Jack and Me

In my opinion, the fortunate people in this world are those who, a) have a hero, and b) have had the chance to meet them.

Consider me very fortunate.

I grew up in Ohio and at a very young age got addicted to golf. My first round was when I was ten years old, and my last round was, uh, two days ago. In between have been thousands of rounds, hundreds of golf books read, scores of golf vacations, three holes in ones, and one hero.

Jack Nicklaus.

When I was growing up, Jack was the king of the golf world, and he still holds the record for most major championships won – 18. Tiger was making a nice run at that record until he backed into a fire hydrant in 2009 and got a bit sidetracked. He may yet break Jack’s record, but as of right now, it’s Jack 18, Tiger 14. And should Tiger one day pass Jack’s record, sorry Eldrick, but Jack will still be the man, at least to me.

I have had three separate occasions to actually meet and converse with Jack, and not surprisingly, two of them were on the golf course -

1983 Ryder Cup, PGA National Golf Club, Palm Beach Gardens, FL – This was a watershed Ryder Cup; as the U.S. squad barely hung on to defeat the upstart European team, 14.5 points to 13.5 points. The outcome was not settled until Lanny Wadkins hit a pitching wedge to three feet from the hole on the eighteenth hole in his match. That shot halved the match and gave the Cup to the U.S. Jack was the captain of the U.S. team.

I was in the gallery along the eighteenth fairway when Lanny hit his shot. There was jubilation in the gallery as we knew his shot clinched the Cup. I then looked out in the fairway, and there was Jack in his Captain-mode, walkie-talkie in hand, shaking hands with well wishers offering their congratulations. The gallery ropes were down, so I took advantage of the opportunity and ran out to congratulate Jack. This was our exchange –

Me: “Jack, we sure could have used you out there today.”

Jack, in his too-high squeaky voice – “Oh I don’t know about that. I don’t think my nerves could have handled it.”

Me: “Yeah RIGHT!”

Jack: “Ha!”

Three years later those nerves were good enough for him to win his sixth Masters. 

1994 World Golf Championship, Doral Country Club, Miami – Greg Norman won this tournament in a runaway, but at one point in the third round, Jack was tied for the lead. I was, of course, in his gallery. Jack got to the tenth hole, a dogleg-left par 5 around a lake. The long hitters would try to cut the corner, but Jack was too tactical (and also 54 years old) to try that. I was standing right behind him and his caddy as they discussed the shot.

Jack, to his Caddy: “How far to the bunker on the right?”

Caddy: “258.”

Jack: Two fifty eight? You sure?”

Caddy, double-checking his notes: “Yep. 258.”

Jack: “Gimme the one-iron.”

Jack then proceeded to hit his one-iron directly at that bunker, purposely away from the water. The ball landed about ten yards short of the bunker, took a hop forward towards it, and then stopped on a dime, two yards short of it. Jack gave the club back to his caddy, and walked over to where I was standing.

Me: “One-iron, Jack?”

Jack: “Yeah, one-iron.”

Me: “Can’t hit it 258 anymore?”

He turned around and shot me a look, as if to say ‘I’d like to see you try, asshole,’ but then smiled at me. I just said “You’re the man, Jack.”

The final time I talked to him was by far the most rewarding. My good friend Chuck got me an invitation to the Boy Scouts annual banquet at the PGA National Resort (same location as the 1983 Ryder Cup). It was a suit-and-tie affair. I showed up, found Chuck, and said okay where is he? Chuck pointed over to Jack, and I shot over to just be near him. I asked someone if he could ask Jack if it would be okay to have a picture of the two of us. The man walked over to Jack, Jack looked at me and said, sure, c’mon over!

I turned into a star-struck goober.

As I walked up to him, all I could say was, “I named my son after you!”

Jack: “You named him Jack?”

Me: “No, Nicklaus!” (His name is actually Nicholas, but pronounced the same)

Jack: “How old is he?”

Me: “He’s 13 years old Mister Nicklaus sir…he’s in seventh grade and on the honor roll.”

Jack patted me on the back, said “Good job,” and shook my hand.

And that’s when the picture on this story was taken.

Jack’s the man. Always was, always will be.

Ooh My Head

That’s the title of a Ritchie Valens song from the late 1950s, later stolen by Led Zeppelin to create Boogie With Stu. Look it up. Wait, I’ll do it for you –

But I’m not going to discuss music or specifically Zep’s unsavory habit of ripping off other band’s music and calling it their own.

Instead, I am talking about MY head. Last Wednesday I shot my lowest round of golf in five years. A very satisfying 71 at Casselberry Golf Club, with My Man Mike. Satisfying in the sense of shooting a low number, but also unsatisfying in that my damn head got in the way of it being a much lower score. Allow me to recap, and you will see why –

I hit a nice drive on the first hole and proceeded to make a solid par. On two, I half-skulled a gap wedge to 6 feet and made birdie. Number three was a solid two-putt par. We jumped ahead to #6 to bypass a slow foursome and I hit a sand wedge to 3 feet and made the putt for another birdie. On 7 I made a real good sand save for par. On 8, a tough par-3, I hit a 5 iron to 15 feet, two putt par. On 9 I hit a 6 iron to 5 feet and made the putt for birdie.

Enter the first chink in the mental armor – I said to Mike “Holy shit I’m three under.” Mike’s response is what he always says to me – “Don’t think about it. Keep swinging.”

On 10 I made a lucky par. Eleven is arguably the toughest hole on the course, and I made a bogey. I parred 12 and 13. Standing on the 14^th tee I’m 2 under and I know it.

And that’s exactly the wrong place for your head to be – knowing what you’re shooting. The impulse is to try to protect/defend instead of, as Mike said, to keep swinging.

