God’s Miraculous Shot

It is remarkable to realize that for the vastness that can only be described today as infinity, how incredible this tiny little dot in the universe our planet Earth truly is.

The perfect blue of a sky on a warm spring day. The warmth of the sun in a cool breeze. The green of the grass, soft on the ground to cushion a bare foot.

All the pieces so perfectly crafted.

Even in a barren dessert there is the beauty of the reds and browns of the sands sculpted by the wind and baked by the sun.

Even in the middle of the vastest of oceans, the shades of the blues and rhythm of the waves dictated by the Moon some 238,860 miles above.

The caps of the world, more barren than the desserts comprised only of ice and snow, are beautiful in their lights and shadows.

Masterfully designed, perfectly crafted, brilliant in their inception, and flawless in execution.

The physicist will tell you that all of this is a result of extreme luck – the laws of motion and gravity and probability all calculated in one big bang 13.8 billion years ago.

The spiritualist will tell you that it is all God in every second of every flutter of a butterfly's wing. That this was all done for man, for man's benefit, and that the world did not even exist before man was here to experience it.

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

"The vibration of the force of the fall would impact the atoms of the matter in the surrounding objects to cause an effect" would state the physicist.

"If it wasn't heard, then what does it matter?" would state the cleric.

Me? I think the answer lies someplace in the middle.

I think there is an intelligent creator, responsible for all that we know now.

But not sitting right above us, not involved in every nuance of every action.

Think of a very skilled billiards player, one who can sink all the balls on the table before missing.

His break is very important as he shoots the cue ball into the mass of balls on the other side of the table.

Yet he knows where to aim and how hard to hit and what type of spin to use to achieve the result – precisely planned but seemingly chaotic movement of the mass of balls all reacting to each other as they bump off each other and the rails of the table - to finally rest in a position.

Where the billiards player can now pick the right order to easily make each shot.

And he makes it look so easy.

The balls all go where he wants – but his impact is only the split second that the tip of his cue – a cue shaped and chalked to his design – hit's the white cue ball. Everything else results from that precise strike.

Think a golfer who needs to sink his golf ball in the hole that more than five football fields away, and he needs to do so striking that ball only three times to score an eagle.

Like the billiard player, the golfer only controls the result at that precise moment he strikes the ball. After that, the laws of physics take over.

And so, in that same fashion, it seems to me to be completely viable – that a grand intelligence – a deity if you wish – God by any name you choose – made the most miraculous shot when triggering that big bang – patient for the resulting billions of years – to see how that shot would work out – and is still playing out.

God looked at the Sun and said, "That's a beauty"

God looked at the Earth and said to himself "Nice shot. And I got the moon just right too".

God looked at Mars and maybe he said "crap, I overshot all the water to Earth".

Remember, all the balls are still in motion from that one shot almost 14 billion years before.

The result we will never know.

The original intention and target of that shot, we will never know.

But we have and will continue to derive answers that for now satisfy our desire to know a truth.

Maybe there is still a big asteroid that was set in motion in that same shot that is out there still spinning it's way around the gravity pulls of other planets and suns in other surrounding solar systems not yet on the final swing towards striking Earth – and resulting in that miraculous shot where some of the oxygen and water and particles that would comprise life – would then also wind up on Mars afterward.

And then God, who had been waiting 14 billion years to see his result – would give a little shriek of joy and high five himself, and confirm to himself yet again ...

"I love this game".

 

 

My Baseball Dad

Baseball is a big deal at our house.

It has been since I was a little boy.

No matter where we were going, the ball equipment always sat in the trunk of our car – at the ready – should we pass an empty ball diamond along the way. And if we did, the car pulled over to the side, the equipment bag came out of the trunk, and we would hold a quick infield practice.

That’s just how my Dad was.

He was an excellent coach – and his forte was teaching technique. Acquire the basic skill, and then master the technique.

The one break-through day I clearly remember was when Dad taught me how to charge a hard hit ground ball so that you catch it just as it hit the ground – taking the ball just as it came up – eliminating for the most part the possibility of the ball taking a bad bounce and going by you.

That advice really worked.

