Chasing The Moment

My buddy Coop and I have a great idea for a book.

See, we're golfers. Serious golfers. We read all the magazines, and watch Golf Channel coverage of nothing tournaments, and debate the relative merits of perimeter weighting. We are, for lack of a better word, addicted.

Between us, Coop and I figure that we've got about 40 years of combined experience in the game. We have no idea how many different courses we've played. There's no way to count. All of this shared experience has convinced us, perhaps naively, that together we can write the definitive golf instruction book for regular people.

The concept for the book was born from a series of e-mails that we sent each other over the course of a couple of years, in which we recounted our most recent rounds, shot by shot. Over time, we noticed a recurring theme to these notes: it's all in your head. As such, there will be no diagrams in our book. No detailed descriptions of "positions" during the swing, no gobbledygook technique, no mechanics at all. As the Barenaked Ladies once sang, "It's All Been Done." Our book is totally free of engineering, but chock-full of feel, and trust, and the space between our ears.

Coop and I believe that golf's vice-like grip on recreational athletes in this country is almost solely due to the fact that at apparently random moments, the weekend hacker will do something extraordinary. Furthermore - and this is the important difference between golf and every other hobby - at certain moments, we amateurs can execute a shot as well as humanly possible.

Think about that for a moment. I'd be lucky to get a bat on a Randy Johnson fastball. I will never dunk. I will never paint something worthy of the Louvre, no matter how hard I try. There are certain feats that require a set of skills or conditions that are simply not available to the masses.

However: if I roll in a 40-foot bomb for birdie (or, more likely, to save par), I have done that as well as it possibly can be done. If I hit a wedge to three feet, I have matched the performance of the world's greatest experts of the game - if only for a fleeting moment. Of course, I'd still have to make the putt.

Point being, golf offers inclusion. Golf grants glimpses of perfection. That, to me and to Coop, is the essential appeal of the game, and the source of the addiction. All golfers, regardless of skill or experience, are chasing that moment, just to feel the rush.

Which brings me to Sunday.

A couple of my buddies suggested that we go play one of the many newer courses on the south side of Orlando. This one happens to be relatively short - just over 6,500 yards from the Championship tees, hardly the jungle safaris that pass for golf courses on the PGA Tour these days - but it's tight and nasty, with a slope of 133 and a course rating of 71.9. With the blessing of Mrs. Watson and good weather ahoy, we struck out for an 11am tee time.

As I warmed up by hitting a small bucket of balls on the practice tee, I noted something terribly disturbing: I was striping it. Danger, Will Robinson, danger. Having played this game since I was ten years old, I knew that a compact, rhythmic swing on the driving range was a sure sign of impending disaster. Gork it sideways for half an hour, and I'll shoot the lights out on the course. But invoke images of Ben Hogan while on the range? Dead meat. After knocking seven or eight 3-woods a mile high to the back of the range, I shook my head and walked to the first tee, ready to let The Boys empty my wallet again.

After five holes, I was as scripted: three over. Cold-topped a tee ball on number two - with that same 3-wood, mind you. Three-putted on number four. Rope-hooked a hybrid into the next fairway on five. Maybe we should just order some sandwiches and enjoy the sunshine.

On the 215-yard par-3 sixth hole, I missed the green left, but got up and down to save par. A glimmer of light. Stood on the tee at the par-5 seventh and bunted a low screamer that took to the hard fairway and kept running. 240 yards to the green. Lay up or go for it?

Screw it, I'm three over. I didn't come here to paint.

Another rope-hook three-wood - I'm going to have a serious chat with that club tomorrow - leaves me left of the green, pin-high, facing a tough pitch to a tight pin from a downhill lie. The ball jumps off the face of a lob wedge at Mach Three, but checks up hard when it hits the green.

Ten feet of roll, and it dents the pin for an eagle. Back to one-over.

Hmmm.

Next hole is a short par-3. My buddy Mike, who we call "Fred Funk" for his metronomic propensity to hit fairways, knocks a pitching wedge to thirty feet. I follow him with a wedge of my own, this time to fifteen feet.

Mike, of course, drills his birdie putt. I should point out that Mike is a 15-handicap, and through seven holes, he is even par. Insert comment about "glimpses of greatness" here.

Rule Number One from the book: Never taunt the Golf Gods. I've just turned this nine around by chipping in for an eagle. The smart play is to keep my mouth shut and hope that I can maintain this run. Yet, for reasons unexplained, I feel compelled to lay my favorite line on the Funkmaster as I stand over my birdie putt:

"Mike, this is only gonna hurt for a minute."

And I make it, matching his birdie. Back to even par. Note to the Golf Gods: I will make an offering tonight at the Altar of Tiger.

No use, the Golf Gods are not pleased. Dump a ball in the water from the tee on the ninth hole, drop, get to fifteen feet with a chance to save par, miss it. Make the turn at one over, which is a good day for me. Our group grabs food at the turn and heads to the tenth tee.

What followed was the sequence that prompted this entire blog entry: birdie-birdie-par-birdie. Swear to Golf Gods.