I pulled my drive on 14, but was okay. I tried to hit a hard 9 iron into the wind to a front pin with a bunker in front. Bad strategy. There was 40 feet of green behind that pin, but I hit the club that brought the bunker into play. Splat – into the bunker. Left with a very simple, clean uphill lie in the bunker and about a 50-foot shot, my last thought was “Don’t blade it over the green.”

Well I didn’t. I hit it 3 feet and left it in the bunker.

Now I’m pissed. Stepping up to the next shot I did exactly what I told myself not to do on the previous shot. I bladed it over the green, damn near decapitating Mike in the process. I pitched on and made a 10-footer for double bogey.

Even par.

On to 15. The toughest hole on the course – a 220-yard par 3. On the drive from 14 to 15 I am kicking myself – ‘Nice job Nimrod. You just doubled an easy hole and now you gotta play the toughest hole on the course’. I tried to jump on my 3-hybrid and hit a skank pull-hook that rattled in the huge magnolia tree and came to rest inside a drain culvert. After taking a drop, I hit on the green and two putts later, I registered back-to-back double bogeys.

Two over. When fifteen minutes earlier I was two under.

Ooh my head.

Sometimes I really hate this fucking game.

But it’s not the game! It’s how I play the game that’s the issue. I made three good pars on 16, 17 and 18, and I said to Mike, we gotta go back and play 4 & 5 because I want to post this score, and we had skipped them earlier.

So back to #4 we go, a solid 380-yard par 4 with water in front. The play is to hit the drive as far as you can to set up a short iron over that water. Knowing that, I heel a piece of crap drive about 210 yards off the tee. Now instead of a 9 iron approach I have 170 yards to a back pin into the wind with a pond in front, and I am trying like hell to get two over into the clubhouse.

It was at this point sanity re-entered the cesspool of my brain. I took out a 7-wood, my 180-yard club, and made my best swing of the day, placing the ball about 25 feet from the hole. Two putts later and I can finally breathe a sigh of relief because the fifth hole is just a 120-yard par 3 with no real hazards.

On the fifth tee I said to Mike “I need an ace to break 70.” He just laughed. Because he knows me. I hit it 12 feet from the hole and before I hit the putt I said “If I make this it’s 4 under on the front nine.” I didn’t, but a tap-in par gave me the 71.

Golf is essentially played between the ears. Yes, there is a lot of mechanics involved in executing a proper swing, but ultimately it is about using your brain to a point, then shutting it off – you have to use it to calculate yardage, wind direction, the lie, where you want to hit it and so on. Then you have to shut it off when it’s time to hit the ball. Trust what you got…and just swing.

And for Christ’s sake, do not think about what your score is.

My head hurts.

An Intimate Group

I just returned from a trip. It was a trip that can be categorized in a number of fashions – it was a pleasure trip consisting of a lot of golf with some old friends of mine. That is probably the most general way to describe it but certainly not the only way. These are guys I have known, some for over 15 years. Others I had never met before. Some I am very close with. Others, honestly, I probably would not spend a lot of time with.

We are a group that, if not for a shared disease, would not normally mix.

The disease is one that, if not arrested on a daily basis, will kill us. And the way we arrest it is to take action. And one of those actions is what we did for the past five days in Charleston, South Carolina –insisting that we absolutely enjoy life. That may sound odd since I am being purposely vague about our shared malady, so just trust me on this. This is something we had to do.

And we, or speaking for myself, had an awesome time. I played six round of golf in five days. I have the blisters, sunburn and the inability to raise my left arm as proof. I also have the glow of a shared experience. We don’t drink alcohol, which seems to raise eyebrows in others. But one of the ways we don’t drink is to mix with each other. We stay close.

Unfortunately for me, I moved away from Akron 11 years ago (where these guys are from), so the opportunities to stay close to them are limited to these trips. So for me, this was an essential journey.

So we laughed, we ribbed each other, we bet a little, we golfed, we had dinners together, and we shared. Twice we held meetings back at the hotel. In these meetings we each talked about, well, whatever was on our minds. During one of these meetings, John H. Jr. had an illuminating comment. We usually preface our comments with our name & acknowledgement of our malady. Instead John said ‘Do we really need to state our names? We are a pretty intimate group’.

An intimate group.

Indeed we are.

These trips are bittersweet for me. I dearly enjoyed our time together, but I also know that time together is limited, that in a few days I would head south to Orlando while they all headed north to Akron. Sometimes that reality got to me. It did during one of these meetings, as I spontaneously started welling up and crying. It also happened as I said my goodbyes to them when I left to go back to Orlando. I shook each one’s hand, gave each a hug. And then the last one was John. Not the John that said the ‘intimate group’ comment, but John H – my Scarecrow. My closest, dearest friend in recovery. I hugged him…and I couldn’t let go. I told him I loved him. He said he loved me. And I kept hugging him.

Obviously, I had to let go, because John had more golf to play and it is kind of difficult to play golf with someone attached to your chest. I got into my car and started the 400-mile drive back home. Before I even got on the highway I was crying.

I don’t know how much they miss me, and that really doesn’t matter. That’s for them to answer. But I can tell you I miss these guys. A lot. I have similar friends here in Orlando, but it is just not the same. These were the guys that saved my ass time and time again. We are an intimate group, because, despite our apparent differences, we are cut of the same cloth. Nobody knows us like we know each other. It’s not on a physical plane. Not even an emotional one. It is much deeper than that. I cannot explain it, and do not really want to try to. It doesn’t need analysis. It just is.

And I can tell you this –

My calendar is already circled for a trip to Charleston in March 2013.

What’s Your Zen?

The world is crazy. Daily grinds can, well, grind you down. We all need an escape, an oasis where we can shut out the madness and calm our minds. Something that is positive, calming, rejuvenating.

So jumping out of airplanes doesn’t count.