That was when I was eleven years old.

Up until then, I would simply sit back on the ground ball and snag it as it came by – most often with success – but that waiting time both allowed the runner to move further up first baseline meaning he would beat my throw more often.

After I learned that technique of Dad’s and mastered it as an eleven year old, I made the all star team at short stop or second base every year after. It made such a huge difference.

I see a lot of coaches teaching the principle of charging the ball these days, but they seem to forget the point of taking the ball on the short hop.

He also spent a lot of time teaching us the individual techniques of hitting, all those little things like the proper stance – spending hours positioning us at the plate – and how the timing of shifting your weight from your back foot to your front foot so that your bat strikes the ball at the exact moment your weight shifts – allowing you to hit the ball hard with your weight rather than with your arms – and how to snap your wrists right at the point of contact to optimize your leverage and transferring twice the power of your weight into the ball. All these individual points of technique that when put together with keeping your eye on the ball and being able to tell a strike from a ball as it leaves the pitchers hand – add up into one beautiful swing that hits line drives over the infield and perhaps over the outfield every time.

That was my Dad. He knew baseball. He coached baseball. And he coached coaches how to teach these advanced fundamentals.

But nothing really clicked for me until I turned eleven – when my muscle and hand-eye coordination started to really allow me to apply these techniques. Until then, I never really felt like I had control – control of the ball as I threw it like my Dad taught me – control of the heavy bat as I tried to move it through the plane of the swing – control of my feet and my body as I went back for a long fly ball looking over my shoulder and watching it all the way into the webbing of my glove.

At age eleven – I gained the coordination of the muscles in my body to do what I was thinking – and what I was thinking came all that training.

Now I am a Dad. Not nearly as good a Dad as my Dad when it comes to baseball – or softball – as Alannah and Ashley-Rae are nine and ten years old. But I am trying.

But next year, Alannah turns eleven. And I am hoping her muscle coordination “kicks in”.

Friday Night – the Turtle Club team they play for was facing Windsor West – at Mic Mac Park – under the lights for the first time ever. And the girls were excited – and the Windsor West team was a good team with decent pitching.

Alannah hit a line drive right to the girl playing short stop – who caught it. Later – with girls on second and third hit another line drive up the middle and scored two runs. As well, Ashley-Rae ran out a close play at first to be called safe.

Later, Alannah in right field (all players rotate positions each inning to be fair to all) – a hard line drive was hit up the first base line – just inside the bag – a fair ball – and Alannah took off to chase it down. As she reached the ball the runner was turning first and heading full speed for second – and Alannah picked that ball up with her bare hand and threw it on a rope to the second baseman Danielle – hitting her glove perfect as the base runner ran into her glove for an out.

It was great.

Our Turtle Club team lost that match 9-10. But it didn’t matter.

There are signs that both are on the verge of their coordination “kicking in”.

Dad would be so excited.

And now, just starting right now, we can start to carry that equipment bag in the car, and stop and hit ground balls and take batting practice and work on all of these techniques my Dad taught me.

At least that’s what I hope will happen. Like I said earlier, I’m not as good a Dad as my Dad was. And it’s harder with our schedules now to find the time to just have fun anymore.

I can’t find any time to play golf – but maybe baseball will be different.

That all being said – my Dad could be a tough coach – insisting that you try – and repeating the same things over and over again each time he slammed a ground ball …

“Get up on balls of your feet and off your heels”

“Keep your head down on the ball … it won’t hurt you”

“Charge that ball harder and keep that glove down”

And sometimes my brother Paul and I would get plain frustrated – and we would say mean things to him. And sometimes we quit.

But Dad always inspired us to get back out there and try even harder.

I don’t know how all that repetition and frustration will play out with Alannah and Ashley-Rae – but we will see. They’re good girls and they really do love softball and want to learn more … but they both get frustrated very easily. And they cry … girls cry. I don’t remember me and Paul crying playing ball. Maybe we did.

But Dad was patient. More patient than I think I am.

I’m not as good a Dad as my Dad was, you see.

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.

Al Is Always Right

In an average sized town lived an average man named Al.