My swing was slow and controlled. The ball flew precisely as intended. Every shot was seen in my mind's eye prior to execution. On the greens, the putting lines were lit up as if by fluorescent bulbs. It was a real-life Bagger Vance episode. If there is such a thing as a Zone, I could at least smell it. For 45 minutes or so, the game was easy. I walked to the 14th tee at two under par for the day, a position that I have never experienced in my entire golf life.

Go back to what I just wrote about inclusion. You watch PGA Tour pros play every week, see them go fifteen or eighteen under, and you think nothing of it. Imagine what it must be like knowing that three or four putts dropping in the hole over the course of four days is the difference between making your mortgage payment that month - or keeping your playing privileges for the following season. Imagine the pressure.

Now, come to Sunday. Me and the boys were playing for peanuts. Nobody will ever care what I shot that day, or what Mike shot, or what Drew or Alan shot. And yet, as I stood on the 14th tee knowing that a par round - or, gasp, a round in the 60's - was completely within my grasp, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I was feeling what tour pros feel every week.

The taste was metallic. Cotton-mouth is too kind. Still, what sport offers a guy like me, with a family and a full-time job, even the slightest whiff of such mastery?

You're waiting for the punch line, the inevitable paragraph that starts with "once the cart girl regained consciousness, I took my drop from the hot dog warmer and prepared to play my ninth shot..." Well, you're not gonna get it. Let the record show that I did not choke. However, the Golf Gods had their little fun with me.

On the par-3 14th, I spun a 9-iron off the green, which never happens to me. Bogey. I missed the green with a 7-iron on the par-5 15th, leading to another bogey (with a stunning save to make the six). Lipped out a birdie putt on 16. Flew a 5-iron over the green on the 185-yard par-3 17th, which would ordinarily require a 50-mph tailwind and a gun to my head. Think I was a little juiced at that point? Lipped out the par putt. Another bogey.

Stood on the 18th tee at one-over for the day. Make birdie, and I record the first even-par round of my entire life. No pressure, Television Boy.

I need to acknowledge my playing partners, who, acutely aware of what was going on, graciously hid from me for the final five holes. I think Drew actually scooted away from me in the golf cart. Never speak to the pitcher during a no-hitter. Those are my Boys.

Having learned my lesson from 17, I pull a six-iron in the fairway - a full club less than what my instincts tell me to swing - and hammer it to twenty feet, just left of the pin, one inch into the fringe. Birdie chance, albeit through a deep swale to a hole placed precariously on a ridge.

What do you think happened next?

Nope. Or, if you're a glass-half-empty reader, Yep.

Missed it. Tap-in for par. Even on the back, one over on the front, 73 for the day. Best round of the year, matching the best round of my life on a par-72 golf course. All started by a chip-in for eagle after six holes of dreck.

I'll remember the score - and lord knows that The Boys won't let me forget it, not when they decide they need strokes - but that wasn't what made the day special. The aspect of Sunday that I will cherish is the glimpse of the other side, the knowledge that, for one round, the Golf Gods allowed me a peek behind the curtain. That I was able to do so in the company of good friends only made it more enjoyable. Mike the Funkmaster shot 81, by the way. Pretty damn good for a 15-handicap.

Coop is in town this week, and of course, we're playing golf this weekend. I'm a mortal lock to shoot 147 next time out. But I'll come back, just to chase the moment, because that's why we play.

White Hot

So I'm on my roof the other day.

Don't be surprised. Since Charley and his obnoxious buddies Ivan, Jeanne, and francis crashed the party back in the summer of '04, I've spent as much time on my roof as I have in my living room.

No hurricane this time, just spring cleaning. The massive oak trees that provide a canopy to my neighborhood in central Florida love nothing more than to fill my gutters with a dark, soggy brew of decaying leaves. Two or three times each year - or weekly, during hurricane season - I pull out the ladder, slip on the work gloves, and take brooms, rakes, and trash bags onto the flat gravel surface above my home. This weekend was a five-bagger, which is a light day, all things considered.

During a break in the action, I came down the ladder to grab a bottle of water. My wife burst through the door into the garage to announce that she had called our local cable company and ordered the Major League Baseball "Extra Innings" package, allowing us to watch up to 60 out-of-market games per week. She was bubbling because she had already found the Red Sox game, and suggested that I take a break and come watch.

Just in case anyone is wondering why I married her.

Have to admit, it was pretty cool to watch the Colorado - San Francisco game on FSN Rocky Mountain, just to see the Rockies' crowd boo Barry Bonds at every at-bat. But while Mrs. Watson is a card-carrying member of Red Sox nation, I remain a hardcore basketball guy. It was with great interest, therefore, that I watched the opening game of the Miami Heat - Chicago Bulls playoff series on Saturday night.

Seriously, does anyone do game night promotions as well as the Heat? And they step up their game in the playoffs, too. A couple of years ago, it was the "blackout," when all 20,000-plus fans at American Airlines Arena were given black t-shirts. Another year, the Heat created a "Red Zone," with red t-shirts. I have both shirts sitting on a shelf in my office. In 2006, the opener was a "white-out," complete with an accompanying website (www.whitehotheat.com), wherein Game One of the playoffs featured - you guessed it - 20,000 South Florida fans dressed in white. Corny, maybe, but way cool. Everything they do is cool. Like Miami.