I’m not talking about what we do for a rush or for excitement, but rather, what we do to just get away without burning vacation days or spending a couple thou on a cruise. So you can’t say ‘I hop a plane to Bali.’ No you don’t. Hopefully you have a regular activity that’s easy to access. I have one.

I hit chip shots.

I know. I live life on the edge. What can I say.

But that’s my point. This doesn’t have to be some kind of elaborate or costly thing. It just has to be your personal little getaway place. Well, mine is Saturday and Sunday mornings for about an hour or so at Casselberry Golf Club’s practice green where I put on my earphones, throw the iTunes on shuffle, dump my bag of shag balls, and zone in. Two bags of shots, 100 balls each. First bag is usually nice high flop pitches and the second are low running shots.

The world stops. And that’s the key to this activity. I think of nothing other than soft hands through impact, back of right hand to target, and keep the blade square. There are no thoughts of what bills to pay or how I want to throttle the Finance Director at work. Just club on ball, trying to make those shots land softly and roll out to the little flag on the green.

And I sing whatever is playing in my ears. This morning, the playlist featured the following:

So Watcha Want, Beastie Boys

What I Really Want, Alanis Morrisette

Weapon Of Choice, Fatboy Slim

Stormy Monday, Allman Brothers

End Of The World Party, Medeski, Martin & Wood

All I Wanna Do, Sheryl Crowe

Everything Is Broken, Bob Dylan

Backwater, Meat Puppets

Caress Me Down, Sublime

And yes, at times I get looks from other players as I sing ‘Mucho gusto me llamo Bradley-ah…I’m hornier than Ron Jeremy-ah…’

Like I care. It’s my own little impenetrable bubble.

I believe this is the key to sanity. Like that line about ‘dance like nobody’s watching’…? That’s how I practice. It is just me out there.

I now do yoga, which ranks second on the list of zen activities, but I am still learning how to do that, so I’m not at the ‘just let it flow’ level, as I am still trying not to vomit during downward dog. But I’ll get there.

So for now it’s me and my balls.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

YoGolf

So it’s Christmas Day in Orlando. With no family in the area and no significant other to spend time with, I was faced with a dilemma – what do I do with myself all day?

This is what golf was made for.

I just got back from walking 11 holes at Winter Park Country Club, a delightful little track that is very walker-friendly. The course was technically closed and none of the pins were in, but that didn’t stop me – or the other two dozen or so players I saw out there.

Free golf! Merry Christmas to me.

Anyway. I hadn’t touched a club in about a month and hadn’t played in almost two months. This usually means a sloppy round where I swing too hard, and am too stiff to really play well. It would usually take 5 or 6 holes just to loosen up, let alone commanding my body to execute the shot my mind has envisioned.

Ah, but there has been something I’ve been doing for the past couple of months that I was curious in seeing if it would help my game. Yoga.

I have done about eight sessions of yoga, every Monday night, and I love it. Aside from the obvious benefits of stretching and gentle exercise, it has taught me some things I did not expect. Things like breathing. Don’t laugh. Many of us do not control our breathing very well, or underestimate the power contained in that seemingly automatic physical function. Slowing your breath down, feeling it, listening to it, can greatly affect your mental state.

Yoga also teaches you how to slow down, how to move gracefully, balance, discipline, and self-love. Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean self appreciation for finding time to take care of yourself.

So today was the first time I played golf as a practicing yogi and was anxious to see if there was an effect.

There was. Quite a profound one.

To begin with, that anticipated stiffness and swinging too hard? Didn’t happen. I felt quite loose actually and I didn’t seem to have that ‘kill the ball’ mentality that accompanies the first round in a month. On the first tee I hit a nice solid 3-wood down the left side about 225 yards – a shot I would have taken in the middle of the summer let alone for the first swing in a month.

I walked, which offered a great time to work on breathing. In and out through the nose, deep, full breaths. Leisurely steps. Just be. Enjoying the moment.

My golf swings felt very flowing. Sure, I hit a couple of meh shots, but they weren’t from trying to kill the ball, but instead they were just from, well being human. That’s another thing yoga has taught me – there is no right or wrong. Just do what you can and accept. No judging. I really needed this kind of attitude instilled, since I get way too critical of myself. Not in yoga – each week I stare in amazement of my beautiful instructor, Lee, as she is able to execute positions I can only dream about accomplishing, but never once have I felt pressure to emulate. Be happy with being me, and love myself for making time for me.

By the middle of the round I noticed something else. I had gained distance. On the last hole, a 260-yard slight dogleg left, I hit a perfect cut-driver that settled five yards short of the green – that’s a 255-yard CUT driver. That was Jerry from 30 years ago right there.

This is going to be a wonderful marriage of two activities. Golf and yoga. For golfers like me that are starting to age, and you are finding that the body just doesn’t respond like it did when you were 25, try yoga. I think you will be very satisfied with what it does for your game, your attitude, and your frame of mind.

Merry Christmas. Namaste.

Lobster Boy

I remember when I was a teenager and the carnival came to town…I was maybe 18 at the time. Me and my girlfriend went and rode the rides, ate the carnival food and generally had a good time. Then our eyes caught a sign on the side of a tent - SEE THE AMAZING LOBSTER BOY - HALF MAN HALF LOBSTER! ONLY ONE DOLLAR!

Well, our curiosity got the best of us. I plunked down two bucks and we went inside the tent. And there sat a pitiable creature - a middle aged man who was born with a deformity. Instead of having a full set of fingers and toes, his hands and feet consisted of fused-together fingers and toes that, well, resembled a lobster. Thus the promotion. This poor man that life kicked in the teeth gave his canned speech about how he was born that way, that he is married and has three healthy kids. We were transfixed for about 30 seconds and then we had to get the hell out of there. He was, literally, a circus sideshow freak.

John Daly is the PGA Tour’s version of Lobster Boy.

