Too Many Words for Twitter

Date: Tue, Sep 27, 2011

I have an irrational set of expectations for other people and I often have to remind myself that these random individuals with whom I cross paths have both a) their own expectations and b) a total ignorance of my peculiar set of rules. This expresses it self frequently on mass transit, which I have now used daily for more than seven years, a fact which is nigh unthinkable in the vast metropolis of Los Angeles, as well as a constant reminder to me that I have escaped the ritualistic Car Culture of my city and its inherent rudeness.*

(*I am often asked why I never use my blinker when changing lanes on the freeways and it is because, as soon as one signals intent, the nearest driver in the intended lane will attempt to block any and all attempts at movement, by speeding up/slowing down/honking horns/spitting. It's a Darwinian culture of Fuck You-ness that I've never encountered anywhere else.)

I find myself grumbling at others. The folks who sit across from me on the train--thereby inhibiting my leg room, which must be substantial for my comfort because I'm a tall drink of water--when there are other seats available nearby that would be more apt for them an me. The people on the subway who stand right in front of the doors so they can be first off at Union Station, but who also refuse to move--even the slightest--when I am trying to board. I liken these offenders to people who christen a pristine row of theater seats by sitting on the end, making others crawl over them. And the worst, those who stand on the left side of the escalator/people mover, when the right is for standing and the left is for walking.

All of these things annoy the living ish out of me. To my mind, they are unwritten rules of behavior, of accommodation to your fellow man/woman. However, if you think about it, my expectations are borne of my own frame of reference and have no relation to that of others, like back-to-back spins on the roulette wheel. Sure, I'd like to think we're all in this together, it takes a village and all that hunky dorey crap, but the truth is, it's every man/woman for themself.

This is called The Gap. The space between our own expectations and the reality of others. It's what you fill that gap with that determines the success or failure of any relationship, as well as one's own sanity. If you fill that gap with patience and understanding, then ta-da! life is good. If you (I) fill it with "get your stupid elbow off my arm-rest!" the days can be long and frustrating.

I guess what I'm saying is you should do what I say and we won't have a problem.

Actually, here's my advice: Mind the Gap.

*

Here's another rule I've recently learned. Say you're visiting friends out of town. Say this hypothetical town is Chicago. And you go to one of their favorite restaurants. Say it's called The Publican. You do not--DO NOT--want to mention, even in passing, how very much you enjoy the experience and you especially do not want to compliment a single dish--say it's the Country Rib--no matter how delicious and savory and downright otherworldly the dish might be, because every single time these "friends" of yours return to said Publican restaurant in Chicago and order themselves a Country Rib or three, they will mercilessly and gleefully taunt you with tweets, texts, pictures and this will be especially hurtful if all you've eaten that day is a hot dog at the turn and a frozen pizza.

I hate you all.

*

My cat is a genius. Normally, I'd never write that sentence since I'm an adult male and enjoy my standing as such, but this kind of blew my mind. Unlike the dog, whose most fervent desire is to stay indoors, preferably within licking distance of at least one of the three humans in the house, the kitty wants to go tomcatting outside as often as possible. Due to the fact that our house is close to the mountains and we have an open field nearby, we restrict her playtime to daylight hours, lest she be eaten by the coyotes which sometimes sneak into the tract for food.

To aid our ability to find her at nightfall, she has a collar with a bell (and her info). A few days ago, she lost the collar on her adventures (it's a breakaway deal so she doesn't hang herself by it). So, all day Saturday, she whined at the back door since we wouldn't let her out without a collar. We procured a replacement on Sunday and duly allowed her back into the wild, from which she returned a couple hours later with the lost collar in her mouth.

She screeched to get our attention, pointedly dropped it on the kitchen floor and stomped right back outside.

*

I'd like to recommend a book to you all. It's "Let the Great World Spin" by Colum McCann. You New Yorkers will especially like it. The setting is 1974 and the common thread running through the novel is the famous tightrope walk between the Twin Towers by Philippe Petit, immortalized in the excellent documentary "Man on Wire." It's basically a love letter to NYC and a metaphor for 9/11. It's exquisite. The prose is so smooth and velvety. Just a wonderful experience.

*

We're fine. Great, in fact. How are y'all?

Mind the Gap.

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Revenge is a Dish Best Served Studs Up

Date: Wed, Aug 10, 2011

Alright, since The Rooster keeps sending me racist, jinoistic messages about El Tri and their crop of young studs who play a lovely brand of futbol, I thought I'd offer a retort, something beyond the usual "Go Back to Mexico!" and "Mow My Lawn!"

I was once on a team that lined up opposite a bunch of Jamaicans, real Jamaicans, black and everything, not white suburban kids who liked Bob Marley. They had this dude in the middle of the park who absolutely dominated us with his quickness, vision and skill. We lost 4-1, but it was far worse than that. the next time we played them, we game-planned specifically for that guy, switching to a 4-5-1 and having a usual left back in the center to man-mark their play-maker. In addition, we put out the call to chop him down physically.

That's exactly what should happen tonight. Dos Santos and Barrera should go down hard (at least) once early. Real hard. Then often. With multiple subs, you can get the yellow cards out of the way and bring on someone else. It's like having a bunch of Brian Scalabrines on the team. Back them off a little, slow the pace of the game with multiple re-starts, raise some fucking welts.

Surely, Klinsi knows this, probably, in fact, remembers when Germany did this exact thing to the US in 2002 World Cup. Jens Jeremies annihilated Yank play-maker Claudio Reyna--who is also in camp!--within the first five minutes, rendering him impotent for the remainder of the match. We have guys like Heath Pearce and Zach Loyd in the team. What else are they going to offer but a little thuggery?

So there is the game plan. Get Gio rolling around on the turf like he's trying to put out a fire on his person. And yeah, we beat the Jamaicans in that second game. Completely reversed the scoreline. Took them out physically, which led to them disintegrating mentally. Same thing can happen tonight, though probably not much chance of El Tri sparking fatties at halftime.

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Puppy Love

Date: Tue, Jun 7, 2011

So there's this new entity in my house who has worms and shits on the floor. Shat. It was just once and I cleaned it up post-haste, remembering the time AJ was potty training and had a failure which jump-started his two-year-old's sense of shame, so he tried to clean the mess himself and ended up dragging his soiled bottom and clothing all over the upstairs hallway. And I thought, I've done this before, no big deal.

Reggie, the mutt, the maybe part-terrier, maybe part-pit bull, maybe part-doberman, all-thunderous energy, has been with us for a week and we've had to devise an intricate system of levers and pulleys to prevent more accidents (there have been two of the liquid variety), unsupervised interactions with the kitty--who is up in all kinds of arms over this feisty interloper and is taking it out on each of us in unique ways--and various other attacks on our home furnishings and possessions, up to and including AJ's stuffed animals, one of which was subjected to a brief, but no less hilarious and disturbing, quasi-pornographic act.

He treats our couch as if it merely something to hurdle. He has attempted to eat a dozen snails. He keenly disrupts any and all plans to go outside when we are home. He broke the screen door within 12 hours. He eats with the ferocity of a pack of hyenas and with more speed. He's tried to bury his chew bone in the middle of the living room. He is 23 lbs. of whirling, jumping, tugging, galloping fury.

Of course, we love him to death.