Over the last few weeks, as the Heat sleepwalked through the end of the regular season to the tune of nine losses in their last 16 games, there was much wringing of hands among the South Florida faithful as to which Miami team would show up for the postseason. Would it be the team that went 20-5 in February and March, building a lead in the Southeast Division that would prove impregnable? Or the team that closed the schedule with losses to Boston, Atlanta, and Chicago - two dreck non-playoff squads and Miami's first-round opponent, respectively?

Your answer: 111-106, Heat, as seen on Sun Sports.

Will Dwyane Wade and Shaquille O'Neal be enough to carry the Heat into the second round?

30 points and 11 assists from Wade. 27 points and 16 rebounds for O'Neal. Have we learned nothing over the last couple of seasons?

Pat Riley frequently went public with his concerns that his veteran-laden team felt it could "flip a switch" come playoff time. This never sat well with Riles, who comes from the Overprepare School of coaching. Pat, baby, sit back and relax.

You've got Wade and O'Neal. That's all you need.

Mind you, Chicago will give Miami a run in this series. The Bulls are well-coached under Gritty Gutty Scotty Skiles and have one of the deepest benches in the league. They might steal game two at the Triple-A, and they'll surely win at least one game back in the Windy City. But that's it.

The Heat - in particular, O'Neal - have flipped the switch. This is why they play. More to the point, Shaq is playing for the same reason that Michael Finley signed with the Spurs, Roger Clemens entertains offers to pitch, and Brett Favre keeps stringing NFL fans along with thoughts of another season. It's winning time.

There's nothing left to prove. No more records to break. Shaq's place in history is secure. All that's left is to win, again. Time to flip the switch.

Is that enough to bring an NBA title to South Florida? Probably not. Not with Detroit, San Antonio, or Dallas looming. But it's more than enough to shed the Bulls. Game One was the opening argument.

It's winning time.

Just Win, Baby

Consider, if you will, the Tampa Bay Bucs.

From their entry into the NFL in 1976, the Buccaneers suffered twenty years of spectacular ineptitude. 17 times during that span, the Bucs recorded double-digit losses. The pendulum finally began to swing in the other direction in 1996, when Tampa Bay scored two of the most important victories in franchise history: voters in Hillsborough County approved a tax to fund a new stadium, and the Bucs hired Tony Dungy as head coach.

From 1997, when Dungy orchestrated just the second 10-win season in Bucs history, until today, Tampa Bay has recorded all of two losing seasons. Jon Gruden brought Tampa Bay a Super Bowl title following the 2002 season. Raymond James Stadium is a comfortable, well-appointed, family-friendly place to watch a game, and the Bucs are finally replacing the embarassingly outdated offices at One Buc Place. And more to the point, according to the Bucs' website, all season tickets are sold out.

Imagine that. A waiting list for Buccaneers season tickets. Winning, you see, solves everything.

Ran into one of the ticket sales reps for the Orlando Magic the other day and asked him if the Magic's recent winning jag had boosted his business. With a relieved nod, he informed me that compared to the same time last year, season ticket deposits have doubled.

Within Tuesday's Orlando Sentinel was this note from NBA writer Tim Povtak: as part of a promotion, the Magic sold 40 new season tickets for the 2006-07 season on Monday morning - the day after the Magic were eliminated from playoff contention.

Intriguingly, an editorial ran in the same Tuesday edition of the Sentinel suggesting that the much-discussed extra penny added to the Orange County hotel tax would be an excellent method of generating funds toward a new arena in Orlando. More on that in a moment.

The lesson: winning solves everything, and I mean everything.

The great majority of sports fans who have never worked inside a front office simply cannot comprehend the magnitude of that fact. Sure, it's a clever bromide to toss out in conversation, the kind of thing you'd say in a bar, generating nods of agreement from your buddies, but you really have no idea. Personality conflicts between coach and general manager, questions of work ethic among your star players, lagging ticket sales, a frustrated and vocal fan base - it all melts away with the W's. When I was working for the Magic, I struggled to explain how the morale of the staff rose and fell with wins and losses - and remember, this was 1993 through 1997, when the Magic never missed a playoff berth. The bottom line: winning is good. Losing is bad. Really bad. Ask anybody who worked for the Bucs from 1976 through 1996.

How good is winning? So good that it can completely change the perception of a franchise among its community - and as all sports fans know in this saturated media age, perception is reality.

Case in point: in this space, I took two Orlando Sentinel writers to task regarding their editorials on Orlando's plans for a new arena for the Magic. While Scott Maxwell and Mike Thomas don't represent every opinion at the Sentinel - and Scott sent me a note to assure me that he was, in fact, a basketball fan - their columns did fuel a quiet sentiment among some Magic insiders that the Orlando Sentinel isn't exactly on the team's side on most issues. Hometown newspapers aren't necessarily supposed to be fans; they're supposed to ask tough questions in order to best serve their readers. Which brings me back to the Sentinel editorial from Tuesday:

"In the coming months, Central Florida's leaders could act to secure the Magic's future in Orlando by making the commitment to invest in a new arena. Raising Orange County's tax on hotels by a penny could generate funds to help replace the outmoded TD Waterhouse Centre, with money left over to contribute to a performing-arts center, remodeled Florida Citrus Bowl and more marketing for the region's attractions and hotels.