Not that he was born with a deformity or had a raw deal tossed at him by life. But rather, because of what he has become on the tour. Big John burst on the golfing scene in 1991 when, as the ninth alternate, drove all night from Arkansas to Indiana to tee it up in the PGA Championship. Never having seen the course before, he relied on his caddy to give him yardages, bombed his prodigious drives past all the trouble, and ended up winning by three shots. A folk hero was born. Four years later he repeated the feat at the British Open, defeating Costantino Rocca in a playoff at, of all places, St. Andrews. Four years on the tour and he had already secured two major championships. He was a freak - far longer off the tee than anyone on the tour but also with a velvety putting stroke and solid short game. He added three other wins on tour to validate the major wins. He had talent.

But John was also a train wreck - four marriages, wrecked hotel rooms, alcoholism, domestic scuffles, suspensions from the tour, compulsive gambling, inexplicable blow-ups on the course, disqualifications, a reality show on the Golf Channel, weight issues, chain-smoking, lap-band surgery, hideous pants, hitting balls off of beer cans, hitting shots over horrified spectator's heads. Ironically, this just more endeared him to his legion of fans that saw him as the anti-establishment rebel that just grips it and rips it, finds it and rips it again. He brought the ‘Bubba Element’ to tour galleries - fans that couldn’t give a rip about whether he won…let alone compete. They just wanted to see him take out driver on every tee and bomb it. And he did. He would then shoot 77-81 and miss the cut by a mile…if he didn’t walk off the course first after purposely violating some rule or by pumping five balls into a lake.

Which is exactly what he did last week at the Australian Open. Five consecutive shots into a lake, trying to reach a par-5 in two. At last count he was hitting twelve when he decided that he could not finish, and walked off the course. He said it was because he ran out of golf balls. Well no shit if you're going Tin Cup on the twelfth hole when you know you have six more holes to play. It was a lame excuse that reflect lame behavior.

When the PGA Tour holds an event, the field of players is filled through a number of methods: Certain players are exempt, in other words, they are automatically invited, via their recent performances. This would include winners of recent tour events, the defending champion, the top 50 on the money list and so on. Then there are the ones that have to play their way in - these are called Monday Qualifiers - players that show up on Monday morning with maybe 4 slots to play for. The last group is what are called Sponsor’s Exemptions. This is a small group of freebie invitations doled out at the discretion of the sponsor of the event - they are usually used for local phenoms, maybe the head club pro at the host course. Anyone who can increase the paid attendance thus boosting the gate.

It is these Sponsor’s Exemptions that Daly lives off of. Daly last won a tour event in 2004. Once in a blue moon his name appears on the leader board, only to quickly vanish when the obligatory blowup occurs. He is not exempt from anything anymore, as he is ranked 666th in the world.

But sponsors love him. He increases the gate. He brings the Bubbas in.

In 2007 I served as a volunteer at the Ginn Sur Mer Classic in Port St. Lucie, Florida. A fringe PGA Tour event held in October, after the Tour Championship and thus after the ‘serious’ golf is done for the year. My job at that event was as a Marshal at the 16th tee - to keep the crowds quiet while a player was teeing off, and so on. The galleries were small; even the leaders couldn’t draw more than perhaps a hundred spectators. Then Daly’s group arrived. Five times the size of anyone else’s gallery. Fortified with, ahem, beverages, they whooped it up for their man…even though their man was on his way to missing the cut.

So why is this so bad? What’s wrong with letting a sponsor toss Daly an exemption so people can get excited about him being in the field?

Well, nothing, other than integrity and professionalism. Every other golfer on the planet has to earn their way into events. Every other player has to perform to maintain their exempt status. Thousands of players that were once good have seen their skills erode to the point that they can no longer compete on the PGA Tour, thus you no longer see them there. Not John. He gets a pass on his behavior and on the state of his game. He is doled out sponsors exemptions when other far more deserving players are Monday Qualifying.

His role has been marginalized down to suiting just one element - the morbidly curious. A two-time major winner, whose only redeeming value left to golf is to slake the thirst of those that cheer wrecks in NASCAR.

He is Lobster Boy.

The Best Never To…

How would you like to play, or even follow, a dream foursome consisting of Lee Trevino, Sam Snead, Byron Nelson and Arnold Palmer? Four players that are legendary, all Hall of Famers. Would be totally awesome, to say the least.

What would you say if I told you that each has a glaring hole in their professional resume? Multiple Major winners, all, each capturing three of the four Majors. But they never won that fourth crown. And when you see this list of names, the mind boggles. Sam Snead never won a U.S. Open? Really?

Yup.

So here we go. This list of players that, due mostly to the cruel winds of fate, never got that fourth big trophy:

The Best Never To Win the Masters: Lee Trevino. Lee Buck had a ‘thing’ about the Masters. For a while he bemoaned their deep south, genteel manner that did not look kindly towards minorities. He then changed his tune to say his game did not fit Augusta National. Let me tell you something - in his day there was not any course that didn’t fit Lee’s game. Many consider him one of the greatest ball strikers in the game, on a par with Ben Hogan and Moe Norman. Lee simply could not get his head straight when it came to the Masters. Thus, not only did he never win it, he rarely contended. He'd shoot 74-77, missed the cut and got the hell out of there.

The Best Never To Win the U.S. Open: Sam Snead. This falls into the ‘you gotta be kidding me’ category. Sam was born a golfer. God graced him with the most natural swing ever seen. Double-jointed, he could kick his leg over his head into his seventies. Literally, a freak of nature. Ah, but as God is wont to do, He placed Sam in rural West Virginia without a ton of smarts. Don’t get me wrong - I am not saying Sam was a dummy, but his tendency was to just keep swinging that amazing swing of his without much regard for the situation. Case in point, the 1939 U.S. Open where he had a one-shot lead going into the final hole, a relatively easy par 5. Par to win, a 6 for a playoff. He made an 8.