I do not speak for the poor kitty, however. The Princess. Her run of Speaker Manor has come to an ignominious end. She's furious with us. Was a time when Emet's morning alarm would be her call to jump up on our bed and lay next to her for one, two slaps at the snooze button. Now, she won't even enter the room. She reserves her hiss mostly for Reggie, but we've all been subject to a swiped fore paw or bared teeth. He is most unwelcome and perhaps her biggest issue is that her forays into the backyard have been curtailed, while we try to get the two of them to co-exist without the chasing. Ironic. The dog always wants in and the cat always wants out.

When we got Reggie last week, he seemed bewildered. We'd prepared for his arrival with all manner of research and purchases of essentials and doggie toys, yet he was disinterested, as if he didn't know how to play. We knew virtually nothing of his background. He came from one of Emet's students. Her family had just moved and they couldn't keep the dog, who they had only had for a brief time after another family member gave him up. So you could say Reggie's five months of life have been unsettled.

He's a little meek with men. Ducks his head in submission; a sign, perhaps, of abuse, but he's shown no outward symptoms of fear or severe mistreatment. We're crate training him and it's going great. Sleeps in the crate in our room with less and less resistance, though Emet says he snores and I have to take her word for it, 'cause how would I hear over the sound of my own Warthoggery. He's caught on to the fact that going bathroom outside will result in a treat and makes a beeline for the back door as soon as he's un-crated in the morning (and then makes a similar beeline to the pantry after emission, since that's where the treats are).

It's been a long time since I've had a dog in the house and that was a house that barely needed to be protected from the behavior of a dog. Sixteen years. I suppose I'm getting used to him just as much as he's getting used to us. I'm up 45 minutes earlier in the morning for a walk and it's quickly become something I look forward to, a quiet, relaxing start to the day, with the added benefit of getting the blood pumping. He's remembered how to fetch a ball and play tug-of-war with...oh...anything and I can get him sprinting around the backyard at frightening speed as he somehow avoids running into the fences or flower boxes. My typical evening of sprawling on the couch watching sports is no longer an option since his energy needs a watchful eye. "He's your dog," Emet says, while sipping wine.

He is, but I want him to be AJ's dog, too. Right now, Reggie favors the adults, who feed and walk him and who are there all the time, as opposed to the half-time kid with the short attention span and fiery desire for the dog to sleep in his bed. AJ's talked about having a dog for so long that the reality might be a little too overwhelming for him, too different from the idea he had in his head about ownership. Goodness knows he's not too happy about having to wash his hands all the time now after playing with Reggie.

So we're integrating this lovable beast into the family. We walk the neighborhood, give him deworming medicine, bounce the ball, higher the better, pretend he's too strong and we can't get the sock out of his mouth. He foils a handful of attempts to get him in the yard when it's time for work, sits there at the back door with those ears, huge and alert, saying "don't go."

And we don't want to.

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Pure

Date: Mon, May 23, 2011

I didn't say anything until after a routine par on #5, the number one handicap hole, a long par-4 with an uphill second shot. Nor had Emet remarked on the round I had going. "Are you aware I'm one-under right now?" I said.

"Don't talk about it," she said, like she was watching a perfect game.

Sage advice. But the round is over now and I can't stop talking about it.

*

It's not like I've been knocking on the door of breaking 80. In fact, I'd been golfing at the same plateau the entire year with outlier results being on the higher scale rather than the lower. My handicap, after hitting a low of 14.5 in March, has risen to 15.1. My scores--and goals--were still bogey golf and the majority of rounds were within a shot or two of 90. The scores were fine, but I was getting frustrated.

This isn't news to golfers. Frustration is ever present. The primary reason for mine was a swing that seemed to come and go, sometimes in the same round. Again, no news to golfers. The only way to find that consistency, I figured, was to keep playing. More experience, the better one can replicate the good swings.

So, of course, I broke 80 in the first round I'd played in a month.

*

This past weekend was the first I'd had off in a while. I've been taking a lot of weekend shifts because I needed to bank some comp days for a summer chock full o' vacation goodness. Because I'd spent so much time away from my wife, I dubbed the past two days Angeliquend, 48 hours of wifely attention and festivities. Fortunately, she's a selfless person and allowed a round of golf as part of the fun.

We took a trip to the driving range on Thursday after work to get out some kinks, but spent most of our time chipping and putting, as I gave her pointers on those pesky chips that she struggles with (and I could say to her many times on Saturday that the shot she was about to attempt was "the same ones we practiced"). I had mixed results on the range, hitting two balls square then duffing the third. Same as it ever was. Didn't walk away feeling like anything was different.

Then, on Saturday morning, we did some yard work. We let the kitty out into the backyard to play while we did so and I took a short break to play with her. She likes me to whack plastic golf balls at her. It was then that I had a revelation.

*

The sixth hole is a 178-yard par three over water. It's tough because the hole is open and unprotected from the wind, which blows left-to-right and both knocks balls down and pushes them into the bunker at the right front of the green. I've used as much as a 5-iron on this hole when the wind is howling, but on Saturday it was a strong 7. I found the green off the tee and two-putted for par.

Still one-under.

*

It has been those iron shots that have been the biggest hole in my game lately. I've honestly had no idea where they have been headed the last three months. I've tried a few changes, mostly in my grip, which is on the weak side, partially owing to the wrist surgery I had, but also because it feels most comfortable that way. Nothing's really worked.

So, there I am with the kitty in the back yard, hitting nice, easy seven irons at her as she tries to catch the plastic balls in the air. I'm not really paying attention to my swing until one shot where my hands brush against my right thigh on approach to the ball.

Holy shit! Total lightbulb. That's it!

*

The seventh hole is a bad one for me and my baby fade. Right-to-left dogleg with water left and a big bunker guarding the corner. That bunker is 235 to carry and it rises about three feet above the fairway. I can clear it. I have. Maybe one out of ten. So, I tend to play away from it. I drove it well, staying right all the way, but it ran out of the fairway. This course is fairly easy if you drive it in the generous fairways (I hit 9 of 14 on the day), but if you're in the rough, it's never a flat lie.

In this instance, I had a hook lie and though I hit it pretty well, it landed hard and carried to the back left of the green, 40 feet and a deep swale away from the pin. I figured my best option was to go high, around the swale, but I didn't hit it hard enough and left myself 12-feet for par.

I missed. "First blemish on the card," I said to Emet, while also noting the hilarity of me calling a bogey a "blemish."

Even after seven.

*

I'm no golf expert. I've never taken a lesson. But I watch a lot of golf. I pay close attention to those slo-mo swing analysis features on the tee-vee. Most of it goes over my head. I'd rather not stand over the ball and think about swing plane and hip tilt. But I do get certain aspects and one thing I've really struggled with is releasing my hands after contact. I've never been able to get extension on my follow through with my irons (driver is different, for some reason that I don't want to delve into because I hit my driver fine thankyouverymuch). I'm certain that explains my fade and I've tried more changes to get my body and hands around more completely.

It never occurred to me that the problem was in my address.

*

The 8th is the longest par-5 on the course and very difficult off the tee. A strand of trees guards the left side of the fairway, which narrows at 230-yards. Bunkers on the right and a hill that's driveable but which slopes sharply right to left. Anything center or left rolls into deep rough and a shot where the ball will be at least a foot above your feet. I'm always in trouble on this hole. The solution would be to hit 3-wood and stay short of the trouble, but I can't hit my 3-wood to save my life (guess that's the next thing to work on).