Al worked for an average sized company doing average work as a web designer.

All the changes made to the average sized company’s web site was done by Al.

If someone in sales wanted prices changed – they sent the information to Al and Al did it.

If someone in product development wanted a new product posted, they sent the information to Al and Al got it done.

Al also took care of the little page that was only shown inside the company. This page would show job postings in the company, new policies for employees to follow, news from the president and such.

Al worked with the other programmers in the company in a tiny room in the basement of the building of the company. They wrote programs that allowed the company to process sales, manage inventory and managed the company’s payroll and accounting systems.

When programmers put something new in, they were praised for how great the systems worked.

When something in their systems went wrong, the programmers were praised for fixing the problems so work could continue.

But Al’s websites were very simple – with static text he simply added to the page and pictures he simply placed where he was told by the marketing department. Nothing was posted on the website unless the marketing department approved it.

The programmers didn’t respect the work that Al did.

When the website looked great, the Marketing department took all the credit. But when something didn’t look right, Al got blamed.

The marketers didn’t really respect Al’s opinion.

Al had no real friends in the company. He simply showed up each morning, did what he was told, and went home at night to his tiny little apartment and his fat cat Larry, who never really paid any attention to Al – except to demand food for his bowl and that his litter be cleaned.

Nobody said hi to Al in the morning when he came to work.

Nobody said goodnight to Al when he left in the evening.

Al was very lonely. And Al had pretty much accepted the state of his life to be his lot. It was just the way it was

At lunchtime, Al would simply eat a baloney sandwich he packed in lunch bag and drank a bottle of generic soda. He would sit at his desk while eating his sandwich and read his favorite web site that talked about web design – all the tools that were out there to automate sites to do amazing things like stream video and handle sales online.

Every once in a while Al would see something that he thought the company would be interested in to make the average sized company’s web site more useful. And Al would approach the Manager of Marketing to tell her about his idea, but Al was always told no.

One spring day, the little company was busy developing a brand new product that they were all very excited about. The girls in marketing were very busy setting up the copy for advertising the new product, and in the course of this exercise, they decided a change to their logo was needed to convey how modern the average sized company was so that their logo could better represent this exciting new product.

They sent Al the new logo artwork to post on the little web page shown only inside the company. Al did so, and the whole company would then look at the logo, and send their opinions back to the Marketing department.

Al didn’t really like the new logo very much. It was loud. It was gaudy. But the President of the company really liked the logo. He would mention the new logo to those he bumped into in the hallway or in the lunch room or in the parking lot, saying “our new logo, looks great, don’t you think?”

Nobody wanted to tell the boss they didn’t like the new logo, so everyone pretty much agreed. The opinions sent back to marketing all said the new logo looked great – ensuring they attached their name to the opinion, in case the President were to see their comments.

One day in the hallway, Al overheard the President asking the Manager of Human Resources “our new logo, looks great, don’t you think?”.

“Oh, I just love it. It will make us look so … cutting edge!”, said the Human Resources Manager – smiling at the President.

“It’s too gaudy”, said Al as he passed by.

But the President took no notice although he heard Al’s comment.

When Al returned to his desk, he opened up the logo image in his image editor. The back ground of the logo was a very dark blue. Al set the color of his text tool to be one slight hue of blue lighter, and typed into the image

“This image is too gaudy”.

He looked at the image on his monitor to make sure he couldn’t see the text he wrote.

Later that afternoon, he received a new version of the logo from one of the girls in the Marketing department.

“I thought everyone loved the logo?” Al said to the young stuck up girl from marketing.

The girl explained that the president came down to the marketing department and said

“This image is to gaudy”.

Al smiled and looked the new logo. It was subtler and much better. Even Al liked this image. So while the girl from Marketing sat beside him, he replaced the gaudy image with the new one.

Al went home that night, thinking about what had transpired. Did the President change his mind because of his comment in the hallway? Or did he change of his mind because of Al’s hidden text in the logo?

The next day, Al passed the President in the hallway on his way to his desk.

“I really like the new logo”, said Al.

“Ughhh .. g’morning”, said the President.

