel about Tiger Woods returning to the PGA tour?" the reporters will ask every tour player in the event,

"I think it sucks!" – will think the Tour pro - you will see it in their eyes.

"Oh it's wonderful … He's done so much for the game … It's great to have the number one player in the world back again" will say the tour pro – every tour pro – in the accent they speak in – and a bogus smile pasted to their face.

Except maybe Boo Weekly …

"I'm gonna ask him if I can borrow his little black book …", would say Boo.

But one thing's for certain.

When Tiger returns this time, the PGA won't be hyping it up with any funny ads.

But Is Golf A Sport?

The other day I was having a smoke at the office in the tiny shed we have allocated for those - like myself - who are addicted to nicotine.

In came one of my co workers – a young man who is by all accounts quite a college football fan.

During the course of our conversation, the question came up "yes – but is golf really a sport?"

"Golfers are not athletes" stated my young debating partner.

"Golf involves a precise movement of skill and agility to control the distance and aim over often substantial distances", I countered. "It ain't easy!"

"I don't consider any game you play while smoking a cigarette and maybe drinking a beer or two to be a sport!", countered my young elitist friend.

I stated my opinion that he was confusing sports with athletics, and my reasons why. And we left cordially agreeing to disagree.

My position on this topic has always been that the term "sports" has always been confused with the term "athletics". To me the matter has always been "what is the true definition of the term 'sports'"?

I have always defined sports as "the competition between two or more parties".

And I defined athletics as "the demonstration of a physical feat".

So by my definition – a spelling bee is a sporting competition. A weekly game of bridge would also be a sporting event. And yes, hitting a golf ball is a demonstration of an athletic feat.

The term "good sport" thereby meant one who competed fairly and never complained about the result of the matching of skill.

I always thought the word sport to be rather vague – and if you wanted to better categorize such sporting events – you would use terms "athletics" or "chance" – like a game of black jack - to better specify the type of competition.

But for all the debates, and for all my certainty that I was right in my stance – I never looked the words up in the dictionary or in the encyclopedia.

Until today.

The main definition of the word Sport comes closest to this explanation. This definition comes directly from the Merriam-Webster's dictionary:

"to amuse oneself : frolic <lambs sporting in the meadow> b : to engage in a sport"

Okay – nothing revealing about this. According to Merriam-Webster - it simply means to have fun.

So on to the Encyclopedia Britannica … how do they discuss the topic of Sport?

"physical contests pursued for the goals and challenges they entail. Sports are part of every culture past and present, but each culture has its own definition of sports. The most useful definitions are those that clarify sport's relationship to play, games, and contests. "Play," wrote the German theorist Carl Diem, "is purposeless activity, for its own sake, the opposite of work." Humans work because they have to; they play because they want to. Play is autotelic—that is, it has its own goals. It is voluntary and uncoerced. Recalcitrant children compelled by their parents or teachers to compete in a game of football (soccer) are not really engaged in sport. Neither are professional athletes if their only motivation is their paycheck. In the real world, as a practical matter, motives are frequently mixed and often quite impossible to determine. Unambiguous definition is nonetheless a prerequisite to practical determinations about what is and is not an example of play" Encyclopedia Britannica: Sport

Well, that helps a little more.

But according the good German theorist Carl Diem – the term Professional Sports is a paradox, a contradiction unto itself?

I jumped over to Wikipedia to find out just who this Diem fellow is and why he is the authority used by such a prestigious reference as Encyclopedia Brittanica:

"Dr. Carl Diem (born June 24, 1882, Würzburg – December 17, 1962, Cologne) was a German sports administrator, and as Secretary General of the Organizing Committee of the Berlin Olympic Games, the chief organizer of the 1936 Olympic Summer Games (sometimes referred to as the "Nazi Olympics"). He created the tradition of the Olympic torch relay, and was an influential historian of sport, particularly the Olympic games." Wikipedia: Carl Diem

Okay – Mr. Diem was a Nazi with a bias towards amateur athletics. (My apologies to any Nazi's out there who think my terminology is insensitive).

But no place do I see the a correlation to the athletic prowess of the competitors in a sporting competition.

So I hold true to my own self concocted definitions stated earlier – that sport is merely a competition – and will add only that it is truly sport when those competing enjoy the activity.

So golf indeed is a sport.

You play golf. You might work on your game in practice – but you actually play the game when you are on the course.

How many times have you heard a professional golfer say that they would quit playing the day it wasn't fun anymore?

Why would you play if it wasn't fun.

And in any case – who is going to look me in the eye and tell me that Tiger Woods is not an athelete?

Is golf a sport?

Damn right it is.

Old Tom – A Proper Distinguishment

What Tom Watson did at the British Open (The Open) last Sunday – over the course of four often blustery days – was indeed unfathomable.

It's the only word I can think of to describe leading The Open for a good duration, and up until his final putt in regulation play.

Unfathomable. Period.

It was indeed the greatest feat I have seen since being a fan of professional and tournament golf in 1982.

Better than Tiger Woods winning the US Open at Pebble beach by fifteen strokes.

Better than Jack Nicklaus at age 46 winning The Masters in 1986.

It was a man of a great magnitude of humble legendary class, stepping up and performing at a level that no one ever believed he could maintain over the course of four days of grueling conditions amongst the field of truly the best in the game.

No one – not a single sole – thought Tom Watson could win The Open.

And he missed it by a single stroke – a stroke of bad luck at that – causing his ball to roll only a few feet further down the slope of the back of Turnberry's 18^th hole. An extra rotation on the ball that made his recovery a magnitude more difficult.