The Magic are back. It would be nice to keep them around for a long time." (Orlando Sentinel editorial page, April 18)

What prompted this? "Average home attendance rose from last season by about a thousand fans a night," according to the same editorial. In other words, the Sentinel's readership has responded to the Magic, and now the Sentinel is responding to its readership. And what prompted the renewed interest in the Magic?

Sixteen wins in 21 games. Winning solves everything. Al Davis knew what he was talking about.

The apparent caveat to this (otherwise brilliant) piece of insight is the Florida Marlins, who find themselves seriously considering a move to San Antonio, or Las Vegas, or Portland, or any city that will build them a stadium. It's early, but the Marlins rank dead last in average attendance this season, drawing 14,561 fans per game at Joe Robbie Pro Player Dolphin(s) Stadium, which holds over 34,000 for baseball. In fact, the Marlins have ranked in the bottom five in MLB home attendance for five years running, a stat that Marlins ownership keeps handy when arguing for a new ballpark.

Mind you, the Marlins have won two World Series titles in the last nine years - one less than the almighty Yankees over the same span, and twice as many as the Braves have won in 30 years in Atlanta. What's happening?

Cynics love to lament the notoriously fickle South Florida sports market, the one that cannot fill the Orange Bowl for a Miami Hurricane football program that is 64-10 since 2000. It's a "celebrity culture," they say, pointing to April 11th, 2003, when a franchise and arena-record 20,152 fans packed the American Airlines Arena for a Miami Heat home game against the Washington Wizards - Michael Jordan's final appearance in Miami. The Dolphins, Miami's oldest and most storied franchise, can still pack 'em in to the tune of 71,907 per game last season, 8th-best in the NFL (although that was only 95.6 percent of capacity, 22nd in the league - compared to top-rated Green Bay, which somehow was 15.6 percent OVER capacity at Lambeau Field last year). Point being, there are plenty of South Florida stereotypes to apply, but I think they miss the point.

Remember, it's about the winning.

The Marlins practically coined the term "fire sale" following their 1997 World Series season, dumping salary en route to a 108-loss year in '98. This time, the Marlins waited until the stadium issue was front and center: 83 wins in each of the last two seasons following their 2003 title, now on pace for another year-long stinker after another housecleaning, and just in time to reduce the red ink before a potential move.

Say what you will about the moves made by the Magic over the last few years, but at least they were trying to win. Maybe some bad decisions were made, and perhaps poor judgement was on display, but there was always intent. Same holds true for the Heat - they traded three-fifths of a starting lineup that made the playoffs just to get Shaq, for Heaven's sake. Even the Devil Rays were trying to win, albeit with a payroll commitment that placed them at baseball's kiddie table. They were all trying.

Perception is reality, and the Marlins cannot convince their fans that they're still in it to win. That's a much stronger deterrent than the two World Series rings are a comfort. Winning is not yesterday, or tomorrow. It's right now and always.

If the Magic can capitalize on the good vibes of a stirring finish, they'll get an arena deal done. If the Marlins get some guidance from Major League Baseball, which wants the game in Miami the way the NFL wants football in Los Angeles, they may get their new stadium as well. In all cases, the lesson is the same:

Winning solves everything.

It Had To Be Boston

This Monday, April 17th, marks an important anniversary in my life.

Five years and one day earlier, on April 16, 2001, I joined the ranks of the temporarily insane by running my first - and to this point, last - marathon.

It happened to be Boston. It had to be Boston.

On Monday, the Boston Athletic Association will host the 110th running of the great race, coinciding, as it always does, with Patriots' Day in Massachusetts. The Red Sox will play a home game at Fenway at 11am, so that fans may file out to Brookline Avenue in time to see the race leaders cross the Mass Pike, in the shadow of the Citgo sign.

By the time they get to the Fens, runners will have passed through nine municipalities: Ashland, Framingham, Natick, Wellesley, Newton, Brighton, Brookline, Boston. Soon after passing Fenway, they'll make that final turn onto Boylston Street, seeing the concrete canyon of the Prudential Center and the Boston Public Library before them. Many of those runners - the ones who struggle home in four hours plus - will shed a tear at the sheer weight of their accomplishment, perhaps in memory of a loved one for whom they run. A wall of noise from those blessed spectators who stayed will lift tired legs to the finish line, where an army of volunteers will welcome the runners with silvery blankets and pats on the back.

I know all of this, because I did it.

I ran cross-country in high school as a clever means of getting in shape for baseball season. In college, I ran for fun, taking advantage of the rolling hills of upstate New York as an alternative to working out in a dingy gym. But I was never a serious "runner." At least, not until Boston.

My in-laws used to live in Newton, and my wife and I visited them as often as we could while we were living in Connecticut. It was an easy 90-minute drive, and we loved all that Boston had to offer. It was during one of these visits, when my mother-in-law completed her third or fifth Boston Marathon (I've honestly lost count), that I became obsessed with a vision of completing a marathon myself.

