RUGator

8:07 by Global Communication

What women say: “I did three loads of laundry, shuttled the kids back and forth to school and practice, made dinner, paid bills, and went grocery shopping.”

What men hear: “hhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

What woman ask: “How was your day.”

What men answer: “Fine.”

What men think: “I just conducted open heart surgery on a paraplegic, wolverine while singing the second verse of “Sewanne River,” riding a unicycle backwards.”

“Recognition is the greatest motivator.”

Gerard C. Eakdale

Reading about Penn State’s iconic coach, Joe Paterno, I learned of the “experiment” he put into place early on in his career.

That high academic standards and athletic achievement were not mutually exclusive.

Paterno himself played football as an undergraduate at Brown. His parents wanted him to go to law school. He had other plans.

And so I borrowed an idea from him.

Perhaps I could demand high achievement from my students. But how would I do this? I didn’t have the athletic fields to reinforce any classroom ideas I might try out on them.

So I stumbled upon something else.

As a first year classroom survival technique, I got to know my kids. What made them tick? Where were they from? Who were their parents? What if I put them (the kids) first and not the “material?” It’s all I had. I didn’t know any better.

Show them that you love and respect them and they’ll run through walls for you. That popped into my head. I was on the look out for ways to recognize them.

Nicknames, likes, friends, aptitudes, eye-contact, accountability, one on one conversations, listening more than speaking.

In short: THEM.

Simple.

Not easy.

But, it works.

Can you do that?

Put others first. Listen more than you speak. Build others up. Hard work. Persistence. A positive attitude.

It never ends. Isn’t easy. Preaching to myself. Constant reminding.

It keeps me up at night.

And gets me up in the morning.

Another time ago, I sat at a desk.

I was a substitute teacher. In for a middle school science teacher who’d gone off for a week or two to find himself. As I sat there, I wrote down on a piece of paper how much I dearly wanted to have license to sit there. Without the word “substitute” attached.

It seemed so far off.

I was in another job. One I hated. It paid the bills. But at what cost? My soul?

So I tried to plan. With all the obstacles in the way, it seemed a daunting task.

Now I sit at another “desk.” My own kitchen table. With the reality of another school year staring me down tomorrow.

That other time was 15 years ago.

When I began my teaching career, I hoped for a time when I could call one of my students “colleague.” Hoping to inspire a young person to follow the path I had fought so hard to go after.

And just last week (during an in-service staff meeting), I heard my name called out from across the room.

Turning toward the voice, I found that student.

She had gone off to high school and college, and now she had become a teacher. And she told me of something I had mentioned to her another time ago.

“You’d make an excellent teacher.”

And with those forgotten words uttered by me, she had set forth too.

This is how I became a caddy:

“There’s someone down at the range you should meet,” said Keith. He was the head golf professional where I worked as the club’s “starter.”

He told me that warming up was the caddy master at a cloistered old club here in New Jersey. So I made my way to the range.

“How do I play Somerset Hills?” was the first thing out of my mouth. Now I’ve never fancied myself as an assertive type, but the words sort of just spilled out.

He asked me what I was doing tomorrow. “Playing golf at Somerset Hills?” was my response in the form of a question.

I was correct.

And so I did.

Not knowing the protocol, I asked around.

“How much should I bring for a caddy? What should I wear?”

When tomorrow came around, the nerves set in.

I had learned the game as a kid in Florida. Sneaking on the public course near our house, I was forever dodging the rangers in an attempt to hide my modest beginnings. Tomorrow would be an introduction to another world.

Arriving at Somerset, I was greeted, not by playing members, but by caddies. I learned that, on Mondays, the course was closed for regular play. Mondays were “Caddy Days,” i.e., days reserved for caddys. To play the course.

I got paired up with two caddies. Tommy and Chris. Tommy was the reigning veteran caddy. He was in his sixties, having caddied there since he was 14. Chris was a soon-to-be club pro.

They were gracious hosts, showing me around the course, treating me as an equal. All the while encouraging me to join their ranks as a looper.

Standing on the second tee at Somerset, confronting the par 3 “Redan” hole, I was mesmerized by what I saw. I had never encountered a hole like “Redan.”

From that moment, I was better for the asking.

When she was in seventh grade, Noel told me she wanted to be a teacher. It was an exercise we did each year. Writing down your goals, that is.

Someone had taught me, so I blindly followed his advice. What did I have to lose? Already I was broke. No degree in hand, I had practically flunked out of college.

Now (then), I sat alone with a piece of yellow legal paper. I did what I thought I was supposed to do. Putting my head down, I ran hard and scared. For two years.

He was right.

I have the letter he sent in my binder. If he could know how he continues to inspire others. My students now. While he goes on, so do I. He walks with me though. He’s a coach and a teacher. He taught me with one condition: treat others as you wish to be treated. It’s written on my desk. For my kids to see. More importantly, it’s written in my heart.