Al sat down at his desk and looked at that new logo. He opened it up in the image editor and wrote in the same blue background setting his text to the same color of blue he used before, and he typed

“Al is a great guy!”

Around eleven o’clock, Al made his way through the hallway to the washroom. Along the way, one of the managers in Research and Design smiled at Al in an enthusiastic voice,

“Hey Al! How’s it going?”

Al looked at the fellow, his name he couldn’t even remember, and said “uh… good”.

On his way back to his desk he passed one of the ladies in Accounting, who looked at Al, and she smiled.

Nobody ever before even acknowledged Al existed before.

At lunch time, one of the programmers stopped by Al’s desk and asked

“What’re you doing for lunch Al?”

Al looked up at the smiling programmer – not knowing what to say – and replied

“I have to work through lunch today, thanks”, and he turned back to looking at his monitor.

Later that day, Al was taking some copy text back to the Marketing department. When he walked into the room, all the girls turned to see Al standing there and greeted him with

“Hi Al!”

Al’s face went red and he looked down at the ground and smiled.

On his way out of the building he passed the President in the hallway. Al looked at the President who said to Al

“Hi Al! Are you heading home? I’ll walk out with you …”

And as they headed to the averaged sized parking lot, the President told Al that he was interested to hear what could be done to make the averaged sized company’s web site do more to help launch the exciting new product.

“… you think about it tonight Al, and come see me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, ok?”

“Sure”, replied Al, and he smiled at the President.

“You fish, Al?”

“No, sir”

“Too bad”, said the President. “Too bad indeed”.

Al met with the president the next morning at ten o’clock. He drew a picture on the whiteboard of what Al’s vision of the web site could be – showing areas where video of the exciting new product in use could be shown, and where the people could request more information about the exciting new product and how people could purchase the exciting new product online.

And the President was impressed.

“I never really realized what a great guy you are Al”, said the President as they ended their meeting.

And over the course of the next few weeks – Al was put in charge of putting his ideas into place. He worked with the marketing department to design the videos that would demonstrate how the exciting new product worked.

The Marketing department could put nothing on the website without Al’s approval.

And the girls in Marketing respected Al and his opinion.

And over the course of the next few months – Al led the development project to create means to allow people to purchase the exciting new products from the web site.

And the programmers respected Al for the work he was doing.

That was ten years ago.

The averaged sized company is now a large corporation.

And the exciting new product was a huge success.

And most of those sales of the exciting new product are made from Al’s huge website.

Al always had great ideas. But nobody ever took the time to listen.

As time went on, you see, Al actually did become a great guy.

In fact, Al even took up fishing. And golf.

Al is now the Vice President of Corporate Media relations.

And Al married one of those stuck up girls in the Marketing department. And they live a very happy and socially active life in a nice neighborhood.

And the large corporation’s logo now has the words hidden in a slightly lighter shade of blue on the slightly darker blue background

“Al is always right”

Getting Under My Skin

I got a little rash on my ankle.

Okay, both ankles, and it's not really all that little.

I have had it for some time, but as summer grew closer and closer, I started getting nervous about what these ankles would look like with a pair flip flops on.

That and it itches like hell.

So I went to see the Good Doctor to get a referral to a dermatologist.

A month later, the Good Dermatologist gave me an appointment. Yet another month after that I found myself sitting in the Good Dermatologist's office waiting room.

I filled out the forms you must fill out on your first visit. I put down my name and address and checked the NO box beside each terrible disease they were curious about.

Then I sat. I sat and I sat and I sat. The room full of patients dwindled to a few in the matter of an hour.

On the wall read a sign:

OFFICE POLICY

You will be billed a $50.00 charge for not giving 24 hours notice before cancelling an appointment – or for simply not showing up for your appointment.

Office Policy.

Right.

On the other wall , another sign was posted.

OFFICE POLICY

If you are in a grouchy or irritable mood, we will charge you a $10.00 fee just for putting up with you.

I think it was supposed to be a joke. But the first sign dispelled the humor in the second sign.

"Be nice, be nice, be nice be nice…", I repeated to myself. My patience eroded after the first hour had passed.

