RUGator

“I am writing to people I respect and admire for advice,” so went my introduction years ago in a series of letters which changed my life.

Now I am asking readers of this blog to respond in kind to the following:

“If you could offer me the one piece of advice that you have found to be most instrumental to your success, what would that be?”

I am proposing a blog series entitled “The Golden Rules.” This series will focus on fellow writers who want to share their best ideas with others in the belief that in order to be successful, one must first help others succeed.

Please respond via this blog or email me at “gatorgolfmike@yahoo.com” with your thoughts.

Thank you,

RUGator

I have both. Thankfully.

My dog is part Pomeranian and part Pekinese. His name is Savannah.

My son wanted to go to college in Savannah, Georgia so he got a dog and named it after the old southern city. Problem was, he was a he. So the name stuck; sort of  “Boy Named Sue” redux.

When you’re 45 years old, married, and have kids, you take what you can get.

Sleeping with Savannah is one of my better options. I don’t mind, though. He snuggles well, smells warm and fuzzy, and snores just like I do. Plus, we never have to talk about it in the morning.

As with most small dogs, he has bladder issues. We’ve managed the best we can by having him wear a puppy diaper when he’s inside. This gets a little tricky, though, when you’ve gotten up at 3 in the morning to let him out and you forget to take off the diaper. Nothing like changing a dog’s diaper to keep your feet on the ground.

In a past cruel and ironic turn, I had him out on his leash one early morning. Don’t ask me why, but I saw and grabbed one of those full-sized Tootsie Rolls just before going out with him. So there I was, standing out on our front lawn eating this Tootsie Roll while he’s going number two when one of my neighbors drives by. Of course we live on a corner with a stop sign, so the car stops to obey the traffic laws of our community. This gave him plenty of time to get a front row seat to the festivities. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why he was staring and laughing at me. “What, you’ve never seen someone eating a Tootise Roll at 5:30 am while waiting patiently while his dog lays down some cable?” It wasn’t until Savannah finished his business and was “covering up” his “duty” with his back paws that the irony dawned on me.

As for the beard? Just another friend of mine.

As the descendant of southern Italians, I’ve been blessed with dark, curly hair to go along with my forever having to be plucked uni-brow. Makes for a pretty impressive tandem.

After having to fight off Lon Cheney’s Revenge for most of my life, I decided, about six years ago to just let it all out. I know. I’m out of control. A real maniac; living life on the edge.

Growing a beard and, more importantly, wearing a beard, makes a statement. What that statement is, I’m not sure. But it makes some sort of a statement.

And you get a lot of grief from many angles. You’ve got the better half grief. The kid’s grief. The co-worker’s grief. The public’s grief. Things like, “when are you going to shave?” and “how long you going to go without shaving?” You know, uplifting, spiritual-based positive reinforcements.

Growing a beard takes a ton of patience and a lot of getting used to also.

Ever try eating a hot dog with mustard with a beard? Not fun. Napkins are an absolute necessity.

Drinking? Anything? All over your chin. You get real good at tracking down straws and using knives to cut your food.

So why do it? Why deal with the hassle?

For me, it’s two fold. Because I have to deal with the aforementioned southern Italian hair dilemma, not shaving means not having to deal with ingrown hairs. Ingrown hairs are the worst. Basically, my hair tends to curl under and back into my skin as it tries to grow out. Not fun. Not attractive. Ingrown hairs are common amongst African Americans. So I’m pretty sure that someone in my family, somewhere down the line, hasn’t been 100% stratight with me. Secondly, growing a beard is a personal thing. It sort of defines me. I like the look of it (even in its greyness). I like the smell of it. Reminds me of Savannah, hence the connection. Draws the two of us even closer. As an English teacher, it helps me better understand John Thornton’s (a character in Call of the Wild by Jack London) devotion to the story’s protagonist, Buck. Buck was part German Shepard and part Husky.

So I’ve got that going for me too.

Now what’s this all about? Where’s this going? No place I can determine. Just me thinking out loud about two things that matter to me in my life. My beard and my dog.

Who cares that I just finished digging us out of our first snowstorm. My thoughts are on the golf course.