With a final putt of some ten or twelve feet left to win the match – it was clear – as he pushed it just right – that the chance to win The Open Championship was just one rotation of a golf ball out the grasp of the fifty-nine year old Tom Watson.

He bogeyed. His score dropped to two under par.

It was destiny missed by a single roll of a golf ball.

The playoff that ensued – due to a long putt for birdie by Stuart Cink for birdie on eighteen – taking Cink to two under par - was doomed from the start for Mr. Watson, his heart already crushed by the missed opportunity. Mr. Watson lead the applause for Stuart Cink upon dropping the tournament winning putt.

The play off was no contest, as the eighteen holes and the stress of recapturing and holding a lead in one of the most prestigious tournaments in professional golf, was clearly taxing enough.

Harry Vardon won a major tournament in 1914 at the age of fifty nine. But 1914 did not have the same level of players (or players with modern equipment) that 2009 has. And Mr. Vardon's major won at the age of fifty nine was not the Open Championship – which was a good deal more prestigious than the US Open of that same era.

The oldest player ever to have won The Open Championship was indeed a man known as "Old Tom". Tom Morris Sr. won The Open Championship at the ripe old age of forty six. The same age as the Golden Bear, Jack Nicklaus, won The Masters Championship at Augusta National in 1986.

Old Tom Morris was a native of St. Andrews, Scotland. He is deemed to be the second golf professional in the history of the game, making his living from not only tournament golf, but also as a golf ball and golf club maker, course designer, and greens-keeper.

Old Tom is responsible for standardizing the golf course to being eighteen holes in length. And that both the front and the back nine's should play back to the clubhouse. Old Tom determined that bunker or hazard should always have a playable route around it. He standardized the golf course – equal in perfection to only the specifications of a baseball diamond – so that the golf course is how we play it today.

All through the playing of the 2009 Open Championship – Tom Watson was commonly being referred to as Old Tom – one of the most beloved figures of the sport. One of the most respectable figures – founders of the game we know and love today.

And the nickname is well deserved for Mr. Watson, who plays the game with a level of integrity second to none.

Not second to Mr. Palmer.

Not second to Mr. Nicklaus.

Not second to Mr. Hogan, Mr. Snead, or Mr. Jones.

Okay, He is second to Bobby Jones.

Because Bobby (Robert Trent) Jones - founder of Augusta National Golf Course and The Masters golf tournament – did indeed exact a sense of integrity and honor in golf – never turning professional in his career – maintaining amateur status throughout his grand slam achievements.

And second also to Old Tom Morris Sr.

Both Jones and Old Tom enshrined in St. Andrews to be of the highest stature of the Royal and Ancient Golf Association – paralleled to saints in the Catholic Church.

And Old Tom Watson – in my humble opinion – deserves the same honor. Not only for his monumental wins on such famed courses such as Turnberry in an epic match against his old friend and foe Jack Nicklaus, but also for what he showed us over four days in July in 2009, on the same Turnberry course.

Those four days should live forever in the tombs of the greatest feat a golfer ever accomplished. And the Royal and Ancient should accommodate the same grandeur to Old Tom Watson as they did for Old Tom Morris Sr. and the Wee Bobby Jones.

Remembering My Golf Lesson From A Shark

Last week I had the opportunity to play eighteen holes of golf with my next door neighbor.

Mark shoots commonly in the low seventies.

Or so he told me.

He made a believer out of me on the first hole, driving the ball out about 300 yards down the middle, and his approach put him in good birdie position.

"Okay", I said to Mark and the two other fellows the starter paired us with. "I believe ya".

You knew Mark took the game seriously when you saw him. Dressed to the nines and another new set of irons, it was easy to see he loved the game like I do.

But I am still playing the same Lynx Master irons my brother Paul bought for me in Baton Rouge in 1982. And I still play persimmon woods – Wilson Staff's – except I do play a driver I won for closest to the pin in a tournament a couple of years ago.

I played pretty crappy the first nine, as my tee shots left me in trouble – and I kept trying to save the hole by playing recovery approach shots from behind trees, deep roughs and the edges of water hazards. But on the back nine, I found my drive – hitting the fairways on each of the par four and fives.

And I shot two over par on the back.

As we were having a drink in the clubhouse – we got to talking about the most interesting people we ever picked up with on a golf course. And I started thinking about the guy who joined up with me one round playing Carriage Hills.

I was down staying with my Mom for a couple of weeks in the early nineties. Her backyard is the twelfth green, and to the side of her apartment is the thirteenth tee. I called the clubhouse and told them I was starting on thirteen and would play the whole eighteen holes back to Mom's apartment at the twelfth hole.

The green on thirteen is hidden at the bottom of a hill, and you can drive the green, so you wait at the tee until the players ahead of you ring the bell. While I was waiting, a big old boy in a pink golf shirt, straw hat and plaid pants walked up to the tee. He was in his mid-forties, and he looked like he had slept in his clothes. His skin was bright red brown – a weathered tan that was maintained by constant golf in the direct sun of northern Florida. His hair was a straw like blond, and his smile was sincere – and accentuated by the heavy worn lines on his weathered face.

"Y'all mind if I join ya?" he asked. "I'll try not to hold ya up much".

"Not at all", I replied, stuck my hand out and shook his monster sized paw. "I'll more than likely slow you down instead".

At this time I was just barely in my thirties and still in fairly good shape. I considered myself to be street smart and savvy, having spent time a good deal of my younger years in downtown New Orleans and the French Quarter – I had seen my share of scams and shysters.