The Best Never To Win the British Open: Byron Nelson. To be fair, in Byron’s day not many American pros bothered to travel to Great Britain to play in the British Open. Was too expensive and the prize money was too low - this was before the advent of jet travel, so it involved taking a steamer across the Atlantic and three weeks out of your schedule...to lose money. Most would rather stay on this side of the pond and hustle in cash games. To give you an idea of how hardscrabble it was back then, Byron won 18 tournaments in 1945, 11 in a row, and pocketed the paltry sum of $63,000 for the year. Which at the time was astronomical, but with today’s purses, Byron’s 1945 season would have netted him about $20 million. Lord Byron retired in 1946 at age 34 after he won enough money to fund his dream - a ranch in Texas.

The Best Never To Win the 
PGA Championship: (tie) Arnold Palmer, Tom Watson. Both of these are head-scratchers. Both had multiple chances to with the PGA but just got snake bit. Arnie being Arnie, he rarely played safe whether he was up 7 or down 7, and his legacy was one where he lost almost as many tournaments as he won. Well, count the PGA in that group. In Watson’s case, there was literally no reason for him not to win a PGA. He lost in a playoff to John Mahaffey in 1978, was tantalizing close many other times. It was simply a matter of the Golf Gods saying no Huck, you ain’t getting this trophy. Both Arnie & Tom made amends for this oversight by capturing the Senior PGA Championship.

And in the consolation category, I give you the Best Never to win any Major:

Colin Montgomerie. Sergio Garcia can be added to this list, but he still has time on his side. Monty’s days of serious contention are essentially over. Seven-time European Order of Merit (Leading money winner on the European Tour), Ryder Cup hero. Never won a Major. Only needed to make a par on the last hole from the middle of the fairway in 2006 to win the U.S. Open. Made double-bogey. In 1992 he was being congratulated by Jack Nicklaus for winning the U.S. Open when Tom Kite pitched in to steal it from him.

Gene Sarazen, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Ben Hogan, Tiger Woods. There is your elite of the elite group of players who have won all four Majors. Anyone else who has ever placed a ball on a tee has fallen short. Including that aforementioned group that came closer than anyone else.

I play alone…

…YEAHHH with nobody else…

I gave up drinking alone a while back so that activity has been mothballed, but for as long as I can remember I have enjoyed playing golf alone. I doubt George Thorogood would get inspired by such an activity. Whatever. Go have one bourbon, one scotch & one beer, George.

I just got off the course after a solo round, mainly because My Man Mike cancelled out of our weekly round. Damn job of his. Since I had already packed my change of clothes I decided to press on in his absence. So after work I went over to Winter Park Country Club, a delightful, walkable nine-hole layout about ten minutes from work.

Now, I really don’t want to bore with details, but I am going to anyway. Mainly because it wasn’t boring. A number of things happened during the round that were just plain weird, funny, inspiring, frustrating. In other words, a typical round. So here we go. Now on the tee, from Altamonte Springs, Florida via Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio …

Me.

First hole: I arrive to the tee just as a threesome of elderly Jamaican men were coming off the ninth green, and our paths intersected at the tee. Now, etiquette dictates that players making the turn (them) must yield the tee to players beginning their round (me). They obliged, and offered me to play through, which I accepted, but the problem was I hadn’t warmed up yet. So I let them hit their tee shots while I swung two clubs tying to get my back to pop. Each one of them was a good player, and the last guy swung cross-handed; in other words, he played right handed with a left-hander’s grip. Very rare. He proceeded to smack it about 220 yards down the middle. They then stepped to the side of the tee while I caught one pretty good, about 240 yards down the left side. We walked down the fairway together and we chatted. They were from Kingston originally.

So the round’s off to an interesting start…if you think a threesome of elderly Jamaicans, one with a crosshanded grip, is interesting. I do. I pitch onto the green and have a six-footer for birdie that I struck well but it horseshoed out on me. Tap in par. Off to a solid start.

Second hole: Short par 3, about 150 yards. I pull a 7-iron that settles pin high right, about 20 feet from Webster Avenue. Now this shot is hard enough, but when you have in the back of your mind the nagging thought that a dump truck could t-bone you at any second it adds a wrinkle of difficulty normally not accounted for. I have to hit a major flop shot over a bunker & catch it perfectly. The ball stops 6 feet past the pin, so I have basically the same putt that I did on the first. This time I made it. Par.

Third hole: Straightaway par 5, about 440 yards. I tag my drive about 250 with a peel-cut off the trees on the right. With about 185 to the green, I take out my trusty 7-wood and proceed to hit a skank pull-hook that rattles in the trees on the right. Ugh. For the third shot I have to execute another flop shot that I stick to, again, 6 feet. I run in the putt. Birdie. I’m one under. At this point I am glad I worked on my pitching the night before.

Fourth hole: Signature hold of the course. A right-to-left bending par 5 of about 530 yards. Left is death. Literally. Because it’s a cemetery. The play is to stay right off the tee and on the second shot to set up a wedge into the green, which is exactly what I did – drive in the right rough, a 3 wood down the right side, a punch sand wedge. Two putts, a solid par on the toughest hole on the course.

Now, I’ve got four holes under my belt, which is a good check point as to how I am doing. Well, shit, I’m one under. Got no complaints.

Fifth hole: Straightaway par 4. Road on left, trees right. And of course, I hit it where I always do. In the trees on the right. I only have about 100 yards left to the green but have to punch & run it due to the hanging branches, which I do, but a touch too firm and it rolls off the back of the green. Now, it bears noting that right behind the green is the intersection of two busy roads, and the evening rush hour traffic is humming behind me. I take my sand wedge, ball back in stance, and hit a perfect pitch shot. It lands about 15 feet short of the hole and starts rolling…and rolling…and…plop. Into the cup. A chip in birdie! Now, I may be playing alone, but I still celebrate, so I give it a fist-pump “YEAH!’ when the ball goes in. The next sound I heard was a car horn, and a guy yelling “NICE SHOT!” from his car in the adjacent intersection. I hollered a “THANK YOU!” at him and a doff of the cap.