Alas, on this day, to this point, everything was working, so I just dialed back the driver a bit and landed it short of the hill, in the fairway. A smoked 5-iron left me 128 and uphill to the pin and it was here I got a great break. I thought I was hitting an easy 9, but I got more of it than I thought and it flew the green with malice. Until it hit that tree and caromed dead right, leaving me just a few yards off the back of the green, from where I got up and down for par.

Even after 8.

*

The kitty sat there waiting for me to hit another ball, but I was in no hurry to do so. One practice swing. Two. Eleven. Every single one of them feeling absolutely perfect.

*

The 9th is a gimme. 308 yard par-4, downhill. I've never actually driven it, but I've been awfully close. There's a lake front and left of the green, but my fade takes it out of play for me. The driving range and a buttload of trees are right, so if you don't hit it straight you might be looking at a big number.

I hit it straight, about 280, and it settled just past where the cart path bisects the fairway. I had my distance right with the wedge, but pulled it, leaving me 15-feet for birdie. I missed it--just--on the low side and tapped in for a front-nine score of 36.

Even par.

*

Emet and I hit a bucket before the round. I was anxious to try out my new "fix" with full swings and actual balls.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Every single one of them came pure off the club face. 9-iron to 4-iron. All the way down the line.

*

I still hit the ball great on the back-9. Had a bit of trouble with distance control as the wind kicked up. I left my approaches short on both 10 (bogey) and 11 (up and down for par). I found a fairway bunker on 12--a drive that I came across because I was thinking too much--and then three-putted from 20 feet for a double. On the par-3 13, the easiest hole on the course, I hit my one truly bad shot of the day, a super-fat 9-iron that left me short and with a downhill lie to an uphill green. Bogey there. And then 14, where I took a triple-bogey 7.

I hit a good drive, but missed the fairway. The slice lie, my fade and the wind conspired to put me in a greenside bunker from which it took me three shots to get out. I was okay with the first one (downhill lie and I hit the lip of the bunker), less so with the second (I hit a hard patch and my club bounced up resulted in me blading it right into that same lip). At which point I uttered my first curse word of the round.

So, suddenly I'm 7-over after 14 and a little tilted and I say to Emet, "I need to play par golf over the last four holes to break 80."

"Stop talking about it and just hit your shots," she said.

*

All I did was move my hands away from my body. About six inches. One, I was able to take an inside swing path to the ball without my body getting in the way. I think, and I'm just guessing here, that I was auto-correcting on the way to the ball, dipping my right shoulder too much to get the club face there, and that was resulting in hitting it fat too often. Two, I was much more balanced, so, at impact, my body turn was maintaining speed. Three, my hands were free to release the club head and flowed easily to a good finishing position.

*

Fifteen is a short (491 yards), downwind par-5 and I owned it, hitting the fairway and then a 5-iron from 210 that ended up pin-high, just right of the green. I got up and down for birdie.

A routine par on 16 (I hit 12 greens in regulation. 12!) and then a three-putt bogey on the par-3 17 (pretty much missed the ball on the first put, a 25-footer up the hill).

I needed par on the 18th, a par-five that isn't especially long, but has a waste bunker fronting the green that discourages going for it in two. Which became a moot point when I out-thought myself again on the tee (I tried to hit a draw so it could ride the wind and all I succeeded in doing was swiping it). My drive was well right (but playable) and only 220, so I laid up with a 6-iron to a decent spot, about 110 yards out.

The green is well uphill from there and we had a blue flag, so I hit a big pitching wedge. It wasn't enough. I had to two-putt from 40-feet for 79.

My first putt was good. I got it there, plus six-and-a-half feet. Six-and-a-half feet, slightly downhill. For 79.

Right in the heart.

*

Dr. Jeff sent me a message of congratulations and an note of warning. "You will never be satisfied with anything higher."

Yeah. I know.

But I am tempering expectations. All I want is to be able to keep a reasonable facsimile of my "new" swing. I don't think I'm currently an 8-handicap, which is what that 79 would be. No, I still think I'm in the right range. Maybe a little lower than my current 15.1 (and, actually, disregarding any rounds I play until May 31, the 79 moves my HDCP to 14.3). I know I won't hit the ball as pure as I did every time out.

I just want to be able to find that swing again after it inevitably goes missing.

Is that too much to ask? If so, can I just keep it for another week? I'm playing TPC Scottsdale on Sunday.

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Stay Gold, Ponyboy

Date: Fri, May 13, 2011

In our 50-50 custody arrangement, five days is the longest I ever go without seeing The Boy. It sometimes seems much longer. Every once in a while, he walks through the door and I hardly recognize him.

AJ will be ten in three months. That scrambles my brain (says every parent ever). It goes so fast. He's reaching a tipping point. Double figures. Out with The Boy, in with the...whatever social demographers call it. He's growing up. Young man strut and new concerns. He smells bad after soccer practice.

His current favorite word is "crud," which I find oddly heart-warming. A word from my own childhood, that I've never heard out of the mouth of someone older than ten. "Holy crud!" he says. "Kevin Kouzmanoff is cruddy." And I laugh.

"I hope he stays sweet as long as possible," Emet says, and he is that. Sweet. He'll disarm me with no warning. He is also argumentative, convinced he's always right. The other day, he insisted the record for the mile run was under three minutes. I gently told him that was not true, but he insisted. I dropped the conversation--pointedly--and sent him to Google after dinner was done.

On the other hand, I took him on a surprise trip for a scoop of ice cream--one measly scoop--last night and the thanked me with little boy genuineness. Three times.

*

I was ten, in fifth grade, when I first noticed girls. Didn't know what to do about it yet, but I noticed 'em. "Started kissing them a year later," I told AJ and he predictably screwed up his face and blurted, "Ewwww."

Just wait, buddy. Before you know it.

*

We have a fantasy baseball team together this season and it's the worst side in the league (this is entirely my fault as I didn't peruse the league specs before drafting and went with, you know, the best players, instead of players that fit the scoring. What kind of idiotic league has categories for singles and save opportunities?). Yet, every night, he's on the computer, checking our team (not helped by the fact our #1 pick, Hanley Ramirez, is currently hitting .200) in a way that describing as "obsessive" would be understating it by a buttload.

He has his own You Tube account now and monitors his viewer numbers. He comes home from school and wants to play with his buddy across the street. Social. Maturing. At his Open House a few weeks back, he showed me a project that illustrated these changes. "I used to..." all the sentences opened and turned on "...but now I..."

"I used to want to be the center of attention," my son wrote, "but now I just want to share with my friends."

*

He got bullied recently. Escalated from words and taunts to playground shoves. His mother and I reacted quickly, as did the school. No problems since.

Trouble is right around the corner. Bullies, peer pressure, sex education. Teenagers.

I'm the parent who scares him the most. Daddy Discipline. I'm the last to know about things, as he filters his misdeeds first through his mother and then Emet, dipping his toe in the water before I splash punishment. This is a good thing. Boundaries.