And so they’d write down their hopes and dreams. And they’d do it just like I was taught to do. And they’d doubt too. But I could speak now with a passion burned in from experience. From failure. And heartache. And continued self-doubt. But I had something to hold on to. And that would change things.

Then in eighth grade, she’d tell me again how she wanted to teach. Again, she’d write it down. On a piece of paper. Dated and signed. So many years ago.

Coming back to see me years later, now a junior in high school, she’d tell me that it would be “early decision” she’d seek. All her eggs in one basket. “If not you, than who?” (and a good thing she couldn’t see me crossing my fingers too).

You know the rest?…

“Mr. C., I got in! Can you believe it? I actually got in. I am going to be a teacher!”

(I couldn’t help but go back to that day in ‘98 when I’d be asked, “Why would anyone want to be a teacher?” Would she know the answer now? Could she ever know?)

So today, coming into school, I’d stop to get my mail in my box. I’d see Gabby, the little first grader who was dropped off each day for “morning care.” She’d look at me like I had all the answers. With a smile on her face that could (and would) remind me of the answers that I continue to look for (maybe she wants to be a teacher?) Getting down on one knee, I’d give her the “high five” that the two of us tacitly agreed to give each other every time we meet. I’d tell her that she had a gift. And give her a wink.

Then putting down the mail, a letter of reference fell to the floor. It was for Noel.

She’s applying for a teaching position. At my school. Our school. And she wanted her teacher to vouch for her.

Brushing the tears aside and all alone, I filled it out.

Welcome home, Noel. Thank you.

Just staying afloat has been difficult enough. Making it to the other shore?

That’s another matter.

Mrs. Polovina was handing back our anatomy tests. She made a point of telling the class that most of us had done a lousy job.

“Most of you failed,” she said. “I’m very disappointed in these scores.”

Making my way up the long aisle to get mine, I readied myself for a red “F.” Instead, a “C” brought a bit of a relieved grin to my face.

Turning around to walk back to my seat, my steps were halted by her call of, “Just a minute, Michael.”

“What’s the matter,” I asked.

“Your grade?” she questioned.

“I got a C. Most of the class failed, you said.”

“Yes,” she quietly affirmed, “but I expect more from you.”

And almost thirty years later, I would find my role reversed.

Sitting down next to me, Alyssa had her head down. One of my most reliable students, she had just finished her test. “I know I didn’t do very well, Mr. C,” she announced with a tear streaming down her cheek.

An 86.

“Not your best effort?”

And so I recounted my 11th grade anatomy test story knowing too, that that same message Mrs. Polovina had relayed to me so many years ago, would have a similar effect on this future teacher.

I heard the most wonderful definition of a cynic the other day. Something like, “a cynic is an optimist who’s become disappointed with human nature.”

With that said, I offer this wonderful song by Jon Secada to remind us (but mostly me) that things are not quite as dire as many would have us believe.

To all the “cynics,” my wonderful students, and my own children,

“I’m Free,” by Jon Secada

My wife is clueless.

She really is.

Six years ago, I worked part time as the starter at a golf course less than two miles from my home. It was my weekend and summer job. Six bucks an hour to stand around for 8-10 hours a day. Then I met the caddymaster from Somerset Hills Country Club who happened to be playing at the course where I worked. I had heard that Somerset was one of the best courses in New Jersey (and the U.S. for that matter) so I asked him what I had to do to play that venerable course.

It was a Sunday.

So he asks, “What are you doing tomorrow?” I’m like, “playing golf at Somerset Hills?”

And so began my second life as a caddy.

The next day I would not only play Somerset, but would also be asked to caddy there.

Now years later (and on to another club), I still caddy on weekends and full time during the summers when, as a teacher, I’m “off.” Overall, I love it, but it’s very physical work.

I’ll never forget the day after my first “loop” at Somerset. I was driving the 45-minute ride home when I called home to tell my “better half” that her knight in shining armor (yeah right!) was returning back from the field of battle. She lamented the fact that it was such a long commute. “You’re crazy for making that ride,” I clearly remember her commenting when I got home. Then I told her how much I made. “In that case, can you go around twice?” was her reply.

Only on rare occasions do I have the opportunity to do so (and the strength). Carrying “doubles” for one eighteen hole round is a full day’s work to be sure. Every so often, however, I get a chance (like tomorrow) to “forecaddie.”

Forecaddying is the nirvana job for all loopers. Basically, a forecaddie walks along with his group (while they ride in a cart with their bags in the cart) carrying each player’s putters. Usually, we “walk forward” to spot their shots (so they don’t lose their balls and we our tips) and read greens. It’s the best gig in the caddy business and tomorrow I’ll get the chance to rest my shoulders. Oh don’t worry for my wife, though. The pay is exactly the same as if I were carrying.