God I love this game. And I’m now two under.

Sixth hole: Pretty little par 4, dogleg right, trees all the way down the right. Two ways to play it: There's the safe play which is a hybrid to the corner & a flip wedge to the green. Then there is the stupid way: Try to carry the trees on the right, cut the corner to go for the green.

I’m two under. Time to get stupid.

My driver is well struck but a touch low. Any other hole it would have been perfect. On this hole it’s jail. The ball rattles in the trees, which mercifully spit it into the fairway. Good break, but I have to hit another punch shot to the green, which came out just like the one on the previous hole – a touch hot, the ball settling off the back of the green. A tickly downhill chip leaves me ten feet from the hole. I run the putt in for a well-earned par.

Seventh hole: Short par 3, about 125 yards. I hit a smooth 9-iron to the middle of the green. Two putts later I have my par.

Checkpoint time. Seven holes down, I’m still two under. And I’m starting to think about it. Not good.

Eight hole: Basically a repeat of the seventh. A 125-yard par 3. I settle over my 9-iron with thoughts of ‘Wow I would really like to shoot under par’…this is exactly what NOT to think. I swing and the contact makes a sickening thud sound that occurs when the neck of the club hits the ball. We call that a shank. The ball goes dead left about 100 yards. I’m not loving this game so much now, but I am laughing at how much of an egotistical dumbass I am. I find my ball in the rough and hack out a sand wedge just trying to get it anywhere on the green. I did, and two putts later I register my first bogey on the round.

Final hole: Dogleg left par 4, trees left, parking lot right. Now, I’m one under, and I could just hit an iron & a wedge to the green, get my par and bask in an under par round. Well, what’s the fun in that? Out comes the driver, and there goes my ball into the parking lot, featuring a nice high bounce over a car leaving the lot. Well I’ll tell you something right now – I am finding that ball, I don’t care if it’s in Ocoee, and I am playing it. I find it, about 25 yards past the green, and I have your standard garden variety pitch shot over the parking lot, palm tree & bunker. Kid’s stuff. Needing one more good swing, instead I blade the pitch and it goes screaming into the palm tree, which, in this instance, acted like a parachute, depositing my ball on the green about 15 feet from the hole. Two putts later, I make a wild par and shoot a very satisfying one-under 34.

So to recap, in an hour & a half I met three Jamaicans, had a honking gallery cheer my birdie, shanked a stock nine iron, and damn near took out a Lexus with one of my drives.

Just a typical day on the links.

Happy Birthday Arnie!

Today is September 10. Tomorrow, September 11, is my birthday. Virtually the entire world knows September 11 for another event that happened 10 years ago, but I stubbornly refuse to get drawn into that since, 43 years prior to planes crashing towers, I was born. So I’ve been around longer than the terrorists. But as I stated, this is September 10. And 82 years ago today, Arnold Daniel Palmer was born. I’ve always been kinda proud that me & Arnie darn near share the same birthday.

I grew up in Ohio, and one of my personal heroes is Jack Nicklaus. Heck, I even named my son after him (no, not Jack, his name is Nicholas…different spelling but same pronunciation). Jack is widely known as the greatest golfer ever, as his record is unmatched. Nobody took hold of golf tournaments and finished them off better than Jack. When his name appeared on the leaderboard the rest of the field would do a collective ‘Oh shit’ and usually fold. Definitely the most respected and feared competitor ever to step onto a course.

But Arnie was the most loved.

I had the pleasure to watch Arnie play back in his heyday of the late 60’s and early 70’s. I remember my first impression of him was how big his forearms were. I was maybe ten years old, and my dad had pretty good forearms by virtue of being a plumber by trade, but after seeing Arnie’s, there was no doubt that he would destroy my dad in arm wrestling. They were huge!

The other thing I remember from that encounter was Arnie had a charisma and connectivity to the gallery no golfer has ever had. On one tee, hundreds of people, including me, awaited his arrival. When he came through the ropes, the applause was on a decibel level reserved for heads of state. Perhaps this is why his nickname is The King. Anyway, Arnie had this habit of scanning the gallery, looking people right in the eye. And on this day, he did that with me – for a brief instance, Arnold Palmer looked 10-year-old Jerry straight in the eye and gave me a slight nod of his head and a wink. At that moment I was in orbit and had my hero chosen. Arnie looked at me!

As I came to find out, this was a regular occurrence with Arnie. He played to the crowds, sometimes to the detriment of his game. Oftentimes he was goaded into hitting a shot he should not have tried because the gallery insisted he go for broke. Coincidentally, that was the name of one of his books – Go For Broke. In contrast, I cannot imagine Jack ever letting the gallery dictate what shot he was going to hit. For Jack, the course was the forum for him to strategically navigate in the fewest strokes possible. For Arnie, it was his stage, and he had the leading role. And he played it to the hilt. This is why, win or lose, Arnie was and always will be The Man to many.

Arnie had/has a homemade swing. Nothing technically correct about it, as he would essentially ‘muscle’ the ball with a low penetrating draw that never seemed to get more than ten feet off the ground. His strategy was pretty much one-dimensional – hit it as hard as you can, go find it, then hit it hard again. Jack, on the other hand, was the quintessential strategist – he would hit whatever off the tee he determined would result in the lowest score on the hole – it could be a driver, 3-wood or 6-iron. Arnie was not so nuanced. It was driver. Every time.