It remains a tightrope. Knowing when to rein him in and when to not stifle his enthusiasm. Who knows what sets him off. He wants to be heard, but needs to know when to be quiet. A hard lesson, especially in a house where his Dad is always yelling at umpires on TV.

He still climbs on me when we watch sports together. Doesn't sit next to me. Lays across my lap or on top of me if I'm supine. He laughs at farts and burps and my stupid puns.

I hope he stays sweet as long as possible. Respectful.

He gets out of the car in front of the school. I'll see him in five days. I wonder what he'll be like then?

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Ball Don't Lie

Date: Thu, May 5, 2011

Oakland A's #1 starter Trevor Cahill is over-rated. I heard this enough during the 2010 year, during the entire off-season and even now. Relax Sabre-Dorks. I get the argument. BABIP.

Now, first off, I have a bit of skepticism regarding BABIP, which is Batting Average on Balls In Play, for you people who have lives. BABIP basically says the pitcher has no bearing whatsoever on balls hit into the field of play (obviously home runs are excluded), that once wood hits horsehide, it's all luck, the Baseball Gods with their fakery and whimsical ju-ju are now fully in control.

Horse balls.

Do you think Mariano Rivera's cutter in on the hands of a lefty (where it is, roughly, all the time) influences a batted ball? Of course it does, in the form of a weak grounder to the right side or a measly pop-up and, usually, a shattered stick. Does a mighty hitter, every once in a while, manage a bloop over whomever the Yanks are paying ungodly sums to man first base? Sure. But the Mo's cutter surely has a major impact on...er...impact and the former scenario is massively more likely than the latter.

Which brings us to Cahill. Have you seen him pitch? His sinker evokes Brandon Webb in his prime. Or Dan Haren now. Heavy ball. Darting action. No surprise he gets a ton of ground balls (1.35 GB/FB ratio last year) and he is aided by a fine Oakland infield defense (last year anyway) and the spacious Coliseum.

But the Sabre-Guardians can't quit their moaning about Cahill. Unsustainable BABIP (with which I agree, with the above "luck" caveats). Doesn't strike out enough hitters. This is a guy who, at age 22 last season, was an All-Star, had an ERA under 3 (I know, ERA doesn't mean anything, it's peripherals(!) that predict performance; well, maybe I'm an idiot, but I'll take ACTUAL performance over predicted performance any day) and an OPS Against of .619.

Read that last stat again. Also, 22 years-old.

So now, Cahill is off to a heated start in 2011--at age 23. ACTUAL performance. The Sabre-Wonks are trotting out small sample size and "See! His BABIP is up 23 points! WEEEEEEEEE! Regression to the mean! Regression to the mean!"

Except Cahill is allowing an OPS Against of .549 through seven starts. Is striking out more than two batters per nine than last year (and I assure you this isn't a fluke; I've seen all his starts. He is putting suckas away) and his K/BB ratio is at 2.53 versus 1.87 last year. He dominated the best offense in the league last night.

I think we can say that--right now--Trevor Cahill is really good, even over the protestations of those who say he really isn't as good as he looks. Here's the thing:

23!

Maybe it hasn't occurred to others, but young pitchers mature. Young pitchers with nasty movement learn to harness it and have better command. Young pitchers with wide-eyed immaturity gain experience and learn the hitters and vary their attack patterns. Young pitchers get better.

Perhaps this is blasphemy from an A's fan, one who loves and preaches "Moneyball," but sometimes the eyes don't lie. Sometimes watching a player do work is more illuminating than poring through the numbers. Trevor Cahill is on the cusp of being an elite pitcher.

And luck doesn't have anything to do with it.

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Indivisible

Date: Sun, May 1, 2011

AJ was just shy of six weeks old on 9/11. He's nine now and had to be coaxed away from a video game to watch the President's news conference just a few minutes ago. That was a powerful speech. I clapped at the end.

"Are we happy he's dead?" AJ asked as I tucked him in a short while later.

"We should never wish for somebody to be dead, son," I said. "But here's the thing...Osama Bin Laden was an evil man. He intentionally murdered thousands of innocent people. Now his evil is gone from the world. He can't hurt anyone else and that's a good thing."

Sorry for the post. I couldn't fit it into 140 characters.

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Big 4 Review

Date: Fri, Apr 29, 2011

The song in my head right now is "Peace Sells," so let's start there shall we?

The VIP area was very peaceful. We set the O/U at fights witnessed at 10, but we only saw one involving a mosher and a young lady's spilled beer and that was just shoving and pointing and one hand gesture I believe conveyed "Toss off." We did see a couple security takedowns of intrepid interlopers in our pristine VIP area--one of impressive middle linebacker-ian power--but, overall, the mood was festive, rather than maniacal. At one point during Slayer, we were in a thin safety area between two thrashing pits, but the vortex never closed in on us. Even those circling with relish were a conscientious lot, following pit etiquette and creating what my friend Salk once terms, "A Pit of Good Intentions."

So, VIP? Totally worth the extra hundred bucks. Trying to think of $100 that has ever been better spent, I can only come up with two:

1) When Iggy paid donkeypuncher that same sum to ride in the front seat on the way back from Key West.

2) When I wagered that amount on Mrs. Human Head to take down Phil Gordon in Roshambo.

The boys (Al, Blood and StB) and I figured there was room enough for about 1500 humans in the VIP area, which arced out in a half moon from the stage. Behind two restraining barriers, the huddled masses were jammed together like Vienna sausages. It was insane. Ninety minutes before the first note, those crazy kids had packed themselves in, midday Indio sun pouring down on them. It was with more glee than guilt that we stood in our spacious area, stretched out our arms and marveled at their commitment. My single act of charity was to toss them a bottle of water and ask them to share.

Not sure they did.

As for the VIP beverage area, we were promised "better" food and drink selections. The food was fine, including a burger truck cleverly entitled "Grill 'Em All" (which I'm sure Lars slapped with an injunction of some sort), but the beer selections were Coors Light and Blue Moon, neither of which I could consider better than the amassed and mingled sweat of those kids in the front row. Fortunately, I fired up my craft beer radar and tracked down the Stone Brewing tent (arriving there at the exact same time as StB, who had taken another route; eerie), not that there was time or inclination for epic sudsing, but that Stone IPA was a far finer quencher of thirst while waiting for Megadeth.

*

I suppose you want me to talk about the bands some, eh? Bear with me. I've been backed up like a Beijing traffic jam with the writing and it's presently flowing, so I have no desire to edit or stop, so you get stream-of-consciousness or you get nothing you sniveling snivelers.

Though I've always admired Anthrax, I pretty much got off their train after the first album. It's the only one I ever owned, though there was plenty of "Among the Living" blasted into the hallways of my college dorm. My biggest contention with them was always Joey Belladonna, who did not sing on the first album. Even so, I was looking forward to their set, party since I'd never seen them, party because Al's enthusiasm was infectious and partly because I knew that they would be fun.

Of all the bands, they were the happiest to be there and it showed. Joey was probably the most happy, since he was admittedly "higher than a (compound curse word") and appeared to have aged double of everyone else. That fake tan he had working achieved the opposite effect of what I figure he was going for (that's our first winner of the day: Joey wins the Keith Richards Award). Their sound wasn't that great--first band curse--but the energy was fantastic and Scott Ian's maniacal stomp-dance entertained. The highlight was "Metal Thrashing Mad" (from the first album), edging out "Indians" and the playful admonition from Charlie Benante that our War Dance was less than stellar.