Gold in them hills? More than you can imagine.
1986 and a golfer named Kenny Knox wins his first PGA tournament, The Honda Classic in Florida. On my way home from Florida. Our flight stops in Atlanta where I spot Kenny walking to his connecting flight. This is the Monday after his first win. No one but a golf geek like me would have even noticed him. I approach him and say, “Excuse me, Kenny Knox?” He nods, “Yes.” “My name is Mike, I just wanted to say congratulations on your first win.” (He continues to walk with me trying to keep up.) “Kenny, could I ask you a question? (and before he could answer) When you were walking up the 18th fairway toward the green, with the tournament won, and the crowd standing and applauding and you took off your hat to acknowledge their appreciation for you winning for the first time…..Did you or had you ever thought about what that would be like when you were a kid growing up and dreaming about becoming a professional golfer? Did you ever picture what that moment would be like?” And he stopped walking, turned to me, smiled, and said, “What do you think?” He smiled again and continued on……..(without me?)

The golf course is a very democratic place. All who have played know what it’s like to stand on the first tee waiting to hit. It can be daunting to even the most experienced athlete. I’ve seen some of the best players in the game of golf hit lousy shots, seen CEOs of major corporations despondant after missing a short putt, well-known athletes turn red with embarrassment over a flubbed hit, heard language that would impress the most battle hardened field general, had to hide tobacco habits from their spouses, and rejoiced with some of these same folks when a seemingly lost ball is found in a halfway decent lie. Afterward, there’s a feeling of having weathered a storm together that’s hard to replicate. I wouldn’t give it up.

All caddies abide by the following rules:
1. All players have good swings
2. Always have a second ball in your pocket of the same model last struck by your player
3. Always arrive to the ball (or its nearest most likely proximity) PRIOR to your player
4. Never touch your player’s balls
5. When receiving payment, “good enough” is always “good enough”
6. Your player’s reads are always “solid”
7. If unsure of a read, the “putt is all about speed”
8. Your player always has enough club
9. There are no bad pars
10. All bogeys are “good saves”
11. Double bogeys and above, “come out of nowhere”
12. Hitting an obstruction of any kind, including but not limited to trees, homes, buildings, other living creatures, cars, dump trucks, UPS delivery vehicles, clubhouses, press tents, and paved surfaces are all “bad breaks”
13. It is always “a pleasure to have been on your bag”
14. Foot wedges by your players are never witnessed
15. If asked, you “believe” your player’s score on any particular hole to always be no less than one stroke lower than it  could possibly be
16. If you did not see your player’s ball come down, you “lost it off the clubface”
17. Your player never “hits” the ball. Their shots are “pured,” “striped,” “piped,” “destroyed,” and/or “blasted.”
18. In the likely event that your player muffs a shot, you will walk straight to the skanked shot without comment
19. Upon your player sinking any putt over 18 inches in length, you must turn and point to your player as if to say, “that’s what I’m talking about,” or “you’re the man,” even if he’s a not THE man nor A man.
20. All female players play “very steady”

Gonna keep it real, I promise, but I just hafta get some of this off my chest.

Two reasons, one I want people to read my blog and pass along the word that this guy (me) “brings it,” and two, it’s really no bs. I caddy on the weekends and as my full time summer gig. Remember, me teacher, kimosabe, me need wampum. Pretty high end club, not so much new money, but old school, blue blood money clubs out East. So I’ve had the opportunity to caddy for some pseudo-famous sports/entertainment types over the years and I feel like gossiping about them. Why not? You know you want some dirt.

Here goes:
Caddied for Kerry Kittles the day AFTER he got traded to the LA Clippers from the Nets. Making just a hair more money than me. So he pulls up to the first tee (late), opens his golf bag to get some tees, and a pile of bills literally falls out of his bag. Now I couldn’t guess as to how much, but it was more than I had on me at the time. He basically muffs his tee shot, muffs his second, and hits a third somewhere down the fairway. The rest of the round is slasher-city. I’m all over the guy the entire round. Giving him great reads (I can caddy, dawg!), giving him the right yardages, etc, etc. We get to the end  of the round and he’s like, “Hey thanks a lot Mike, you were great.”

And…..not a dime more.

A few years ago, Byron Scott, NBA coach, gets locked out of his Mercedes/BMW/Rolls/Bentley. It’s getting dark. I get my car (Yugo- remember them! -made of adobe clay) and shine my headlights into the front window so he/we can attempt to get the VIN for his On-Star folks to try to get it open. Can’t get it open. So I drive him and his two guests to the local Applebees so he can meet his wife, who’s gonna pick him up in her Mercedes/BMW/Rolls/Bentley and I wait until she gets there. She does and he’s like, Hey thanks a lot Mike, you were great.” And away he goes sans a little sugar for the effort.

Then I caddied for Jason Kidd in the midst of his latest marital/groping melees, and he’s like the nicest guy in the world. A real gentleman. Respectful, courteous, and a solid golfer to boot. His partner hits me pretty good at the end of the round (to the tune of two hundred) and J. reaches down and hands me another “duece.”

A point guard who knows how to distribute the “rocks.”