This guy was a golfer – a good golfer. I looked over to the parking spot by my Mom's apartment and saw an old Cadillac convertible – top still down – and knew that is what this fellow arrived at the course in. His bag was a black leather tour bag with brass fittings, but well worn like an old leather coat, with more wrinkles than his leathered face. This guy was a shark – I guessed he had won that bag - and I knew what was coming next.

"Check out that classic Caddy over there", I said – just to make sure. "That's a beaut, eh?".

"Thanks, it's mine", said the shark. "I was parked there and saw ya playing alone. I hope ya don't mind".

"Not at all, my Ma lives there and I'm visiting, so I just stepped out here to start myself".

"Y'all Canadian?"

"Yup, just down for a visit." I replied. "Are you from around here?"

"Nope, just passin through".

The bell beside the hidden green at the bottom of the hill rang to signal we could play.

"Y'all wanna make this interesting?" he asked.

"Oh I think it'll be interesting enough. I don't bet, sorry, but I'll certainly do my best to give you a good match if that's ok with you."

The Shark smiled and nodded. He knew I knew and he said, "Ok, let's go have some fun then."

He gave me the honors and I stepped up to the tee and used my three wood to tap my drive down the middle. I watched my ball clear the crest of the hill – knowing it would roll down the hill to a spot where I would only be chipping to the green.

"Glad y'all ain't a betting man." He said – rather patronizingly. He stepped up to the tee with a three iron, looked at me and said, "You gotta play a cut fade into this green to get it to hold".

His swing was smooth and controlled; the ball flew to the left of where the green would be at the bottom of the hole, and started cutting back to the hole as it sunk below the crest of the hill.

As we cleared the crest of the hill, his ball was sitting pin high to the right of the hole, a ten foot putt for birdie. My ball was sitting at the mouth of the hole – in the little opening five yards shy of the fringe. We congratulated each other and marched down the hill to the green. I chipped to with three feet of the hole, and the Shark's putt lipped out from the high side.

As we played each of the next holes, the Shark started having more fun. He started hitting trick shots, teeing off with a nine iron and going for the green with a three wood, or putting himself behind a tree and shaping his low recovery shot to draw around the tree running low and chasing up to the center of the green. He took great joy in calling each shot – like a pool shark calling a double railed shot on the eight nicking the nine as it falls in the side pocket.

The Shark was indeed a shark. And he was having a ball showing me his shots. And I was having a ball watching him make them. I made a big deal about each shot he called and made. It was like being treated to my own private carnival show. I had seen Moe Norman once in London do trick-shots, and I think this guy was just as good. The Shark was doing his tricks on the course – in the context of the hole, and pulling them off.

As we came off of eighteen, still with thirteen holes to play before we're done, I went into the clubhouse to pay. The guys in the clubhouse knew the Shark, and asked me how much I was into him for. I lied and told them he had me for forty-five bucks so far, but I would catch him on the back. I paid for his round and mine – it was only seventeen bucks – and lied and said that would make up for some of what I lost to the Shark.

"He'll take every penny you got, son – walk away now", said the senior pro. "Don't make me call yer mama!"

I smiled and walked back out. I told the Shark I bought his green fee, and he handed me a cold beer. "Yeah, they know me here", he said.

I told him about what they told me and that I told them I was into him for forty-five bucks so far.

"That's all?" he smiled and laughed. "Thanks, for keeping up my reputation, but by now I would have had a couple hundred off ya!"

I raised my eyebrow at him and he nodded like I should know it was true and that I should count my lucky stars.

As we teed off the back, the Shark started watching me play. I was doing really good – a couple birdies a couple of bogeys and I was scoring really well. Mainly because I was watching him. But I played a straight ball. I aimed point to point and if I got behind something I couldn't shape a shot around it.

We walked off the twelfth green and sat down on my Mom's back patio. I went inside and got us both a beer. And I told him what a real pleasure it was to get such a lesson.

"The lesson ain't over yet" he said. "Grab your clubs, let's go".

He threw my clubs in the back seat of the old Cadillac – socks and shoes and shirts and golf gloves littered the back seat floor. He opened the trunk to put his clubs in, and there was an open suitcase with more stuff laying all about. He did indeed live in this car.

He pulled into a driving range a couple blocks away. He told me to go down to the end of the row of tee boxes, and he came out a few minutes later – chatting with the head of the range, and he was carrying two large buckets of balls.

The range pro sat on a bench a few spots down from us to watch. The Shark took my five iron from my bag and started my lesson.

"This is the only club you should ever practice with" he said – showing me the number five on the bottom of my club. "If you can master this club, you have mastered all your clubs."

"What about my woods, my driver?", I asked.

"It's the same swing". That's all he said.

I hit five or six balls, nice and solid, proud of each one.

"Not bad, now move the ball to the back of your stance. You want to pinch this ball with this club into the ground like squeezing a watermelon seed to shoot it".

He could see I didn't catch on, so he took my five iron from me, put the ball at the back of his stance, and came down on the ball as he said he would – squishing the ball into the ground. A good sized divot of grass – like a beaver's tail flew up from the ground.

The range pro said nothing, he just sat there watching.

The ball took off low, and rose up high in mid flight. The ball hit the ground and spun backwards.

"You just bit and spun back with my five iron!" I said. "Wow!"

He handed me my club back. "Yup, now you do it".

My first attempts simply rolled across the ground, but the shark didn't say anything, he just put another ball on the ground for me to hit each time. Finally I hit it right, like spanking the ball on the butt, it squished into the ground and made a whistling sound as it spit out low, climbed high, hit the ground, and spun backwards. A beaver-tail-divot landed two yards in front of me.

"Wow", I said looking up at the Shark.