But not just any marathon. It had to be Boston.

No race carries as much history. No marathon personifies its location like Boston. Put simply, if you're going to run 26.2 miles, the locale had better be perfect. And Boston is perfect for the marathon. I wish I could better describe it - and Lord knows, there are dozens of books on the subject - but the Boston Marathon is a full-day happening. It's a love-in. A 26-mile street party. There's nothing quite like it.

I hatched my plan sometime in 1999, I think. The details are fuzzy with time, but I know for a fact that I botched my first efforts at training for a marathon via Achilles tendinitis and shin splints, the latter of which landed me in once-a-week rehab sessions at UConn Medical. By the time I found enough duct tape and bailing wire to hold myself together, it was spring of 2001. So that was the Boston Marathon I would run.

Having failed to complete a qualifying marathon in time for Boston '01 - this being one of the few marathons in the world that requires a qualifying time for entry - I had two choices. I could honor a Boston tradition and run as a "bandit," without an official number, but I was a stubborn lad. I wanted an official entry. So I chose Option Two, which was to call the B.A.A. directly and beg.

It worked. Their PR office granted me a "media entry," which gave me an official bib and an all-important seat on the busses that carry runners to the starting line in Hopkinton. Amazing what "ESPN" on your business card would get you back in 2001.

Race day was idyllic. High 40's, little wind, slightly overcast. Utterly perfect marathon conditions. Hopkinton, the town that bills itself as the place "where it all begins," looked like Woodstock, if Woodstock were sponsored by Adidas and Power-Gel. Runners of all shapes and sizes (and chances of actually finishing). The local high school serves as a staging area. Everywhere you look, down every side street and alley, you see people in singlets and expensive shoes, nervously pacing as they await the start. With nearly 20,000 official (and unofficial) runners hoping to complete the race, that can be a long wait - from my corral, in the far reaches of Hopkinton, the time between the gun and my actually reaching the start line was a full twelve minutes. Think about that - 12 minutes from the time you hear the shot until the time you see the starting line.

The first ten kilometers of a marathon are a joy ride. Bouyed by the fans out here in the country, excited at the realization that you're actually "doing it," and terrified of slowing down for fear of getting trampled by the 10,000 idiots behind you, you simply surf the wave. In fact, my memories of the first half of the 2001 Boston Marathon are nothing more than blurred glimpses of humanity: runners pulling off the course to relieve themselves. A little girl in Framingham holding out orange slices for the runners while complaining that "my ahm huhts" (think Boston accent). Passing a water station in Natick, one that was set up expressly for the race leaders (they all lay out their own drinks of choice in advance), and seeing that it was completely torn down by the time I reached it. Nothing specific, everything exhilirating. Then, I hit the 13-mile mark, and Wellesley.

The "scream tunnel" is a gauntlet of Wellesley College students who make it their mission each year to blow out as many eardrums as possible. You can hear them a mile away - literally. While I was appreciative of the support, I was more concerned with my shoes, which seemed to be falling off my feet. Stopping to re-tie them, I pressed on, only to realize within two minutes that I had laced them tight enough to stop circulation. Another stop. I should point out that by the time I reached the halfway mark at Wellesley, the race leaders were about fifteen minutes away from the finish line, four cities away. The American marathon record appeared safe.

A couple of miles after Wellesley, the marathon course makes a hard right at a fire station on Commonwealth Avenue, and runners enter the infamous Hills of Newton. Heartbreak Hill, the subject of much Boston Marathon lore, is actually the third incline in a series of four. Coming as it does between miles 17 and 21, when the body is taking serious issue with the mind, Heartbreak is a journey into hell. The only solace for a recreational runner is the knowledge that once you reach the top of Newton, it is all literally downhill from there.

Boston College sits around Mile Marker 21. The undergrads, fully lubricated by the time I got there, had formulated a neat trick: they placed sentries in the trees with a copy of the Boston Globe's official entry list. These spies would single out runners based on their bib numbers, reading off their names and hometowns to the rowdies on the ground, who would then give the runner a personalized cheer. Imagine the startled looks on the faces of beaten-down marathoners when a group of five or six boisterous BC students began chanting their name.

My wife was waiting for me near BC - or maybe Kenmore Square. It's hard to remember. I do recall that she stepped out onto the course to walk with me for a minute, which would have been a lovely moment were it not for the jerk behind me who made a nasty comment about her being in the way. I swear, I would have dropped that guy right then and there, had I retained any motor skills. Which I didn't.

A couple of painful miles later, I reached Fenway Park and began the trek up Brookline towards the Citgo sign, heading for the bridge that would carry me over the Mass Pike and into downtown Boston. My legs were made of cement; the sweat had dried on my skin into a thin layer of salt. I had nothing. Completely gassed.

As I crested the bridge over the highway, I happened to glance to my right, and made eye contact with a typical Boston Marathon spectator: mid-20's, shorts, sandals, beer in his hand, sunglasses on. The guy raised his drink to me, then squinted as if in recognition.

He nudged his girlfriend standing next to him, and I heard him say, "Hey! That's Whit Watson! He's on ESPN!"