I walked over to the magazine rack on picked a periodical from last summer – and an article about how historians portray the historic aspects of his life. It was very interesting discussing how the historians have so much trouble finding other credible historic references to the life of Jesus of Nazareth other than the New Testament.

The article went on to discuss the observations of one historian actually found Jesus' name on a tax roll, from a village he was in that was not a part of the stories of his life recorded in The Holy Bible. It really became interesting as he was being interviewed in by another historian who claimed the Bible was indeed the only reference needed to document this mans life and pointed to other historic figures that had been credibly certified to have lived based on the writings in other books and so to close his point he ….

"Mr Brill?", said a nice feminine voice – awaking me from my thought and contemplation.

Finally a nice nurse lady came and apologized for my wait.

As I tried to clear my thoughts to remember why I was there, it became clear to me that my right leg had fallen asleep. I limped on the tingly extremety – dragging it across the floor until it finally came back to life again.

The nice nurse lady led me into an examination room, told me the Good Dermatologist would see me shortly, and closed the door behind her.

And in this room I sat and sat and sat. And I sat some more.

I left the magazine out in the waiting room.

My patience was clearly at its bottom line on the gauge.

Finally, the door opened and in came the Good Dermatologist.

He was a shorter sized man, squatty but athletically built. He was wearing a golf shirt most likely bought in a pro shop earlier that morning. His forearms were strong and very tan, but his left hand was pasty white –

most likely because of the golf glove he was wearing.

"Mr. Brill?", he smiled and stuck out his hand.

"Nice to meet you", I said through a forced smile.

The pleasantries dispensed, I took off my shoes and socks to show him my wretched ankles. He looked at them.

"That's nothing but a little eczema", he said, and he spun around to write on a prescription pad.

"I assume you have a drug plan", he asked. Somehow he knew I worked for a health benefits company in town. I didn't tell him.

"Yes, yes I do…", I answered but was interrupted.

The good doctor then started complaining about my employer and all the forms we make him fill out to get new topical crèmes accepted as benefits, and it was turning into a rant on his part.

"Excuse me …" I tried to interrupt – but he just kept on going …

"Excuse me!", I said a little louder, my complete absence of patience now apparent in my voice.

"Our policies are in place to ensure that only proven and tested procedures are used in the treatment of our plan members", I said, taking the simple script for an eczema curing cream from the Good Dermatologists hands.

And he started in again….

"I must let you know that I have a policy!", I stopped him again. "My policy – much like those you posted in your waiting room, is that I will send you a bill for $25.00 for making me sit here and listen to you bitch about my employer."

He smiled at my joke.

But I wasn't really joking.

As he sat there smiling, I simply looked into his eyes and I raised my eyebrows high.

"Uh … oh … well, you use this crème three times a day, and remember to wrap it up …"

And I thanked the Good Dermatologist and left his office.

I have been using the crème for the last two weeks now. And its working a little bit.

But I still have the rash.

And it still itches like hell.

And I never did collect my twenty-five dollars.

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")

Remembering Yer Man’s on St. Patrick’s Day

I think it is true that on St. Patrick's Day, everyone is a little Irish.

To some it's a day to wear green and to adorn yourself with shamrocks.

To others it's a day of parades and saying things like "Top o' the morning".

But to most of us, it's a day to enjoy a pint of beer or a sip of whiskey with good friends – gathering in a place to laugh and have a good crack – perhaps singing the old Irish songs.

To me it's all of these things – but more so a time to remember fantastic friendships from the past – and miss some fantastic friends of the present.

It wasn't until living in London, Ontario that I truly partook in St. Patrick's Day festivities.

At the time – in the late 1980's and early '90's – I found my circle of friends to be of various descents from the British Isles. From London and Wales, Glasgow, Dublin, and Belfast.

All great friends. Never an ugly word between them.

One of this circle opened an Irish Pub in town. It was called "Yer Man's" – and as Irish a pub in Canada you would find. It was there I learned to drink – and even pour – a proper pint Guinness. A meticulous endeavor requiring patience and a steady hand. Complete with a shamrock drawn in the frothy head.