"Atta boy", said the Shark. "Do it again".

I did it over and over again until I could do it consistently. The last one, the ball hit the ground and pulled back like a yo-yo on a string.

"Now let's learn how to draw a ball", and he put the ball more to the front of his stance, turned his hands over one knuckle and spanked it again making the ball do a slight draw. He took another ball, put it in the same place and turned his hands over two knuckles, and increased the degree of the draw.

You do it now.

He then taught me how to do a cut fade, a low runner, and how to flip a five iron with your wrists to act like a sand-wedge.

When we got to the end of the second bucket, the Shark smiled at me and said "There ya go".

There was barely a spot of grass in that tee box that had not been carved out as a beaver-tail-divot.

The range pro got up from the bench and walked by himself back into the trailer.

"I don't know what to say", I started, shaking his hand and saying thank you way too many times.

"You got the idea now", he said. "Now you just gotta play a lot, and learn how and when to use each one. Remember it's the exact same swing for every club. Practice it".

He dropped me back at my Ma's apartment, and simply said, "See ya around".

I never saw the Shark again.

I looked for him each day I had left staying at my Mom's. I went back to that range each day to practice what he showed me, each time the range pro just smiled to acknowledge he witnessed my experience with the Shark. I tried to reproduce everything the Shark showed me, but the results were never as good as while the Shark was there.

When I got back home to Canada, playing with my buddies in London, I tried to tell them all about this experience with the Shark, and I tried to show them what I was talking about, but their interest was little.

I still remember everything I learned from the Shark that day, although I have never mastered it. But I still know how to make a ball land and bite, and can do it consistently with my six iron through to my sand wedge. I understand it, even though I haven't mastered it.

I still play with my old Lynx Master irons. I still play with my old persimmon Wilson Staff woods.

And every time I go to the driving range – which I admit is not very often – I only use my five iron. And I go through the sequence that the Shark showed me.

And since that lesson with the Shark, I have won way more than my share of closest-to-the-pin competitions in tournaments. But I still shoot in the mid-to-upper eighties, simply because I can't always hit a good tee shot.

And I'll always remember the Shark.

Transcending Race

I read in the paper this last week that Tiger Woods will be speaking at a celebration ceremony Sunday – five days after Barak Obama takes the inaugural oath of office as President of the United States.

And I thought "how incredibly fitting".

But not perhaps for what some shallow minds may think the obvious reason.

Yes, they are both black men.

"Duh".

Actually they are both persons of diverse heritages. Both are children of mixed relationships.

But that's not what I am getting at.

Because I think Tiger Woods transcends all that nonsense.

Tiger is not referred to as 'that black golfer'.

Tiger is referred to as probably the greatest golfer to ever play the game.

Mr. Obama is not immediately thought of as that black politician.

Because I think Mr. Obama – President Obama – transcends all that nonsense.

Mr. Obama is referred to as one of the best orators of our time. A natural leader. A thoughtful man who chooses his words like Tiger chooses his clubs. Carefully, with consideration.

And with confidence.

When Tiger plays in a PGA tour event, an immediate sense of hope and anticipation arises. Tiger has made what many previously thought to be a most boring event to watch on TV incredibly exciting. Hitting long drives to the green, putting from off the green to the edge of steep sloe where the ball falls sideways and rolls to the lip of the cup – and on the final rotation – falls into the hole after dangling on the edge for a few dramatic seconds.

And I think we see the potential in President Obama for the same type of presence. And that same type of clutch performance. We see it in how in what has become a brutally partisan Washington – a President who included as many members who disagree with him as those that do agree. A sense that consideration to all angles of every decision will be equally weighed – like Tiger standing in the fairway determining not which club to hit – but which groove on the clubface to hit it with.

In my lifetime I have never experienced the emergence of a leader with such promise and hope as the entire world seems to see in President Obama.

More so than John F. Kennedy.

More so than Ronald Reagan.

What an incredible time to be alive. The feeling of hope and inspiration is so strong.

And if you ever want to be inspired as a golfer, watch Tiger Woods play in a major event.

And if you ever want to be inspired as to the potential of our world's future, watch Barack Obama take the oath of office tomorrow. And record his inauguration speech.

I am sure it will be a keeper.

With this great event taking place the day after Martin Luther King day, and with the grand historic significance of his being the first black man to be President of the United States Of America– I understand that many will want to focus on the significance of race.

But then maybe we can take another step forward – inspired by President Obama – and Tiger Woods – and we can all transcend our thinking to the point where we are oblivious to race.

How incredibly inspiring.

And how incredibly fitting.

Summertime Jealousy

I am jealous.

It's clearly summer now. Both the weather and calendar agree. The days are hot and steamy. Thunderstorms could erupt at almost any minute. The grass is growing so fast it needs to be cut every three days. The cool waters of our pool are warming to temperatures in the eighties.

Yet my golf clubs sit idle in the storage room downstairs. My knee isn't ready yet.

So I am jealous of those who are playing twice or more a week. I hear them talking daily at work about their game. Their problems with slices and hooks. Their short games bailing them out or failing them. Their putting success and woes.

And I wish I had their problems.

The Tiger's are playing well now (knocking on wood as I type this). They are a game below the even mark of .500 after being as poor as twelve games below that mark. I sit on the back yard deck on the evenings they play and the weekend afternoon games. I root for every pitch. I have some friends who have season tickets – and others who have bought the baseball package for their satellite or cable T.V. at home. I couldn't justify the thousand dollars for the season tickets or the couple hundred for the TV package.

I prefer to listen to a ballgame on the radio, but still, I am jealous.