I raised my hand in salutation and attempted to say something, but the sound that escaped my mouth was something like "uuuhhhnnn."

A marathon may be 26.2 miles, but for a runner like me, the halfway point is 20 miles, not 13.1. At 20 miles, I reached the cusp of my training. I had three "long runs" under my belt, but it was obvious by mile twenty that four months of running five days a week had not been enough. The last six miles of that race were worse than the first 20. I cannot accurately describe it without sticking hot needles into my shins to refresh my memory.

It was with great relief that I slogged through the final turn and hit Boylston Street, which was still rocking, even by the time I got there. They stood four-deep, bellowing their encouragement. Random people - strangers - hooted and hollered and refused to let me quit. If you've come this far, with the finish line now visible, and you encounter such an organic outpouring of support, you better keep running.

There's the Pru. There's the library. Oh my God, I'm going to do it.

Three steps, two steps...finish.

Just to be sure this wasn't some nightmare, I looked it up this weekend in the "Archived Results" section of the Boston Marathon website:

Bib #14777
Watson, Whit J.
11,176th overall out of 13,408 runners (they never count the bandits)
Official Time: 4:31:51
Net Time: 4:19:10

I lifted my arms into the air and howled. Joy, pain, relief, whatever. Just get these damn shoes off my feet. It's worth mentioning that the first guy ever to run a marathon died at the end. His name was Philippides, and to my knowledge, he did not have the benefit of Power-Gel. I'm also fairly certain that his results were not shown in a full-screen graphic that night on "SportsCenter," as mine were. Turns out, my friends in Bristol were following me all the way - online. So THAT'S what that little chip in my shoelaces was for.

Very rarely in our modern lives do we ever get the chance to truly push ourselves. Showing up for an 8am meeting at work after doing jello shots all night doesn't count. I'm talking about taking the human body to its outer limits, reaching a tipping point beyond which you have never stepped - and for that matter, you never knew it existed. On that day, five years ago, I reached that point. With help from a little girl holding oranges, some BC undergrads who started drinking at 9 in the morning, a few thousand bellowing spectators on Boylston Street, my wife, my in-laws, my well-worn Asics, and 20,000 other crazies with numbers pinned to their chests, I jogged across the line. It was a slow jog, but I got there, dammit.

I'll be watching the 2006 race on Monday, looking for landmarks on the course. If I look hard enough, I might see a little piece of my soul out there. Someday, if I'm crazy enough, I might just do it again.

Getting Up And Down

Okay, so my "Tampa Bay Silver Kings" campaign is not exactly picking up steam.

Responses to my prior entry about a potential new name for the Devil Rays have been mixed. My favorite note was from Carl in Tampa, a frequent viewer/e-mail correspondent, who suggested "Tampa Bay Clippers." Carl's reasoning: "If the new owners aren't willing to shell out for players, is it just about owning a team to stroke your own ego?"

I.e., Donald Sterling and the Los Angeles Clippers. Subtle, clever, and completely cynical. Right up my alley.

As for "Silver Kings," well, when longtime friends and trusted broadcasting professionals send you notes saying something to the effect of "umm, I'm not loving it," the author probably needs to head back to the workbench.

Come on! Silver Kings! You can't call them the "Tarpons," because it's grammatically incorrect and lends itself to way too many derogatory takeoffs. "Pelicans" is weak. "Hammerheads" is too long.

Silver Kings. Silver Kings. Silver Kings. Let it breathe for a while, then come back to it.

Silver Kings. You know you love it.

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For many years now, I have harbored a secret wish to become certified as a golf instructor. Seriously. I looked into it. The PGA of America has a page on its website devoted to the process of earning a PGA Professional certification. Were it not for the months of study and work experience required, the Playing Ability Test, the uncertain future, the horrendous hours, my wife, my two school-aged children, and this whole television thing, I'd be out there fixing your slice right now. Maybe.

Anyway, my first lesson to any beginner, regardless of age, athletic ability, or financial status, would be this: find one hundred golf balls, walk to the putting green, and make five-footers until you pass out. Wake up. Repeat.

Anyone watch the final round of the Masters on Sunday? Yes, they're putting on porcelain, but still - Tiger Woods needed 33 putts to navigate the National. He three-putted three times, missed two eagle putts within ten feet, and missed three chances to tie Phil Mickelson with birdie putts on the first nine holes. 33 putts, and he still shot 70.

Mickelson, on the other hand, averaged 28.5 putts per round over four days at Augusta. He needed only 29 swipes with the flatstick on Sunday, four fewer than Woods, en route to his closing 69.

Phil's margin of victory over Tiger? Three shots. Woods said afterwards that had he putted even "normally," much less extraordinarily, he would have been right there. And he's right. Of the 184 players ranked at PGATour.com, 167 of them average fewer than 30 putts per round.

Do the math. Par is 72. Each hole is designed to require two putts per green. Eighteen holes times two putts is 36 shots - half of your score.