As a long time player and caddy (30+ years), I’ve seen it quite a bit. A lot of it ugly too (and that’s just from me!) Over time, I’ve had the chance to think about what I witness on the golf course, both from a playing standpoint and as a bag man. Here are ten thoughts to help rid you of the winter blues and hopefully, to improve your upcoming golf season:

1. When putting, speed is more important than line.

2. Most amateurs UNDER club, so if in doubt, take MORE club.

3. Accuracy matters more than length.

4. More players should walk rather than ride.

5. At the range, players spend too much time hitting long shots and not enough time practicing short shots.

6. Rounds are made (and lost) from 100 yards and in.

7. When it comes to bunker play, “out” is good.

8. You need to keep pace with the group IN FRONT of you.

9. Manners matter more than ability.

10. A good caddy can save you 3-5 shots per round.

Pavin, that is.

A few years ago, I had the opportunity to caddy for Corey Pavin in a pro am golf tournament.

As one of the veteran caddies at my golf course, I had had the chance to caddy for other professional golfers over the years. But this year was different because as I arrived for the tournament, I had no idea whose bag I’d be assigned to.

Initially, I had been told by the caddymaster that I’d be caddying for Carl Petterson. But at the last minute, he had to cancel. So the tournament had to scramble to get a replacement.

Because the U.S. Open was being played that year at Shinnecock Hills (on Long Island) and our golf club was located in the New York metropolitan area, finding another pro to fill Petterson’s slot wouldn’t be as difficult as you’d normally expect.

And because this year would mark the last year in which Pavin would enjoy his Open’s ten year exemption from having to qualify (he had won the Open, ironically, at Shinnecock, ten years ago), he gladly accepted the last minute invitation from tournament host, Fuzzy Zoeller.

So I was thrilled when I found out that I’d have to “settle” for Corey.

To say I was nervous was quite an understatement.

I saw him get out of his limo upon arrival and make his way to the caddyshack where we were introduced. He looks just like he does on television, I thought. The same height, same funny looking thumbs I had seen gripping his putter while standing over any number of big putts I had witnessed him ponder during the years I followed him.

At the range prior to the start of the tournament, he and the other pros gave the gallery a mini clinic. Corey demonstrated the many ways to hit an eight iron. Low, high, far, short, cut, draw, and knock down.

As we approached the first tee, he informed me that he had never played our course before, so I’ll need your help, Mike. Oh great, just what I need. U.S. Open Champion, Corey Pavin needs me to do more than carry his bag. And people are actually gonna follow us around and watch too!

He couldn’t have been more gracious. A total gentleman.

After hitting his tee shot on one, I asked him if he wanted me to read putts for him. He responded with, “Just give me an idea of which side of hole to start it out, Mike. I’ll figure out the rest.” Just like that.

And he certainly did.

He was a magician around the greens.

Ridiculously good bunker player; always leaving himself a legitimate shot of getting up and down. Very solid putter who, I noticed, was always “past” the hole whenever he missed. Nothing was left short. In fact, that would be one of the things I’d pick up on after caddying for professional players as opposed to my normal amateur “loops.” When pros miss putts, they are almost always past the hole.

If you love sports like I do, especially golf (I grew up and learned the game in Ponte Vedra, Florida before Ponte Vedra was “Ponte Vedra”), caddying for a professional golfer is Valhalla.

Walking down the fairways that day, Corey asked me questions. He wanted to know what it was like to be a teacher. Then he’d chime in with something like, What do we have in, Mike? 127 to center, plus about 10 to pin, ten for elevation. Let’s hit 9 here.

He asked me what I thought he should do on particular shots. Should we cut one in? Or chase a low one up there? I felt like a big shot.

Fans from the gallery who got to walk side by side with us (pro ams are way more informal than actual tournaments) would ask me things like, “What he hit there? What kind of clubs does he have? Can I see what’s in his bag?” I was an insider. A confidant.

And Corey listened to my advice. We were a team out there. Everything was “we.” What should we hit here? Where do we want to leave this? He made me feel special.

After the round, he paid me generously, signed an autograph, and gave me a dozen brand new Titleist Pro-V1 golf balls.

It’s no wonder why he was recently selected as the Ryder Cup Captain for the U.S. Team.

Wolf tickets : “To speak aggressively to someone without intending to back it up.”–from Urbandictionary.com

There are three cardinal rules which all good caddies know and adhere to:

1. Show up

2. Keep up

and 3. Shut up

Looks like Tiger’s long time caddy, Steve Williams, forgot number 3. Go to:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/16/sports/golf/16golf.html?ref=sports

to read up on the details surrounding Williams’ off the cuff remarks aimed toward Phil Mickelson.