When I was a kid, I loved summer more than any holiday. More than my birthday. I would live with my friends down at the community pool at Plantation Swim and Racket club. The club is still there. I checked it out on Google Earth. And then I walked the neighborhood in Lawrenceville, Georgia. It looks exactly the same. Thirty years have not changed the physical appearance of the place at all. They did add two tennis courts though.

Now my kids have a pool and playground in their backyard and I wonder if I did them any real favor by buying this house with that stuff. But we do love to hang out in the back yard playing in the nice weather.

But on Mondays, as I head back into the office, I am jealous.

I know that jealousy is an immature thought. And I am not a person generally jealous of material objects – except perhaps the huge LCD HD Television my in-laws have. But I do cherish my personal time. And there is not much of it I can claim with work, physiotherapy, and events my daughters partake in. So when it comes to the free time I had like when we were kids in the summer, I get jealous.

This is a condition that I have learned to control. But not a condition I have learned to conquer. I know there are people who have conquered jealousy though.

And of those who have conquered jealousy, I am jealous.

Thanks A Lot, Tiger

Yesterday I had my six week post-op visit with my knee surgeon in Detroit.

I have tremendous respect for my knee surgeon. So much so that I would never use his name without his permission. So I will simply refer to him as 'the Good Doctor'.

Six weeks ago, the Good Doctor replaced my shriveled ACL with part of my hamstring. He also repaired a tear (bucket handle for those in the know) on my meniscus and as much (but nowhere near all) of the arthritis from the same meniscus was removed.

And it feels great.

Still swollen. Still puffy. But everyday feels better than the day before.

My physiotherapist is very pleased with my progress. We had set my goal to play golf by the end of July. Our Irish friends from Dublin are returning for a visit then. Ray is an exceptional golfer, and a great guy to walk a golf course with. So I have been looking very forward to playing golf by then.

After the Good Doctor examined my knee, he restated several times that this is actually the most dangerous time for the new ACL (once part of my hamstring) to tear. "If this things tears", he warned quite clearly and seriously, "we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!"

I nodded my acknowledgment, and would explain my practices for safety. And after each of examples, the Good Doctor would reply:

"If this things tears we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!"

And most would have known to keep their mouth shut, and perform the Boy Scout salute while promising:

"I will be very very careful and do nothing dangerous, Good Doctor. I promise I won't screw it up!"

Most would. But apparently not me.

".. you see, Good Doctor, I have some friends from Dublin Ireland coming to visit in the end of July…", I started.

The Good Doctor turned and looked at me – holding my chart – looking over the lenses of his glasses as they dangled on the end of his nose.

".. and I have set this target for myself to be able to play golf by then …", I finished.

The Good Doctor shook his head – almost in disbelief. Almost as to say – although he didn't verbalize the sentiment – "Haven't you heard a word I'm saying?"

But all the Good Doctor did was look at me.

"I would wear my brace of course ... ", I said trying to predict his argument – like a teenager asking to borrow Dad's car to drive to a party.

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

".. and I would ride in a cart, of course .. ", I continued.

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

"See, I hit the ball from my right side and shift my weight quickly to my left ... and since I would not hold any real weight on my right leg …", I continued further, now trying to safely demonstrate to him that I had analyzed this thoroughly and in my own expert opinion …

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

And then he started to shake his head. Head shaking is never a good sign when asking someone for permission.

He laughed a gentle laugh and he said "didn't you hear about Tiger Woods?".

"Why yes, I watched most of the US Open, it was clear he was in great pain, but his bad knee is his left …" I answered, but then cut off.

The Good Doctor kept on staring.

"Tiger Woods is done for the year!", he stated. "It was in the news this morning".

"Really? He hurt it that bad?"

"Yes, and his ACL is now torn, and he has a double-stress fracture in his tibia!"

That sounded bad. I know the tibia is a leg bone, and fracture means a break – and well – double usually means two.

"Huh." I replied.

The Good Doctor returned to staring.

I sat there quietly.

"Let's see how you do this next month then" said the good Doctor – after several long moments of silence passed he said ...

"If this thing tears we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!" he stated again.

This time it really sank in.

"I will be very very careful and do nothing dangerous, Good Doctor. I promise I won't screw it up!" I replied while speaking slowly and sincerely. "Scout's honor".

"Were you a Boy Scout?" asked the Good Doctor.

"Cub Scout"

And then again, he started to shake his head. "I'll see you in six weeks, Mr. Brill", he said almost dismissingly. But then he added one final time, "If this thing tears we can't go back in there and fix it again. This is it. Don't screw it up!"

Thanks, Tiger.

Thanks a lot.

And Tiger, should you ever happen to read this, I hope you get better quickly – but my advice is to let it heal this time. Otherwise you will have to endure hearing your knee surgeon say "Since you tore this thing again we can't go back in there and fix it again. That was it. You screwed it up!".

And you, Mr. Woods, will feel as childish as I do now.

Masters Week

Of all the sporting events the world has to offer, my favorite is the week The Masters is held at Augusta National.

The Masters is to golf what Wimbledon is to tennis. What the Kentucky Derby is to horse racing. What Indianapolis is to auto racing.

Augusta National is a spectacle to behold. It is in my opinion the most beautiful setting for a sporting event that there is to offer.

The perfection of the fairways.

The perfection of the greens.

The lush landscaping of flowers, most notably azaleas.

The history is widely known, and nothing I could state would extend your knowledge of the place. But the fact that it was founded by Bobby Jones, arguably the greatest golfer to ever play the game. As arguably great as Jack Nicklaus, Ben Hogan, or even Tiger Woods. Arguably so because Bobby Jones remained an amateur throughout his career.