*

The second winner of the day, in lieu of a segue, goes to the dude in the blue shirt who was listing dangerously left, making his way (somehow) through the VIP area at a 45-degree angle to the ground. When he led with his right foot, he looked ready to fall over, but the left would magically find terra firma just in time to keep him from a public face plant. I sincerely doubt he made it through all four bands without some sort of trouble, but he can be proud of the fact he was our Big 4 Lewey Award winner.

*

Megadeth opened with "Trust" and then went into "In My Darkest Hour," which succeeded in whipping me into an off-key singing frenzy. It was the one song I told Blood I wanted them to do and it was superb. The song has a lot of history, especially with Metallica in the compound, and Dave Mustaine sang it with full bitterness and anguish, feelings he no longer feels, but was able to summon for the occasion, which is exactly what was demanded.

They were damn good and awfully tight, Mustaine and Chris Broderick trading technically superior riffs while banging away (Best Hair Award goes to Broderick; I told Blood the only reason I ever wanted to grow my hair long was to whip it around in Broderick-ian fashion. Sadly, I don't look nearly as cool as when he does it). Mustaine was short of audience interaction, but before launching into "Holy Wars" he decried the "brother against brother" nature of our world today.

Well said, Dave.

*

Here's the metaphor I used to describe the Slayer performance to Blood:

"Hi, we're Slayer. These are large steel-toed boots and we would like to come on stage and use them to kick you in the teeth."

Wow. Wow. Wow. They opened with "World Painted Blood" (a song I once used to illustrate to Emet what is awesome about this music I enjoy), followed by "Hate Worldwide" and "War Ensemble." Three absolute punishers. Sure, you can make that case for most of the Slayer canon, but they do have the ability to offer nuance. They simply decided not to in their entire set, which contained songs from 1983's "Show No Mercy" all the way up to 2009's "World Painted Blood" and there was not the slightest variation in quality or pause for respite. Kerry King spent 65 minutes pummeling his guitar. Tom Araya, always the coolest guy in the room, wailed away and when not singing, stepped back, surveyed the scene in front of him and offered that self-satisfied, bemused smile of his. It's a look of pure confidence. "Take that!" it seems to say.

"Silent Scream" was an unexpected addition to the set, but the biggest surprise was when regular guitarist Jeff Hanneman came out for the encore, his first appearance with the band since October. He'd been rehabing from necrotizing fasciitis (google'd it), which is flesh-eating bacteria, likely caused by a spider bite. He made sure to cut the sleeve off his t-shirt so we could see the atrophy and scars as he ripped through "South of Heaven" and "Angel of Death." Really cool moment for him and for us.

*

I'm a Metallica apologist ("St. Anger" excluded). I've always backed them ("St. Anger excluded) even when Lars exposes his most douchey side (frequently). They were the band that started it all for me. I went from Top 40 to Metal thirty seconds after I heard "The Four Horsemen" in 1983. But I have to say, they were terrible.

Okay, perhaps not terrible. Just...out of place. A parody, closer to Spinal Tap than to Slayer, with their flash pots and double-decker stage and goofy guitar designs (Kirk Hammett) and big, black beach balls and the way they positioned LArs's drum kit to make sure he'd be in the background of every video projected onto the big screen and the way he jumps up from behind the kit at the end of every song (sit down and play!). It was all rather silly. Even worse, they did not play well. "For Whom the Bell Tolls," which followed the opener, "Creeping Death," was horribly botched, especially by Hammett, who didn't seem to find the pocket until midway through the set.

The songs they chose weren't bad. Only one song from the years between the "Black Album" and "Death Magnetic" and heavy on the first four studio albums. The best was a startling and fantastic "Orion," which was dedicated to the late Cliff Burton, a nice touch from the boys.

Of course, there were the songs none of us wanted to hear, though we protested less vociferously than the guy near us in the Pit who thrust his middle finger at the band throughout the entirety of "Sad But True" and then stoically turned his back to the stage during "Nothing Else Matters" and "Enter Sandman."

*

The encore with all the bands was both telegraphed and onerous, but it was still kind of fun to see them up there together. Not all. Araya passed, later saying he didn't approve of the song selection ("Am I Evil?"), but he would have happily participated if they'd chosen something more "metal" like "The Four Horsemen." That would have been awesome (Big 4, Four Horsemen; get it?) and you know Mustaine knows the song already. Alas...

All in all, a vital and must-seen adventure for me and I was happy to share it with the others, a great bunch (as you all know) who made the experience that much better. I think my metal concert-going days are over now and I can't think of a better way to have gone out.

Well...on second thought...I'll probably go see Slayer again.

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Revelations

Date: Thu, Apr 28, 2011

I'd like to thank all of you who reached out via comments, Twitter, Facebook, e-mail, text, carrier pigeon, stone tablets and voicemail (sorry to those of you in the last group, but we still don't get any cell reception at home; might take that one up with the Big Guy tonight).

As I said, I didn't want to write that post. That was my overwhelming feeling when it became apparent I had to. What you read was something I began about four months ago. By the time I hit 'post' 90% of any trepidation I felt about it was gone. Part of that was the process and growth, but also thanks to a serendipitous conversation I had with Blood, Al and StB.

On our way out of Indio (as I said, my faith is a work in progress, as evidenced by my spending Easter Weekend with Slayer), we were briefly caught in Easter Sunday traffic and the conversation veered toward my own experience. And I felt totally at ease talking about my faith with the boys, which provided impetus to finally finish the darn thing.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention a couple people who were integral in me finally sacking up to post this. Emet, of course, is unflagging in her support and had known how I've struggled to say what I wanted to say lo these six months. She never prodded me and was, at the same time, always there. I'd not have arrived without her and we are both so thankful that God has brought us together.

I also want to thank maigs for that brief, but meaningful, conversation in Chicago. It was the first time I felt like I could do this (though I continued to fight it; the lesson there is, she's always right).

I wrestled with that post for so long and started and stopped and edited and re-edited and second-guessed and...well, let's just say it was hard. There was one part I kept revising and cutting and, finally, I just took it out altogether. I won't put all of it here, but, allow me to summarize:

God is, above ALL else, tolerant. He loves everybody. Muslims, gays, strippers, rappers, atheists, dogcatchers. There is no room for intolerance in His heart or in his Word. Using scripture as a basis for discrimination against any single person or any group is not what I've been taught, nor what I believe.

*

So now that the damn dam is broken, I think I can write again (your mileage may vary) and we'll get back to the usual silliness contained herein. My Big 4 review is on deck.

Thanks again, everybody. I'm overwhelmed.

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Confession

Date: Wed, Apr 27, 2011

When I was in 3rd grade, I played a significant role in a youth musical at our church. I was several years younger than the rest of the cast, but the part called for a little brother, so they brought me in (if there was an audition process, I can't recall it). I had two solos, scores of lines of dialogue and was in the thick of the action for pretty much the whole program. The first time we performed, I blanked on the first verse of my initial solo. The words were just lost. I stood there, quaking like a rabbit on the highway, knowing the words would not come back to me. So I waited.