A typical par-72 layout has four par-3 holes and four par-5 holes. Let's assume that you need the driver off the tee at each of the par-5's. That's four swings with the big club. Of the twelve par-4's, assume that two or three of them are short, or tight, or otherwise require something other than a driver. Let's say you swing the big dog on nine of those par-4's. If you're hitting driver off the tee on a par-3, you're playing the wrong tees, or the wrong course.

So, that's four driver swings on the par-5's, plus nine driver swings on the par-4's, for a grand total of thirteen swings. On a par-72 course, that means you swing the driver on 18 percent of your shots.

18 percent versus 50 percent. Which is the more important club? And yet, go to any driving range in America, and look at what the weekend warriors are doing - flailing away with the driver. There's a reason why the average player's handicap hasn't dropped in twenty years, and a reason why executives at golf equipment companies drive a new Lexus every other year. Driving it a long way is fun. Putting is boring. Again: 18 percent, versus 50 percent.

Tiger knows this, of course. As I wrote Carl earlier today, Woods is regarded as a great clutch putter, but in my mind, he's really a streaky putter. When he's on, there's nobody better in the world. When he's off, you get days like Sunday.

The two most significant changes to Phil Mickelson's practice routine prior to his breakout major victory at the 2004 Masters? He throttled back on the driver, employing a soft cut to hit more fairways, and retooled his putting routine - that "step-in" move that he uses to simulate the practice green. Hit more fairways, you hit more greens. Hit more greens, more chances to make putts. Make putts, win majors. As in three of them in the last two years, and two in a row.

Lefty has figured it out.

Find one hundred golf balls. Walk to the putting green. Make five-footers until you pass out. Wake up. Repeat.

Name Game

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays have informed Major League Baseball that they are considering a name change. If the Rays can settle on something by May 31, they can use it as early as next season. The St. Pete Times has been running a poll asking fans for suggestions, and the suggestions have been equal parts thoughtful and ridiculous.

This is SO in my wheelhouse.

First, the background: a "devil ray" (Manta birostris) is a member of the family Mobulidae, which are large rays lacking venomous spines (think manta ray, which might have been a better choice for a name). They're big, they travel in schools, they eat fish. "Devil Rays" was a unique choice for Tampa Bay's franchise, but it also conjured up satanic images and was generally considered spotty at best. "Stingrays" would have been better, or just "Rays," which has a double-entendre meaning under the Florida sun, but for whatever reason, the original Tampa Bay ownership liked "Devil Rays," even if few others did.

There are dozens of directions we could go here. Moving away from animals for a moment, I've seen "Thunder" pop up frequently. Cool tie-in with the Tampa Bay sports scene: Lightning (NHL), Storm (Arena Football), Thunder -- and you could call the Trop "the Thunderdome" again. Reminiscent of Kansas City's Chiefs, Royals, and Kings (before the move to Sacramento) or Chicago's Bears and Cubs. However, since we've agreed that no pro sports franchise will EVER be allowed to use a collective plural again (i.e., a name without an 'S' on the end - Magic, Heat, Jazz, and all their ilk), I'm calling a foul. Plus, I cannot think of "Thunder" without remembering the atrocious lime-green uniforms of the Orlando Thunder of the World League of American Football (WLAF, or "We-Laugh").

In fact, I need a moment to clear that image.

Thank you.

Historical ties to the Tampa Bay area: Buccaneers are taken. Pirates are taken (and how many pirates sailed into Pittsburgh, exactly?). I saw "Privateers," which I like, but it's awfully close to "Bucs." Also saw "Rough Riders," a reference to Teddy Roosevelt's famed unit, which has a history in Tampa, but aren't there fourteen Canadian Football League teams that already use that name?

"Stogies": fun and appropriate, but politically incorrect, and smoking is not allowed inside the Trop.

"Whitecaps": LOVE the name, love the uniform possibilities, but there's a minor league team with rights to it.

Animal names: "Tarpons" is the most popular choice, given that the fish is indigenous to the bay AND was the namesake of minor league franchises in Tampa. Of course, I was always under the impression that you never add an 'S' to make a fish plural. You never say "school of trouts," it's "school of trout." Don't get me started on the Marlins. "School of mullets" is only appropriate when discussing junior colleges in Alabama.

Thank you! I'll be here all week! Enjoy the buffet!

Here's one, from the St. Pete Times' readership, that I loved: "Silver Kings." It's a nickname for tarpon. Ties into Florida and Tampa Bay, references the area's history and economy, lends itself to cool uniform combinations, and allows the media to abbreviate it to "Kings." Plus, the sports world needs more two-word nicknames. "Trail Blazers" makes much more sense than "Blazers." "Blue Jays" is way cooler than "Jays."

"Silver Kings." Think about that one for a while.

The stickier issue, one that was raised repeatedly on that blog, was whether or not to use "Tampa Bay" as the location. Tampa Bay, after all, is a body of water. There is no city of Tampa Bay. As an aside, there is no city of "Daytona" either. It's Daytona Beach.

What was I saying? Right, my wheelhouse.

The Rays play in St. Petersburg. Many in St. Pete would prefer that the team name reflect that fact, "Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim" be damned. It's a chicken-and-egg argument: marketing types insist that national audiences have never heard of "St. Petersburg," so they prefer to use the regional "Tampa Bay" name. Locals counter that if "St. Petersburg" is in the name, people will learn where it is - and seriously, would you ever know that Green Bay, Wisconsin existed were it not for the Packers?