Unless he’s got some video on Master Woods, he’ll be looking for a new bag to tote in the near future.

That’s how all real Gators refer to Auburn.

Their recent non-hiring of Turner Gill (University of Buffalo head coach) defies logic.

Here’s a link to a Yahoo Sports article on Tiger alum Charles Barkely’s take on his alma mater’s choice. I happen to agree.

http://rivals.yahoo.com/ncaa/football/news?slug=ap-auburn-barkley&prov=ap&type=lgns

Sports aficionados, especially in the New York metropolitan area, know well the erstwhile “Mike and the Mad Dog Show.” While no longer together (Chris “Mad Dog” Russo has taken his show to satellite and Mike Francesa continues to broadcast of WFAN), their show pioneered the sports talk genre.

I’ve included two hilarious YouTube clips. The first is the actual Chris Russo rant which aired on WFAN. The second is an impersonation of the same original broadcast. Watch the original first, then the impersonation.

Original:

Impersonation:

Opening the book, I found a quote. The one that had called me home.

These sorts of things simply can’t be happenstance. How else could I explain their relevance?

He must have been lonely too. Sitting alone in his room, hammering away at the keys. He’d look to his wall. The one where the outline had been written. In his hand. To mar the finish. But who’d care? Especially now. The test of time had proven him right.

Everything else is just nonsense.

Love.

The past.

And I keep coming back to those two ideals. In a perverted world, nothing else seems to matter.

I told my kids that the world’s been coming to an end since the beginning of time. Why should we think for a minute that what we think is so crucial should really be of any consequence. Like it hasn’t happened before?

He wrote of things that have moved me here. Tapped into something that was latent in me. Waiting for revival.

And I know nothing. Good at pretending. Acting as if I don’t see what’s going on around me. Trying to keep things together while everything is falling apart.

Thinking back again. To the quote. The one that says it all. It found me. I was led to it. I wasn’t looking for it. Just opened the book. Paged around. Never even heard of him before. Never have forgotten him since. How could he know? Were we that alike? Are we all the same? Perhaps just enough of us to render his words meaningful. To me.

Sitting up tonight, I think about the weather outside. It’s very cold. Alone with myself. The only time and only company worthy of my time and effort.

I try to compose my thoughts. Thinking out loud, quietly to myself at night (and any other time I can find). The things I think about. In my mind are thoughts of things I cannot talk about, yet cannot escape from. They’re right there. Right in front. I walk around everyday with them. Passing by, I wonder if others are thinking like thoughts too. Wondering if they wonder too. Could they know me? Would they want to know me?

I have love somewhere. Hidden for so long, able to express it through my work, perhaps. Maybe through my relationship with my children, my students. Not sure I even know. Sounds good. Makes for good press. But do I really have it?

And the past too. I think about it. Often.

Time has caught up with me now. Used to be chasing it. Now it’s here, with me. Looking at the picture, I can see how. Why.

So this is how it’s done. In the throes of the journey. I’m on the way there. Will you join me? Will you still be there when I make it? Who’s reading this? Why? Are you with me now?

Who’s watching this? I write these words hoping to connect. Connecting with others and maybe myself in an attempt to justify things. To make it matter. Will these touch you? Will you pause and say too that you know me like I do?

The past and love.

“On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting. ‘Twas only that when he was off, was he acting.” –Oliver Goldsmith

Excellent guitar work on this cover of Toto’s “Georgy Porgy.”

When you caddy for the rich, but not so famous (by design) for as many years as I have, you hear a lot of talking. About what can be difficult to figure out. But God knows, I’ve tried.

And to see so many young amongst the wealthy is always cause for even more head scratching. By me at least.

What are these guys doing? How can so many 20 and 30-somethings afford multiple private golf club memberships, caddy fees of close to “2 hunj” every time out, and to drive cars that James Bond would be envious of?

I’d ask myself these kinds of questions for entire rounds.

As of late, I’ve been getting some answers for these long-time conundrums. Please take a look at the following two links to recent New York Times articles for some clarification as well.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/nyregion/14lawyer.html?_r=1&hp

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/13/business/13fraud.html?hp