I felt that ball of paralysis in my gut, but I was able to sing again when the chorus came. With each word I sung and spoke--remembered--it eased. And by the time we'd finished, I felt no shame at botching a few lines. I was, however, confused, maybe even a little hurt.

"Why did they laugh at me?" I asked my Mom. The script, at one point, called for me to run out the back of the chapel screaming. As I did, I heard laughter behind me.

"They weren't laughing at you, honey," Mom said. "They thought you were cute. You were acting."

I've spent most of my life in fear of being laughed at. I don't ascribe this failing to this event. It's just the way I am. It causes me to shrink from certain situations, to keep my thoughts to myself for fear of saying the wrong words, for seeming foolish or ill-informed. Sometimes, I am able to overcome, when my emotions boil, when the task of holding everything in becomes to great.

I imagine there are those out there who will laugh at me after reading this, think me ignorant.

That's okay.

I have to tell you something.

*

My parents raised me in the Baptist faith. Southern Baptist, no less. Those of you not well-versed in such matters should know that being a Southern Baptist is a full-time gig. There are services on Sunday morning. Sunday School. Services on Sunday evening. On Wednesdays. Tuesday nights, my Mom worked with senior citizens, often deputizing my sister and I to help out. I was in the children's choir, then the youth choir, with practice multiple times a week. I both attended and taught Vacation Bible School.

To sum up, church and God were a constant presence in my upbringing. I became a Christian at age 6. Yes, age 6. During the benediction, I said to my Mom, "I have to go." She thought I meant the bathroom. I meant the altar.

You can argue a child is in no position to make a conscious decision at that age. I understand that. I also know that moment is as clear to me today as it was 37 years ago. I remember every step I took up that center aisle (and it was a long way, as we were sitting in the back). I see Dr. Morton's face as I approached and him whispering in my ear, asking me if I knew what I was doing. I was adamant. He baptized me soon after and I have perfect clarity of that, as well.

What followed was many years in the ministry. I was proud to serve God. I held a bible study in my backyard for other kids on my street. I relished the once-a-year-occasion when youth got to teach the adults in Sunday School. I went on all the retreats, the summer camps, the snow trips. Our choirs sang at other churches, at campgrounds and rest homes.

One of my soccer teammates' father once said he expected me to become a Pastor. I figured he was probably right.

*

I haven't written in a while, as you've no doubt noticed (or not; I'm really not that vital). I've carved out a number of excuses. I've not felt like it. I have no time. I don't have anything to say. I'm spending time in other, more worthwhile pursuits, like my new marriage and my golf game.

The truth is, I haven't been able to write. I've tried. Everything comes out unfocused and cliched. My energy for this space sapped. Silence, better than foolishness. Any day.

*

I came into my teens and, as boys of that age are wont to do, started railing against the rigid aspects of the life I had led to that point. It manifest itself in the usual ways. Disregard for parental control, the need for peer friendships and acceptance, alcohol and then drugs. Church, the cornerstone of my upbringing, became a nuisance. I was 16. I knew everything.

I started to ditch worship service, sitting in a car in the parking lot listening to music or the football game on the radio. I'd go to choir practice and then leave before the evening service. I begged illness on Sunday mornings.

By the time I left home for college, I had no intention of going to church. And I didn't. My commitment was gone. My belief was right behind it.

My second semester in college, I took a class called "Myth and Legend." It examined the "creation myths" of different civilizations. There are similarities among all of these. It was the first time I'd ever questioned the existence of God. It became something of an obsession for me. I was disappointed and angry. Any chance I got, I took religion-centric GE classes. World Religions, Philosophical Approach to Religions, Ancient Israel and, of course, The Bible, a course I figured to ace due to my background, which I did, but only thanks to hyper-diligence as the material was so far beyond what I'd learned in church.

I didn't realize it at the time, but my obsession was a way of seeking. I felt, in a word, betrayed. I looked for proof that God didn't exist, because that would be a way for me to justify my own secular-focused behavior. I tried very hard to succeed at this errand. And I did, in a way. I convinced myself enough so that I could carry on with the direction my life was headed.

*

Moses killed a guy. Did you know that? Smote (weeeee Biblical word!) a dude, buried him in the desert and fled Egypt, ultimately marrying and becoming a shepherd. It was later that God called to him from the burning bush, called him to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. At the bush, Moses held his staff, the tool of the shepherd. God told him to cast it to the ground, where it became a serpent. After coaxing a fleeing Moses to pick up the serpent by the tail, it once again became a staff.

God had taken away a man's livelihood--Moses the sheep herder's staff--and then gave it back to him for greater purpose, to follow His instructions.

*

It wasn't until X left that I went back to church. The intervening years were chaotic and varied. Many times, I would have characterized my life as happy. I became a Dad, I made lasting friendships with good and genuine people, I found attention and enthusiasm in a number of pursuits. I lived.

Through it all, despite my protestations to the contrary, I held to my belief in God. I prayed, sporadically, but also with purpose, with the knowledge I was being heard. I asked for a great many things. Guidance, health, forgiveness. I meant every word. After "Amen," I went right back to living my life how I wanted.

I never paused long enough to hear Him answer. Eventually, he had to show me.

God doesn't mind making us suffer for Him.

My first time back at church was with my Mom. X was still living with me, but preparing her way out the door. I started crying midway through the service and didn't stop until we left the chapel. I can't even remember what the message was about. I don't even know why I was crying (though my general abject sadness during time in my life is a pretty good guess).

I do know that I left that day knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my troubles were entirely of my own making and that my only way out of that despair was through Him.

*

I haven't written here because God asked me to write what you are reading now. I didn't want to.

*

I started going to church regularly, having found a wonderful community near my house. It's called Water of Life and its message is "Passion for God, Compassion for People." It was the third or fourth time I went when I realized the pain I felt was not simply from X's betrayal, but from all those many years I lived in selfish service to my own ego. The myriad things, and people, I sought to fulfill me were never the answer. The nagging desire for meaning was always beyond my reach. The hurt was of my own offing.

The service that day was about regret, debilitating regret, and that once it gets inside of you, when you linger over your past mistakes and let them dictate your future, you are well and truly lost, for those mis-steps can not be corrected, they can only fester and bloom black.

It was a lesson I took to heart. Not an easy one, mind you. I forgave myself, though, as God has forgiven me and I set my heart to begin anew with Him.

Oh, but it's hard. Brand New Struggle. To give it all over to Him.

*

It's been many months since God asked me to write this for you. I've failed/balked at every turn. Like Moses. God has taken my words away from me, only to give them back if I follow his dictates.

I pray--and listen--more frequently now and it was in the midst of a serious discussion with Him that he told me I had to do this. I was asking for a lot. Emet and I were facing a difficult decision. We wanted answers! We got 'em.

Hers was way easier to do than mine, I assure you.

This makes me very uncomfortable. Most of you reading this have known me for a while and you can count with zero fingers the times I've mentioned my faith. Going to church, yes, but my belief? No, we haven't discussed it. I'm still that 3rd grader that doesn't want to color outside the lines, to be laughed at.

Yet, I can't deny the power I feel when I'm in worship. Every word is so meaningful, so precise and I'm often moved to pure joy. I can't deny any of this any longer. Can't not talk about it.