And it was there that I learned that I actually preferred Harp – a lighter lager – to Guinness. I still have a pint whenever I come across a place that serves it – regardless of the reason.

My fantasy is to one day to always have a keg of Harp in stock and on tap behind my own little bar. Perhaps if my book is successful … some day.

The pub was a grand place indeed – run by Jimmy King. All of our friends gathered there. And the nights were full of telling jokes (or having a crack) – playing darts and playing pool.

We would gather there every night after work – and every weekend after a round of golf. Jimmy and his staff made us feel like the place was ours. It was the place where as you walked in the door, a pint of your favorite was already drawn for you and sitting on the bar – waiting for you. And the whole room would say "Hey Fred!" as you walked in.

I don't even get that at home.

Some of the best nights of my life were spent at Yer Man's – sipping a pint and cracking jokes with my mates. Yes, I said "mates" – because at Yer Man's – you felt Irish.

There was Kevin Powers – a Welshman who owned Power Printing – about the nicest guy you could ever meet – and funnier than anything one you will see on television.

And Hughie Edwards – a pipefitter from London, England - nearing retirement at the time – who took me aside when my Father passed away and told me "If you ever need a Da to talk to boy, come see me …".

The kindest words ever said to me through that trying time.

And Bobby Hill – another English Londoner who owned a tool and die shop in town – as good a guy as you'll meet – with a stutter that we all impersonated to give him a hard time.

We would golf most weekend mornings, riding to the course in Bob's van – and once the round was over – off to Yer Man's we would go – to spend the afternoon – which often turned into evenings.

On St. Patrick's Day each year – Yer Man's would pack to the brim. An Irish band would come in and play the standards – and each of us always had a space reserved for us at the bar. The whole place would be signing – the pints would be sloshing, and the jokes would be cracking wise.

I really loved that place. And Annie King was like an Aunt to me. Jimmy like a cousin.

One day a very pretty girl came in to apply for a job behind the bar. Patsy was probably the most beautiful girl I ever saw. In the end, Patsy and Jimmy married – but in the path leading up to that event, I did not know this, and I did my feeble best to win her affection.

When I did find out about the two of them, I felt like a real idiot.

I was really embarrassed.

I stopped going to Yer Man's – which was a mistake on my part. No one there thought any the less of me.

But when I feel embarrassed – my rationale goes out the window.

As the days turned into years – I stopped going to Yer Man's. But years later, I heard they had moved to a new location.

I stopped by one night – after work – thinking it would be just like the old days.

But the new location was much darker.

And the new crowd was full of unfamiliar faces.

There was no Kevin or Bobby or Hewy. I didn't know anybody.

But Patsy was there – running the place by herself that night. And when I came in – only one voice this time said "Hey Fred!" – and it was Patsy.

She introduced me to the new bunch of regulars as a "very important patron of the past". And she made me feel special on that visit.

She drew me a pint of Harp without my even asking. And she gave it to me on the house. And I sat on the end of the bar while Patsy filled me in on all that had happened with she and Jimmy since I last saw them.

I tried to talk to some of the new regulars – but I couldn't seem to spark much interest in conversation. I got up and played a game of pool by myself – expecting someone to drop a quarter on the table to challenge me – but no takers presented themselves.

So I sat and drank another pint of Harp, and thought to myself about how true it is that while time may heal many wounds – time also stands still for no one.

Or no place.

Not even Yer Man's.

I miss Yer Man's and the days of old with all my mates. And I wonder how they are. Are they even still alive.

Ashamed in myself for not even keeping touch after nearly twenty years have elapsed since seeing them last.

And fifteen years since my last visit to Yer Man's that one night.

It hits me hardest every St. Patrick's Day, how much I loved that old place – and that old gang of friends.

It's hard to explain sometimes.

But Yer Man's was one of the most important places in my journey through life.

I hope this St. Patrick's Day – that you are enjoying the people in your life.

Sláinte!

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.

Turtle Club Baseball Is Back

Baseball started today.

The Turtle Club in LaSalle, Ontario started their winter clinics.

The Turtle Club has a great little setup in a gymnasium down the street from the famed Essex Golf and Country Club. There are five little workstations for throwing, ground ball and pop fly practice, and two batting stations.