Bobby Jones is the only player to win all four major events in the same calendar year. He won the U.S. Amateur, U.S. Open, British Amateur, and British Open in 1930. It is true that in those days – before the modern Open era – that only an amateur could accomplish such a feat. Professionals are not allowed in amateur events.

My family lived in Georgia from 1975 to 1980. It is a beautiful state. But back then, I did not know anything about golf. I had probably heard of the Masters, but gave it no second thought as it was a game for old men in funny clothes. Our Dad tried to convince my brother Paul and I to give golf a go. But it did not interest us at that time.

What a mistake.

Once we left Georgia, we both took up the game with a passion.

To see the Masters played at Augusta National is one of the hardest tickets to get. There is a waiting list I am told to be ten years long. They say the entrance to Augusta National is as beautiful as the course. A long entrance road between two perfect rows of Magnolia trees arrives at the front steps of the building. I don't know. I have never been there. I have seen pictures. But I have only visited Augusta National in my dreams.

The only players invited to play in the Masters are those that have won on the PGA tour, or those in the very top of it's rankings. The greatest come from around the world. The greatest come to play what some say is the most difficult course, under the most beautiful setting. And the player that wins the Master automatically becomes a member of Augusta National. They are invited back to play every year until they decide to hang up their clubs. They can visit and play the course anytime they please.

Who needs to win a purse when the prize includes an open invitation to play Augusta National anytime you like?

The events begin with a Champions dinner, where all past champions gather for a dinner hand-picked by last years Champion. They wear their green jackets. They talk about things that green jacket wearers talk about. What that could be, I could only guess.

Wednesday is the par-three tournament – a fun event I believe held in pro-am style. The cardinal rule of this event is not to win. No player ever to have won the par-three contest has ever gone on to win the Masters.

If there was ever an event to behold in high-definition television, it is the Masters. But I will be sitting in front of my old primitive analog TV, watching every stroke that I can, and it will still be beautiful.

Cleaning My Clubs

Every January, I like to bring my golf clubs out. There may be a foot of snow outside, but I am not preparing to play on this very cold day.

It's more of a therapeutic activity.

I am preparing for the days yet to come.

I set my clubs out in order - from wedges to long irons. I lay my persimmon woods out on a soft towel. I place my putter to the side. I get my warm bucket of soapy water, stiff bristle brush, and drying cloth set up along the side of my bench in the basement.

And I proceed to wash my clubs.

Golf is very important to me. Golf defines who I want to be. It is my analogy of how I must try to live my life.

I start with my driver, and as I wash and polish the cherry red of the persimmons wood - I think about faith. As I hold the driver shaft in my hand, I focus on the faith it takes to take that first step towards an objective. Usually that first step takes you the farthest, and the execution must be sufficient to provide you an opportunity to progress to the steps that follow.

From there I wash my fairway woods, where I think about opportunity. During a long par five, it's my fairway woods that offer me the greatest opportunity to increase my reward. And opportunities should not be wasted. Opportunities must be grasped and made true.

I then wash each of my long irons, one through six - each with varying degrees of loft. Each with varying degrees of distance they will carry. And I think of how far I have come, how lofty my goals have been, and how thankful that I have managed to navigate my course and still remain in play.

My short irons bring my thoughts to accuracy. Accuracy for how I approach the final steps. Accuracy for how I take those final steps for completing the task and achieving the goal. The closer I can strike to my target, the better my opportunity for accomplishment.

My wedges help me consider that those times when I miss the green, straying from my objective. Discipline and a gentle touch is required to recover from setbacks, and perhaps even surprise myself by chipping into the hole. To take a setback and turn it into a reward.

I wash my putter most delicately. I apply special softening agents to my grip, and polishing the brass face to clearly reflect on the target in sight. The putter must be used to place my shot at the target on the proper line, straight or undulating. The putter is used to close the deal. To realize the objective. It requires a gentle touch.

As I review the golf balls stored in their sleeves, I consider the integrity of how life should be lived.

Perfectly round.

And measured to ensure the roundness remains in tact. This ball, once put into play, must be played again from where it lies. No cheating. No improving my lie in ways unfair, untrue. I must remain true to myself to be judged so by others.

My gloves, shoes, tees, and other items are also cleaned and washed - as they are all those things that support me. They are those things that without, I am a lesser player in the game of life. As are my family, my friends.

Finally before I put them all away, I clean my golf bag. For this is the container that carries my tools through the round. This is my home. This is the baggage of all my possessions.

And with lesser tools I am a lesser player.

And without the integrity of these tools of my character, I am a lesser man.

But patience is also an important virtue.

And patience is best tested for a golfer by waiting out the January snow.

Not A Winter Person

As I stand in my kitchen and look out our big front window, I see that all the roof tops are frosted with a light white dusting of snow.

Yesterday we had our first snowfall of the year, but unlike the rest of Canada, none of it stayed.

It all melted as it hit the ground. I guess some stuck to the roof tops.

That is the only thing that Windsor has in common with Victoria British Columbia. We generally have – by Canadian standards – a mild winter.

If I have not made this next point clear yet, please let me do so now.

I am not a winter person.

I can’t skate.
I can’t ski.
Ice fishing is not an interest that I pursue.

I just don’t like cold weather.

I was pretty much raised in the southern US. On our first Christmas in Atlanta, all the guys in the neighborhood got together and played a game of basketball in a buddy’s driveway.

Shirts vs. Skins. On Christmas Day.

I love hockey, I just never had the opportunity to play.
I would really love to ski, but I never really had the chance to try.