*

I was playing golf the other day and got to talking with an out-of-work teacher I'd been paired with. The conversation moved to our children and I asked where his go to school. "Water of Life," he said. I was so excited. I peppered him with questions, finally asking which service he attends. "I don't," he said. "But my wife and kids do."

"You should come," I said, before I even realized the words were out of my mouth. "You should come."

*

I'm learning. It's no easy thing to give yourself up completely, no simple task to suffer, to admit failure, to know that I, by myself, could not cure that long-festering emptiness that I denied, while also knowing it was always there.

And difficult to do what God asks of you even though you don't want to. So many thoughts and I shudder at my inability to get them all on the page. I didn't want to do this, but even more frightening, I don't want to do it badly. I wonder if it's all here.

And then I wake up in the morning and I write,

When He looks at me, he doesn't see all those years, bleak and without hope, and the crooked paths I wandered and the black stain of sin. God looks at me and he sees His Son, in whose image I am made and forgiven, sees only the perfect, a pure, devoted believer in Him, a simple, but eager man, whose ugliness is covered and whose debt is paid by the blood of the Lamb.

*

I thank God for reminding me of the words. I thank you for reading them.

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The Ace

Date: Mon, Dec 27, 2010

Christmas Eve in Southern California dawned mercifully sunny, if a bit nippy and breezy. I know my protestations about the previous week of rain in our fair city will fall on deaf and snow-clogged ears for those of you in chillier environs, but the rain was near-constant and fell the entirety of my four-day weekend and you know what that means.

No golf.

So I was more than thankful to see the sun when I got up at 6:30 in the ayem for an hour drive east to get a round in before the Christmas Eve shenanigans began with the in-laws.

(I find it humorous to say "in-laws," because that terms carries an automatic negative connotation, but I have to say, the Emet Clan--all 40 of 'em--are the most enjoyable and welcoming group around and I have such a great time with them always.)

Emet was not with me for the round and I was playing a course for the first time. With the festivities starting at 1 p.m. at Emet's sister's house, I chose a course close to there and jammed out early. The course was Oak Valley, one of a cluster of courses where the 10 and 60 freeways meet in Beaumont, CA (point of reference for degenerates: about 15 minutes from Morongo) and a tight little track. Narrower fairways than my usual course. And trees. Lots of fucking trees. Oaks, I guess.

After hitting balls for about a half-hour, I headed to the first tee. "Are you my single?" asked the starter. I affirmed that I was an he went into a meandering tale about how he didn't have anyone to pair me with, BUT(!) if I wanted to, I could skip the first hole (which contained a foursome that was less than stellar) and try to catch up with a threesome ("Old guys, but they hit it pretty good") that was a few holes ahead of me. He assured me I could come back to play #1 after the round, so I drove to the #2 tee and set off.

Hit a gorgeous drive on the short-ish par-four, leaving myself but 92 yards to the flag for my second. Gakked a 3/4-swing sand wedge to the left of the green and chipped in for birdie.

That's right.

The third was a very short par-3 with an elevated tee and when I say "elevated," I mean elevated. At least 100 feet above the green. The GPS gave me 117 to the flag, so I hit a nice, easy sand wedge not nearly easy enough and ended up behind the green in a thicket. After pitching out of that crap, then pitching onto the green, I three-putted.

Now, I'm not taking you through my round hole-by-hole. I noted those two merely to illustrate the state of my game. A birdie, immediately followed by a triple-bogey on the easiest hole on the course. So stupid.

I still hadn't caught the older gentlemen in front of me, but I could see them on #4. I bogeyed that'un, done in once again by a poor approach after a solid drive. The wind was pretty pesky. I'd guess 12-15 mph, and I kept trying to hit my short irons on a low trajectory. I do this by playing the ball further back in my stance and putting my hands in front of the ball, thereby closing the face. I play in wind a lot and have somewhat mastered this style, as it gives me a nice little fade and keeps the ball low so the wind doesn't knock it down. The problem I'd been having to this point in this particular round, however, was the lack of fade. Ball was going straight and I was missing greens left.

Pretty much caught the threesome on #5, a long, downhill par-5. I had to wait to hit all three shots (yes, I hit the green in regulation; yes, I three-putted it from about 55 feet). As they were walking off the #5 green, one of the guys yelled back to me that they'd let me play through on the next hole, a par-3 measuring 148 yards.

Here it is:



They were waiting for me on the 6th tee. Maurice, Burt and Dale. Three buddies who've played together for 40 years. They even keep a spreadsheet detailing their rounds (and who owes who). Being the personable guy I am, I thanked them for the offer to play through, but suggested I just join up with them, if they didn't mind.

They didn't.

This is what it says on the golf course website about #6:

"This straightforward par 3 sixth hole is not as uphill as it might appear from the tee. Pull the appropriate club and hit it hole high on this two-tiered green."


The tee box was a few steps up from the cart path, the green a bit uphill from where we stood. The flag was in the front. Dale spied it with his GPS and announced 137 to the pin with the front of the green at 130. I had two clubs in my hand, the 8 and the 9 and debated my options as Burt dropped his tee shot about 20 feet past the hole with a 6-iron. I had read the course tips and remembered what the website said about the green not being as uphill as it looked. Which is what had me thinking 9-iron. But the wind was too prominent, coming right at us.

"Show us the way," Maurice said.

I stepped up with my 8-iron and went into my knockdown stance. Though I was yanking everything to this point, I stuck with my typical plan and aimed a little left, right at the sand trap guarding the left front of the green. I struck it pure, solid contact, a little humpbacked liner that, yes, was starting to fade a bit, was, in fact, tracking right toward the hole.

"Get up!" I said.

I saw it land. I saw it take one bounce. I saw it trickle toward the flag. But I did not see it go in. "That's looks in there tight," said Burt. "Yeah, it does," I said.

It did momentarily cross my mind that the ball went in. More likely, I thought, was that it rolled a few feet behind the hole and was obscured by the pin. I knew it was close. Five feet maybe. Not much more. I was hoping for a nice, easy birdie putt and wasn't even anxious while waiting for the other two to hit.

As I drove the cart toward the green, I still couldn't see the area near the pin. I went down in a canyon and then up and the front part of the green was obscured by the sand trap and the ridge. It wasn't until I reached the back portion of the green that I could see the hole.

There were not any golf balls near it. At which point my heart started thundering in my chest.

"Gentlemen," I said. "That ball may have gone in the hole."

I walked rather briskly, not breathing at all. Saw the ball mark, six feet to the left and short of the hole. I think I even clsoed my eyes for a second as I reached the flag. Opened them as I as looking right down its length.

Yep. There it was. A Nike PD High. In the cup.

*

I didn't jump around or anything. I had, after all, just met these guys (and, thinking about it later, what a stroke of good fortune on two counts: One, I had just caught them. If I go slower, don't catch them until the next hole or beyond, I have no witnesses. Two, the first shot they see me hit is a hole-in-one). I WAS smiling from ear-to-ear, leaning on my putter and trying to wrap my head around the shot. They were awfully nice and congratulatory about it (Maurice gave me his phone number at the end of the round. He said to give him a call if anyone disputed the account) and told me about their first holes-in-one (each of them had multiple, but Dale didn't get his first until age 71--he now has two). I texted Emet. I tweeted the ace (and thanks again everyone for your kind comments and congratulations).