Each of the thirty little girls in our session was eager to be there.

Faces smiling.

Trying hard.

And no one complaining to go home.

Baseballs bouncing on a gymnasium floor. Coaches standing with the kids helping them get their fingers right on the ball, stepping through to get leverage on the ball. Elbows raised and hands positioned on the handle of the bat to strike the waffle ball on the tee with force.

Balls bouncing off of heads in the pop fly station.

Balls being whipped at coaches in ground ball station.

It's wonderful.

In an icy cold January like this one, I need any hint of summer that I can get.

Sure, there is no smell of fresh cut diamond grass, or no red clay, or the chalk of the baselines yet.

Not yet.

But there is baseball, and baseball is alive in the hearts of my girls.

Alannah and Ashley-Rae did well. I was happy with how hard they were trying – and in how fgood they were doing. They were paying attention – not spinning around while waiting their turn – doing dance moves and chatting and giggling with their friends.

They cared.

That's all I can possibly ask.

You can't make a kid like baseball. They either like it or they don't.

And at least for this first practice, they liked baseball.

I know some of you may wonder why this means so much to me. But it does.

The Turtle Club is a fantastic organization, their facilities are just around the corner from our house, and most times when we go someplace, we drive right by it. And when we do we look down the laneway as we pass and we all remember how pretty it is there in the spring and summer – the green white and yellow colors of the parks and clubhouse – the old fashioned white scoreboards with numbers hung by hand in the squares.

The history there is grand. National titles and trips to the Little League World Series by Turtle Club teams.

It means something.

I want my daughters to grow up being a part of the Turtle Club. To have the experience with them of being a part of such an organization while they grow up. To contribute to such an organization – to care about something and give back to it.

To learn sportsmanship and team work.

And maybe even learn some leadership skills – if the opportunities present themselves.

Opportunities always present themselves.

Last year I took a stab at becoming a Turtle Club coach. But they didn't seem to think my application and references were up to their standards. And that was ok. So I helped out where I could.

But this isn't about me. I'm happy to assist however they ask me to.

So here we sit on the last day of January – the first day of Turtle Club baseball. And I am so delighted that it started on such a fantastic note.

Most other little kids in Canada right now are wrapped up in hockey or ringette right now. Both are fantastic sports in their own rite. Both teach the exact same things – but in different ways.

But to me there is something special about baseball, and what it can offer a little kid. And what a little kid can learn from learning such a diverse set of skills.

So for this moment I am savoring how positive 2010 baseball started out this morning.

And I think the best is yet to come.

Suddenly January doesn't feel so cold anymore.

Suddenly spring doesn't feel so far away.

The Turtle Club is playing baseball again.

Even if it is inside a gymnasium.

Keys To Success

Times they are a changing.

Although I confess – I thought they changed a long time ago.

I stepped into the little kitchenette in my department this morning to grab a cup of office coffee.

No time to stop at Tim Horton's to grab my usual extra large double-double – office coffee would have to do.

A poster hung on the kitchen cupboard – above the microwave oven – the most prized advertising spot in the entire department.

You could announce anything and get a huge response by hanging your poster in this location – literally trapping every poor soul in the department to have to stand there and read it while the microwave slowly heats last night's left over supper comprised of stuff you didn't eat last night.

The poster was for a women's economic conference – to allow women to share insights as to how to be more successful.

"I want to be more successful too", I thought to myself as I read this poster.

At the bottom of the poster – disguised in a feminine fancy script so as not to be easily visible to the male eye – was written the single qualifying condition …

Exclusively for women!

"Hey …"

That can't be? We are now supposed to be equals, aren't we? Ever since Billy Jean King beat the snot out of that nerdy cross-dressing Bobby Riggs in the Battle of the Sexes tennis match back in the 70's? Ever since Margret Thatcher became Prime Minister of England, and Geraldine Feraldo ran for Vice President of the United States? Ever since Hillary Rodham Clinton ran for President only to get beaten by the first black man ever to run for office (bad timing or what?).

Ever since women's World Cup soccer?