I am still not interested in drilling a hole in the ice and waiting for a bite.

Tomorrow I will hang the Christmas lights. I couldn’t do it last week when it was in the mid 50s. That’s 12 degrees Celsius for you metric freaks.

We will also put up our Christmas Tree in front of our big new window in our living room. It will look great.

But you know we won’t have all the decorations that we need. I will have to go to Canadian Tire and get some more. And as I go to put them in the trunk, there will not be enough room. My golf clubs are still in there.

And I don’t really want to take them out. I might still have a chance to play.

I only used them five or six times last summer. When the weather was nice.

Did I mention I’m not a winter person?

Walking Eighteen With Mike Weir

I have bumped into a few famous people over the years.

I drank beer with Burt Reynolds in 1981. Me and about fifteen other people.

In 1998, I flew from Detroit to Toronto with Isaiah Thomas – a legendary basketball player for the Detroit Pistons.

In 1995, I bumped into (literally) Shania Twain at Canada’s Wonderland near Barrie, Ontario.

But my favorite experience was not so much by chance.

Also in 1995, the Ontario Open was being played in London - where I lived at the time. In fact it was being played at the Forrest City National Golf Course – which I think may now be gone. I loved that course and played it every chance I could. So we went to see how the pros would play it.

These were guys on the Canadian Tour, a stepping stone to the PGA for those lucky enough to survive, conquer qualifying school, and get their PGA tour card.

When my girlfriend and I arrived, we got a program, and looked for someone to follow.

“Here’s a guy” I said. “He’s from Brights Grove, over by Sarnia, and look – he is tied for the lead. Let’s follow him!”.

My girlfriend agreed.

So we walked all 18 holes of the course I played all the time and knew like the back of my hand, watching Mike Weir play it. With us was a local radio sports announcer who I only remember by his nickname “Horney” – his real name was Jim VanHorne.

And the best part was that you did not have to stand behind any ropes - you could walk the fairway right with the players. So we did.

I had been to PGA events before in New Orleans. I had followed Greg Norman and Fred Couples back then. I followed Nick Price at the 1995 Canadian Open. But Mike Weir hit the ball so smooth and effortlessly, always hitting his target.

There is one hole on that course that is a par five. It plays around a lake wrapping as a dog-leg right to a narrow green on the far corner of the lake. The fairway is split into two sides by a long sand bunker.

If you land on the right side of the bunker you can hit a fairway wood to the green flying 200-230 yards of water.

If you land to the left of the bunker you have to play a long shot up the fairway and hope you can fade it for a nice short approach shot as your third.

If you land in the bunker on your drive, you’re dead. You will now have at least two more shots to hit the green.

Weir hit that bunker. I leaned to Horney and said “He is screwed”. Horney nodded in agreement.

Mike took out his four-wood, put the ball at the back of his stance, came down through the ball wand clipped it ever so perfect taking only a grain or two of sand.

I remember watching that ball’s flight. Straight at the pin. But I knew how narrow the green was. It would never stop within that 20 foot area. It couldn’t, not out of the sand with a wood; no way could he get the back spin.

That ball hit the front of the green bounced high, and when it came down it bit and held.

Mike Weir hit that bunker shot to within 5 feet of the pin.

I looked at Horney, and he at me. Our jaws were dropped like to yokels at a hog auction.

We hooted and yelled and told Mike that what he just did was impossible. He smiled and simply handed his four-wood to his caddy.

When we got to the green, Mike sized up the putt and dropped it.

Eagle three.

I do remember saying “Thanks” and having to explain to the group we were walking with that I was thankful to see such an amazing shot.

I still have that program at home. It became even more special when Mike made the PGA tour. And even more special still when he won the Masters in 2003.

I had played that hole so many times, both before and after that day. And I had tried to fly that water on many occasions. Once I was lucky to go over the green and get up and down for a birdie.

For all the great golf I have seen, that still stands out as the most incredible shot I have witnessed.

Last weekend, at the President’s Cup in Montreal, Mike Weir paired up against Tiger Woods on the final day. And Mike was three up on Tiger into the back nine. But Tiger caught him, and passed him. And for the first time I have ever known, someone fought back, re-caught Tiger, and beat him on the 18th hole. It was Mike Weir.

I can’t say I know Mike Weir. But I sure can say I am proud of him.

If only I had gotten Mike to sign my program that day.

I Love Golf

I love the game of golf.

I love to play golf.

I love to watch golf.

I love to read about the history of golf.

I took up golf in 1983 in Baton Rouge at my brother Paul’s prodding. He had just started playing as well, and in usual fashion he acquired the skills quite quickly.

I borrowed my dad’s old clubs, and immediately found that you do not just walk out and play golf. That day we played the course on the campus of LSU. I believe I walked off that day in disgust – before even reaching the turn.

Why I tried again after that experience I don’t remember.

When Paul and I were boys in Georgia, our Dad would often ask us if we would like to play golf with him. And we always declined.

Golf is a silly game of chasing a little white ball only played by boring old men who wear funny clothes. Or so we thought. And I know Dad was disappointed by our ignorance.

Paul bought me my first set of clubs. I do not remember if I ever paid him back or not. If not, I hope he doesn’t read this or he may charge me interest.

As I remember, he paid $58.00 for a used set of Lynx Masters. Fancy for their day, with the face of a Lynx cast on the back of each club. USA Masters engraved on the heel.

They were laden with lead tape, heavily coated on the bottom of each by a senior who obviously wanted to increase the distance. It took most of a day on the patio peeling that tape off.

I remember those irons so well. I should. I still play them. They are the only irons I have ever owned. And I can hit each one pure and crisp.