Lastly, I said the my partners, "Now, let's not make any assumptions about my skill level based on that hole," which was followed by suggestions from them about how many strokes I should give them.

Of course, they gave me the honor on #7 and I responded by topping my drive all of 175 yards. I finished the front 9 with a 41. One bird, one eagle, one triple, five bogeys and a par on #1 when I got back around to play it. I was having visions of grandeur about the epicness of this round, the lowness of my score, visions which were only exacerbated when I birdied #10 when I holed out a sand wedge from 60-yards for a birdie, another ridiculous shot in the round that caused Dale to shout, "Who the hell invited this guy?!?"

That's right. After 9 holes, I was only four-over. No, it did not last. I promptly doubled 11, had two pars and three bogeys over the next five holes, and strolled to 17 with an outside shot at breaking 80. I needed to play the last three holes in one-under, but it could have been done, especially after a gargantuan tee shot left me only 48 yards to the pin on #17.

My tee shot was so monstrous, that it ended up in the rough past the end of the fairway. I did not account for the possible flier lie. I also hit it too hard. So the ball landed a few feet past the pin, took a hard bounce and a long roll and ended up in the back bunker.

From where I took three shots to get out (it should be noted that the sand was dense and soaked after a week of rain and I knew I had to really muscle up to get it out and I did, or thought I did, hit two of them pretty good, but just didn't have enough oomph or took too much sand or did something else that I can't exactly pinpoint because I was too enraged with a red misted fury that did not, surprisingly, result in a chucked club).

So that sweet-ass triple-bogey ruined the outside chance of 79, but I recovered to bogey the difficult 18th and par the first for an 84, my best score ever and EASILY my lowest handicap differential round (Oak Valley plays at a 71.0/132, considerably harder than my home course).

It was a swell shot and a swell round and when Emet asked me about it later, I told the tale with all the relish contained here and re-told it to all her relatives (all of whom play) and, later, confided in her about how upset I was with those two triples, to have left all those strokes out on the course.

"You have problems," she said.

I know.

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The B Team

Date: Fri, Dec 3, 2010

Yesterday morning, I logged onto Facebook and the first thing that showed up was a picture of my son. He was at a hockey game, sitting right up against the glass. In his hand was a puck and on his face was a smile. Not just any smile. It was the one that comes from deep inside him, like his entire heart and soul is etched on his face, like his body explodes from the effort, the joy of that moment.

He went to the Ducks game with his mom and step-father. I wasn't even aware he'd gone until I saw that photo on her Facebook page. And I thought of all the things that means and the last four-plus years and reactions past and bitter twists of the road and that all-too-frequent feeling I've had, the one that laments "What I Miss" of my son's life.

I thought all those things in a rapid instant, but none of them harmed me. None lingered, each negative thought purged by feeling, the feeling that I was happy for my boy, for the experience he had.

*

At my recent wedding reception, my Dad stood up to tell a story. He didn't get it quite right, didn't bring it home like a seasoned orator, but we all got the gist. He talked about driving me home from soccer tryouts when I was 15. It was the first time in my entire career I didn't make the 'A' squad. The decision was unfair. On talent, I make the team easily, and I failed to grasp the myriad, behind the scenes machinations that led to my demotion to the 'B' team. I was beyond despondent, knowing all my friends would play on without me and that I was relegated to the lesser group, made up mostly of boys a year younger than I.

I could go one of two ways: sulk my way through the season and fixate on the unfairness of it all or work hard to prove them all wrong.

*

The day after AJ's mom told me she was leaving, we went to a local amusement park. I know that sounds weird. That was quite literally the saddest day of my life. There was a pain in my heart that I would come to know very well. I felt like I was inside out. All of my nerves exposed, vulnerable to the slightest touch or word.

Yet, I felt I had to go. If there was the barest thread on this unraveling spool, I had to grab it.

As it turned out, the amusement park made me ill. AJ wanted to go on a ride that was basically a centrifuge. Shaped like a spaceship, the ride enclosed us and we laid down at an obtuse angle. Soon, it was turning at a speed which fastened us to the walls of the ride. The force soon made me sick and I began to pine for the end. I could see others climbing the walls, held there by gravity. I reached out for AJ, fearful he was as scared as I, but only saw him giggling and rolling around, suspended above the floor.

I was nauseous the rest of the day. Vertigo plagued me for a week. AJ and I still joke about it today. When we drive past the park, he says, "Daddy, there's the ride that scrambled your brain."

*

That 15-year-old soccer season turned out to be the turning point. My coach gave me his confidence, as did the team. I played every minute in central midfield, a position I hadn't played for six years. My game improved immeasurably. More than anything else, I had fun, more fun than I'd had playing soccer in many years. And, in the ultimate Fuck You, my 'B' team advanced two rounds further in the State Cup than did the 'A' team.

*

I got an e-mail from AJ's mom last week, a few days before the wedding. It said,

"I am grateful to have you and (Emet) in my life, and all the support that I get from you regarding AJ. You’re an amazing dad and (Emet) a great role model."

Gosh. There's a lot in there that has the potential to "scramble my brain." But there's also one, final, immutable fact, the only one that truly matters: we are succeeding.

I have said many times, even during the worst of it all, as badly as I felt for myself, I felt worse for AJ. And that is what kept me pushing forward. What saved me, really. I had to keep it together for him. I (mostly) did. And the child is flourishing, is content with his life, scattered though it may sometimes be.

All the potential detritus that could poison his future, the regret, recriminations, bitter grudges, have all fallen away. They do not matter any more.

*

The lesson, my father said at the wedding reception, summing up his speech, is that sometimes you have to go through the bad to get to the good. He's right. I ended up All-Section in high school as we twice won our league and once the Section title. I slogged through two years of doubt and pain to come out the other side.

Emet is deep and strong and generous and an absolute revelation about the way people can be. I am amazed by her knowledge of self, of her capacity to give and her strength of character. I'm also hot for her.

She would never claim to be my savior and that's probably true to some extent. With the help of many (a lot of you out there, in fact), and my own promise to my son, I was able to save myself.

Emet is the reward.

*

There's a picture from the wedding. Perfect blue skies and docile waves and undulating sand. Emet and I are looking back over our shoulders at the camera and AJ is standing next to us. He has his hands in his pockets. He looks sharp in his pressed white shirt and tie. His hair looks perfect. But I hardly see that. All I see is his smile, the one that comes from deep inside him, like his entire heart and soul is etched on his face, like his body explodes from the effort, the joy of that moment.

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Goin' to the Chapel Beach...

Date: Fri, Nov 26, 2010

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Sundays With Dr. Pauly

Date: Thu, Sep 9, 2010

One of the most enjoyable activities from the holiday weekend was picking a fantasy football team with AJ. It was a random league, an autodraft, so I had to patiently explain to him that's why we got Eli Manning, who he deems less than stellar.

This is true, but we're stuck with him. Which would not be the case if AJ were 21 and could participate at Fantasy Sports Live. Nothing gets my engines revved up like whipping all your asses in daily fantasy football contests. Hell, I'll even beat you with Eli Manning.

With the kickoff of the NFL season, we also get the return of Sundays with Dr. Pauly. Follow the link for all the up-to-date info, but I'll give you the lede right here: up to $2,000 added.



I will see you there.

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