As a result, Arnie did not win as many tournaments as he should have. He won more than 70 PGA tour events but only seven Majors. That total should have easily been double. Specifically, he lost the 1966 U.S. Open when he had a 7-shot lead with 9 holes to play. And he even admits that, at that point in time, his focus was not on winning the tournament but of breaking the all-time U.S. Open scoring record of 272. Jack would have never let that kind of thought enter his mind. If Jack were up 7 on the 10^th tee, he would make sure he was still up 7 on the 18^th tee. Arnie’s tragedies on the course just endeared himself more to his fans. Eventually it was not a matter of him winning or losing, it was just him being there, swashbuckling his way around the course.

Go Arnie…BABY!!

There’s an anecdote, I believe penned by Dan Jenkins, which most accurately described the Jack versus Arnie dynamic. The Golf Gods turned to Jack and said, ‘You will be the most successful, feared golfer who ever lived’, and then they turned to Arnie and said ‘But they will love you more’. And that is exactly what has happened. Jack is respected. Arnie is adored.

Living in Orlando, Arnie sightings are a common occurrence during the winter months. He has a home in Bay Hill and plays golf every day. Funny isn’t it – his career was playing golf, and he retired…to the golf course. And the folks at Bay Hill say Arnie’s out there every morning slapping balls, trying to find the ‘secret’ that will make him better…at age 82!

So in about an hour I am going to go play golf with a couple of friends. And I think, in celebration of Arnie’s  birthday, I will try to pull off a couple of shots I have no business trying.

Happy Birthday Arnie. Fire at a flag.

Getting Buzz’d

One of the benefits of getting older (yes, there indeed are benefits), is reuniting with old friends you haven’t seen in years. So to you twenty-somethings preparing to see old classmates at your 10^th anniversary class reunion, those don’t count. I’m talking about friends from decades ago, which can only occur when you get to be around my age.

I played golf last night with my old friend Buzz. Real name Carmen, which, if I were tagged with that name, I would go by Buzz too. (And again, for you twenty-somethings, his last name isn’t Lightyear…jeez)

Buzzie was two years behind me in high school, and he has two amazing traits - an extremely easygoing personality and a lethal golf swing. The combination of those two traits led to a career in professional golf, both as a club pro and on the mini-tour level. And that lethal golf swing that, 35 years ago, left us all slack-jawed when he would rip a 270-yard rifle-shot controlled draw, is still there. Okay maybe it’s now 260 yards, as Buzz is now 50, but he can still pump it past 98 percent of the golfers out there. He plays forged Titleist irons. Translation: He can play. He’s one of those guys that has a dime-sized hole worn out on his 2-iron right on the sweet spot. And I can tell you that is the true mark of a player. Not a tour bag, not a form-fitting Nike shirt, not a set of hand-made whatevers. It’s a dime-sized worn sweet spot on a 2-iron.

Player.

Buzzie’s Achilles heel is, and always has been, his putting. I & My Man Mike used to joke that we would shoot a ‘Buzz 72’ - translation - 16 greens in regulation, 35 putts. I used to say that if you combined Buzzie’s ball striking with my putting, you’d have a helluva player. But that’s giving me way too much credit - Buzz is a helluva player all by his own.

Another nice trait he has is, from a totally self-centered point of view, is he thinks I am the greatest putter in the world. I’m not. As an aside, he also thinks I can sing. I can’t. But he swears that I am the best putter he knows, and you know what - I will let him keep thinking that. So we played golf last night and knowing that he thinks I can putt, I felt obliged to not let him down. Fortunately I didn’t, as I ran in a 25-foot for birdie on the third hole and a 20-footer from the fringe on 13 for another bird. That just let out the ‘Damn Jer….you can still putt’ comments. Which, of course, I ate up.

It bears noting in the 14^th tee Buzz proposed we spice up the action by playing the last 5 holes for a buck each. Now up to that point Buzz was kind of scraping it around, playing the kind of golf that virtually any player on the planet would accept, but definitely not up to his standards. But once we put a little cash on the line? The laser controlled draw reappeared, flagsticks got fired at, putts dropped.

And five bucks passed from my hand to his.

We also exchanged lessons, prior to playing for money of course, where I pointed out a couple of things in his putting stroke and he helped me immensely with my swing. This happened on the 11^th hole, where I was doing my usual spraying it all over the place form of Army Golf (left, right, left, right…). I commented to myself ‘Man I got to get back on my heels at address...’ and then I proceeded to hit a skank pull-hook pitching wedge 20 yards left of the green. Buzz came over and gave me a one-word lesson. He said ‘Balance’. Of course, I asked to elaborate, and he replied that the weight should be on neither the heels nor the toes - it should be in the middle of the foot. He pointed to my golf shoes and said ‘See the bottom shoe lace? Right there.’ I then dropped a ball, took his advice and put the weight right where he told me to, and proceeded to stick a pitching wedge five feet from the pin. I looked at Buzz and he just smiled. And for the rest of the round I actually hit it respectably good.

This is the mark of a good teacher. Simplicity. And you can’t get any simpler than a one-word lesson.

Dinner followed and we caught up on things. And the good news is Buzz will be in town for a few weeks so we will have the opportunity for more rounds, more one-word lessons and more laughs.

But I ain’t playing him a buck a hole anymore.

Man Plans…

So last night I was playing golf with My Man Mike, our regular Wednesday night male-bonding experience. We played Dubsdread, a real nice public track in urban Orlando. Started on the back nine. Teed off a little after 5:00pm, which gives us just enough time to get 18 before dark. The rain fortunately held off.

We started on the back nine. Number 10 is a short par 4, about 320 yards, with a lake on the left about 180 yards out that goes all the way up to the green. You can bail right, but there’s bunkers and mounds to keep you honest. Essentially, you have to hit something laser-straight about 200 yards, then face a wedge shot to the green with that water on the left begging you to hit it there. Great little hole.