At the same time, our parents had just moved from Baton Rouge to Pensacola, Florida. They took an apartment with a pretty back yard, and behind their yard lay the 12^th green of a long dog leg right par 5.

So it seemed to be destined that golf would become a family endorsed component of our life. That year for Christmas, my parents gave me a Sam Snead Blue Ridge driver. And I learned to pummel that thing 300 yards plus.

My brother and I would wake up on Christmas morning, sneak out on the 13^th tee beside their apartment building, and play all the way around back to the 12^th green. The course was closed for Christmas day, so we would carry our bags discretely and shoot greens with no flags in the holes.

Those were probably the best Christmas mornings I knew until my daughters were born.

At that time I worked a job at night, and got off work at 7:00 am. I would leave work and go right to the municipal course of my choosing. Baton Rouge had a bunch. Some were great, some were flat fields with cement water drains in place of real creeks.

I would arrive and usually play before the club-house was open, navigating the sprinklers, and explaining to the grounds crew that I would pay when I reached the club house. I don’t remember ever being refused.

After a couple years of playing every day all year around, I was pretty good. I could shoot in the 70’s consistently, and sometimes even go below par. My forearms and hands were very strong and tan, with the left hand giving me away as a constant player because the glove I wore resulted in a pale white skin tone.

I could hit a long tee shot consistently with my Blue Ridge driver, and my approach shots with my Lynx Masters irons would usually leave me with an opportunity for birdie.

And Paul could always beat me. I can’t remember one time I ever beat him.

For a brief period before I moved to Canada, Paul and I were room mates. The best ‘roomie’ I ever had. And weekly we would play one specific round together. It was called “The Cascade Classic”. The loser of this round would be responsible for doing the dishes for the next week, until the next Cascade Classic could be played.

I don’t remember Paul ever washing a single dish in that apartment.

When I moved to Canada the week between Christmas and New Years of 1985, I packed my car with all my belongings. My golf clubs among them. We went to my Mom and Dad’s apartment in Pensacola and played our customary rounds on the course behind their yard.

And then I moved to Canada. I moved to Canada in late December. I don’t recommend this feat to anyone.

I did not pick up my clubs again until the final round of the Masters was being played. This is the infamous Sunday when Jack Nicklaus won his final green jacket.

But on the farm, we still had two feet of snow on the ground. Winter was not leaving easily. And I took a shovel, cleared a five foot patch, and hit nine irons across the yard to snow bank in the corner. When the snow finally melted in May, I recovered those balls and returned them to my bag.

So my life changed from playing daily to starting all over again in April or May, working on my game through the summer, and then abandoning it again come October.

At Christmas, I would usually return to Pensacola spending Christmases with my parents, or just my Mum after dad passed away in 1990. And golf was a central focus of my holiday.

As the years have progressed, my ability to travel to Pensacola at Christmas has evaporated. We have our own family Christmas traditions in Windsor. There is no Golf yet in these traditions.

In a common summer, I may get to play golf once every two weeks or so. This year I only had four opportunities to play.

Yesterday was one of those opportunities. It was our Company Golf Tournament. And it is a highlight of every fall for me and Darlene. This year Darlene could not play because the implant she has in her back was still healing. As I left in the morning I could see she was sad she could not play.

Instead she spent the day with her brother closing our pool.

We played a best ball scramble format. My partners were Erwin, Tim, and his wife Diane. Both Erwin and Tim hold significant rankings in our company. And both are excellent people to spend time with. Tim’s better half, Dianne, was equally enjoyable, and a good golfer as well.

I will admit that we started the morning with hopes of possibly winning the event. And we started well by reaching a par five in two and achieving our first birdie – beginning the day at one under par.

I would say that of the four of us, we all contributed to the cause equally. And our outcome was most definitely the result of our combined effort.

And it was a lot of fun.

Tim and Erwin both equally ensured we were in good shape in the fairway. My strength has always been the approach to the green. Between the four of us we most always hit the green with the opportunity for birdie or eagle.

But putting was a skill not held by any of us yesterday. So no eagles were accomplished and only three birdies realized.

We finished at two over par.

When we reached the par 3 where the men’s closest to the pin was contested, I liked my chances. I have won this contest before. The shot was a 145 yards and the tee elevated over bush and wasteland leading up to the green.

I put the tee in the ground and sized up the conditions. The wind slightly in my face. The green sloped back to font.

I lined up my nine iron, the same nine iron with the Lynx face cast in the back and “USA Master” engraved on the bottom. My mind held this thought:

“Remember the 17^th hole at Mums? It is the same shot. Just picture that hole in your memory as you swing through the ball. It’s the same hole. It’s the same swing.”

I took the club back to full-square. As I brought the club down through the ball with my left forearm, I was clearly seeing the 17^th hole at Carriage Hills.

As I followed through, my ball flight was high, right on line, and looking perfect. The ball hit 12 inches straight in front of the hole. It bit and spun back another 12 inches. It stopped two feet dead straight uphill in front of the hole.

The best part of it was not hitting the shot or watching it. The best part was hearing my partners in our foursome cheering the ball in flight – in that moment that seems like five minutes, as you watch the ball drop from clouds and land beside the pin. The high fives, and the excitement as we drove down to the hole to find it is indeed as close as we thought.

I tried to calmly stroke it in for a natural birdie but missed. Tim stepped up and rapped it in for the official birdie we needed to stay in the hunt. Then he signed my name on the board and moved it to where my ball landed.

I do love golf.

I love everything about golf

But I am awfully glad that I don’t have to play golf to earn my living.