Ever since Yoko Ono? And let's not forget Sarah Palin!

We were supposed to have transcended both race and gender prejudices by now. Right? The twenty first century and all that it brings?

That's why we now have metro-sexual men. Right?

I looked all over the cabinets in that tiny little kitchen for a second poster – the one for men – the one that held the date and time for the big Men's Only How To Be Successful seminar.

I couldn't find one.

I still had time waiting for the coffee to brew, and I stood there looking at the poster for women only to read. I hoped nobody would catch me – there might be a hint as to how to be successful in that poster somewhere.

Nope, I guess you have to go to the conference.

Then I started imagining what would happen if I showed up – with the twenty five dollar entrance fee – and tried to get in. Would they usher me out? Would they deny me access – access to these great keys of success that I am certain were to be delivered just the other side of that conference room door?

Would the cops come, and usher me away – take me down town? Call my wife?

I would likely have to dress in drag – a pant's suit – with reasonable shoes – something that would sing 'successful business woman'. And I could use my daughter's Hannah Montana blond Halloween wig.

But then I remembered I have a mustache and a beard now. I grow a beard most every November – and the mustache hides the scar on my upper lip – so I'm not shaving that off!

So much for going in drag.

What would they talk about?

It must be pretty juicy stuff if men aren't allowed in to hear it! I'll bet they are going to talk about how to get around the old-boy-business-networking that my dad and my dad's dad and his dad too worked so hard to set up for the last couple of millenniums. They will probably advise each other to start playing golf – and how to gain the edge in meetings by showing more cleavage – thus leaving the men in the department to babble and state wrong information – only to jump in with the right answers. They will talk about networking – and workshops – and sharing their feelings. All the while balancing teacups on their knees and munching delicately on little finger foods – and chocolates.

It's just not fair?

Then – only because our office coffee maker is nearly as slow as the elevator in our three story head office building – I started thinking about another angle. If there is no seminar for men only … then I should host one.

I could host the event in my garage. I could set my laptop on my workbench – and borrow one of those LCD projectors to shine a power point presentation up on the other wall – between the rakes, the hose wheel and the stack of old apartment size air conditioners we have moved several times but will likely never use again.

"Welcome to the Men's Only Workshop On How To Succeed More than Women" I will say, and I will show images of important women and motivate these men in my garage to believe these women are the enemy.

I will warn the men that now it is more important than ever to not be accused of sexual harassment in the workplace – because that will only play right into their hands! No dirty jokes – no off color humor. And I would suggest that from now on we refer to every female colleague as Miss.

"Why Miss Samantha – that is a very professional looking blouse you are wearing – but could you please button up the top two buttons – you are distracting me", I would say for an example.

And we would the share our feelings. "How did you feel about the Lions play last Sunday?" or "Didn't you think A-Rod had a great post season?".

After that, we would break, and retire down to my family room – where my family is not allowed – and we would play pool and shoot darts over a couple of beers – and see who could make the loudest noise come out of their body parts.

You have to play hardball these days. You can't just sit around doing a good job and think someone will notice and move you ahead in life. These women aren't sitting around. And apparently some of them in my office are looking to beat me out of the next promotion!

But imagine – if I followed through with this brilliant counter-strike of a plan – and I made up a poster to hang on the kitchen cupboard right next to the microwave – imagine the horrific complaints of a male only event being held that women could not attend – to help us men gain an advantage on those power-wielding ladies of the corporate world of today.

They would have me in front of the Manager of Human Resources explaining myself. And I would have to take some kind of a gender-sensitivity training course – probably on Sunday afternoons.

That's no good.

And it's not fair.

Finally the coffee maker had completed its task – and I poured myself a fresh cup mixed it with extra cream and sugar – when Madeline walked around the corner.

I mean Miss Madeline.

"How's the coffee, I just made it a few minutes ago?" asked Miss Madeline , with all the buttons on her blouse done up all the way.

"Pretty good!" I replied. I wasn't lying. It was actually a good cup of office coffee.

And I realized, I got it pretty good the way things are, and if I hung that poster I was dreaming up, I might not get coffee like that at the office ever again.