I hit my 3-hybrid nicely, given it was my first swing of the day, about 190 yards down the middle. I then hit a cautious 9-iron to the right fringe, respecting the lake on the left. I lagged up my 30-foot birdie putt to three feet…and then missed the putt. A 180-horseshoe. So I played the hole exactly as it should have been played...and walked off with a bogey 5.

The twelfth hole is a 160-yard par 3 over water. Huge green, but it is all carry to get to it. Mike hits first & throws a real nice 7-iron in there about 20 feet away. I’m up, and I hit my 6-iron just a touch fat. Here’s a tip - never hit a shot 'a touch fat' with water in front. The ball is in the air & I’m thinking ‘Oh crap. Where’s the Drop Area..’ when the ball comes down, hits the top of the wall that separates the green from the water, careens high in the air, and lands inside Mike’s ball, about 15 feet away. Mike misses his putt, I run mine in for a nice (read lucky) birdie.

Better to be lucky than good.

The next hole is a dogleg right par 4. No water, but trees frame both sides of the fairway from tee to green. Pretty hole. Having the honors with my awesome (read Luckbox Jerry) birdie, I proceed to hit a pull hook that settles in the trees on the right. I was fortunate to even find my ball, as it was sitting down, waaay down in the rough. With about 125 yards to the green I take out a 9 iron and give it a violent hack hoping to just advance it somewhere in the vicinity of the green. It actually came out decently and settled in the rough to the right of the green, pin high, about 60 feet from the hole.

I take my sand wedge out, make a couple of flop-shot practice swings, and hit the ball. It comes out nicely, plops on the green about 15 feet short of the hole, rolls out and starts breaking left towards the hole, hits the pin and drops in. I just made my second birdie in a row, and none of the shots I hit were any good. In contrast, I played the tenth hole perfectly, and made a bogey.

This is why golfers are fucked up.

Seriously. To play this game you have to have a few screws loose. But more accurately, as I have waxed upon previously and repeatedly, golf is like life. You just don’t know what awaits next. Go ahead and plan all you want, but God is sitting up there laughing His deified butt off at you when you do, as if He is saying ‘Yeah okay Jer. Have at it. I need the entertainment.’

And further, ain't it great that we don't get what we deserve? Had things gone according to how I played & deserved, I would have parred the first hole, rinsed a ball on #12 for a double bogey, and at least a bogey on #13. I would have been 3 over par instead of one under had I got what I truly deserved. And that's the beauty of life - we don't get what we deserve, we get what we get.

So, dear readers, make your plans. Execute them to the best of your abilities. But my advice is to remove any and all expectations on results. That will turn God’s belly laugh into a wise, knowing smile.

A Tiger In A Tailspin

Remember a few scant years ago when Tiger Woods not only was the best golfer on the planet, but also the poster person for integrity?

Amazing what hitting a fire hydrant can do, eh?

Since that eventful night in November 2009, Tiger has completely unraveled. His personal life got mulched with the stories of raging infidelity surfacing. Next came the expected divorce. (As an aside, I don’t fault the guy for wanting to tap hot women and the occasional Perkins manager, but not while married) Next came the physical breakdown of his left knee which spread to his Achilles.

Deep breath here Tiger. Your hot Swedish wife divorced your cheatin’ ass and your personal temple, your body, was also telling you something - chill out.

But Tiger’s not wired that way. Play through the pain. After all, he won the 2008 US Open on one good leg. The personal life? None of your goddamn business. Soldier on. Next came a truly WTF moment as he switched swing coaches, from renowned Hank Haney to, uhhh…

Sean Foley?

Sean Freekin Foley. A guy whose name sent people scrambling to Google search to find out who the hell he was. Somewhere Butch Harmon had a good guffaw on that. The reason this choice was so confounding was that Foley changed Tiger’s swing to the ‘stack and tilt’ method which relies on having body weight pre-set on the left side at address and keeping it there throughout the swing. It is a simpler method of swinging that, in theory, creates more consistent shots. The main problem with stack and tilt is that it puts a lot of pressure on the left knee. And that’s if you got a good left knee. Tiger’s left knee has been operated on four times. And now he has a swing coach teaching him a method that stresses the weakest part of his body.

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to see the Folly of Foley.

But the worst was yet to come. This week it was announced that Tiger fired his longtime caddy, Steve Williams. The man on his bag for 13 of his 14 major wins. The guy whose shoulder he sobbed like a baby on after winning the 2006 British Open, the first major win after Tiger’s father died. The guy that was Tiger’s on-course enforcer, a guy not afraid to confiscate cameras or go after hecklers.

So let’s add all this up. He lost his wife (personal life stabilizer), his swing coach (swing stabilizer), and now his caddy (crowd stabilizer). And all were choices he made; the best decisions he could arrive at. Which shows just how mentally lost he is. Three stabilizers, gone.

My take on all this is that Tiger lost his true stabilizer when his father died. Earl Woods told Tiger what to do and Tiger did it, no questions asked. So what he needs at this point is someone he can totally trust to make decisions for him. If he were in a 12-step program, such a person would be called a sponsor.

He is self-will run riot.

But that’s for the long haul. My immediate advice for Tiger, which I am positive he will not take, is shut it down. All of it. Not just for the remainder of the 2011 season, but 2012 as well. Do not even touch a club or look at a golf course for a year. Tour the world. Go bang some Thai babes. Climb a mountain. Swim with sharks. Refresh, relax, refocus. He needs to heal - mentally, physically, spiritually.

And find a sponsor. Get rid of the sycophants and yes men, and find someone that he will entrust with all his decisions that has the courage to tell him when he's screwing up. Let that person pick his caddy, his swing coach. Let that person tell him where to be and when, so all Tiger has to do is what he does - or used to do - better than anyone on the planet. Win golf tournaments.

Because it has become extremely evident that his best thinking is destroying him.