I'll stay away from that debate, but repeat after me:

Silver Kings. Silver Kings. Silver Kings.

It's growing on you, isn't it?

Hoops Heaven

Shortly before 8pm on Monday night, as "Sports Talk Live" was winding to a close, I picked the Gators to beat UCLA in the national championship game.

I did so cautiously, offering a weak caveat - "not that I want to sound like a homer." My fellow panelists, Charles Davis and Todd Wright, good friends and broadcasting professionals that they are, lept at the chance to back me up. Charles and Todd claimed that I had been backing the Gators on the show for a couple of weeks now, and told me I shouldn't be afraid to stick with them, despite the fact that they both liked UCLA in that game.

Did I? Really? Because if we're being honest, I really didn't think they would actually win the damn thing.

Not that I considered Florida a fluke, or UCLA to be a better team. Ever since the SEC Tournament, when the Gators rolled through Arkansas, LSU, and South Carolina to claim their second straight SEC Tournament title, I thought the Gators had that "Team of Destiny" whiff about them.

Entering the NCAA Tournament, the 2006 Gators reminded me quite a bit of the 2000 Michigan State team, the unit that dispatched the Gators in the NCAA championship game. The '00 Spartans were a team in every sense - sure, they had players that you recognized, your Mateen Cleaves, your Morris Peterson, your Charlie Bell, your A.J. Granger - but they were, at their core, a fun group. The "Flintstones" and all that. Only Peterson would go on to any level of professional success, an impressive feat for a guy who couldn't crack MSU's starting lineup until his final season (he was First-Team All-Big Ten as a junior, believed to be the first player ever to achieve that honor while coming off the bench). The '00 Spartans were a group of personalities, great stories all. Much like the '06 Gators.

But even while I mentally drew that comparison, I couldn't help but think - this is Florida. We play football here. An NCAA basketball championship? Get serious.

It's no knock on the Gators. It's just a lesson from history.

Since the inception of the "Final Four" in 1939, there have been a grand total of three teams from the great Sunshine State to reach the national semifinals: Jacksonville in 1970, Florida State in 1972, and Florida in 1994, 2000, and 2006. Those '70 Dolphins were led by Artis Gilmore, who would go on to shine as an 11-time All-Star in the ABA and NBA, and Rex Morgan, who just coached Jacksonville Arlington Country Day to a Class 2A state championship (as seen on Sun Sports). The '72 Seminoles, coached by future JU legend Hugh Durham, were led on the floor by Reggie Royals and Ron King. Neither team won a title.

Florida, coached by Lon Kruger, got dropped by Duke in the '94 Final Four, then lost to Michigan State in the 2000 title game in Billy Donovan's fourth season in Gainesville. None of these results can be considered shocking. This is the state of Florida, after all. We play football here. By and large, with a few exceptions in smaller classifications (shout out to Rollins College, Florida Gulf Coast, Florida Southern, and all your kin), the state of Florida has long been viewed as a basketball wasteland when held against California, Indiana, North Carolina, and any state with a Big East member.

Yet, here we are. The University of Florida has exactly as many NCAA basketball championship banners as it does football titles. Chomp on that, Gator fans.

My man Mike Bianchi likes to call Billy Donovan "the most important college coach in the history of Florida," or something to that effect. Bobby Bowden might chuckle at the mere suggestion. The Orlando Sentinel ran a clever "he said-she said" column on Tuesday debating whether or not UF is now a "basketball school." The fact that we're even asking that question speaks volumes as to the dominance of football around these parts.

Does Syracuse wonder if it's a basketball school? Does Arizona wonder? Does Arkansas? They all possess exactly one NCAA basketball banner, and they all play Division I football fairly competitively, in big conferences. Why does anyone doubt Florida?

Because it's Florida, that's why. We play football here. Sun Sports ain't doing one-hour live postgame shows after Seminole and Gator basketball games - that attention is reserved for football, because the market demands it. We play football here. And yet, here we are.

That's why I couldn't believe I was picking the Gators to win on Monday. That's why I stifled myself from saying what my gut was screaming, which was something along the lines of "Florida's gonna cream those guys." Forget it. We're a basketball wasteland, after all.

Aren't we?

A baby-faced coach from Rockville Centre, New York may have changed our minds. An eclectic group of "guyyyys" - stealing Bianchi's line - from far-flung locales like Houston and Fort Lauderdale and Deerfield Beach and Lakeland and Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic and Portland, Tennessee may have rendered all of this ancient history. 12,000 orange-and-blue maniacs calling themselves "Rowdy Reptiles" might just reverse decades of perception as a football factory that happens to play basketball for the hell of it. Maybe this is it.

On Friday, I'll be traveling to Gainesville to host Sun Sports' live broadcast of the Gators' championship celebration at the O'Connell Center, where the University of Florida will raise an NCAA basketball banner into the rafters. The show starts at 7pm.

Florida: a basketball school, and a basketball state. Honestly, I still can't believe it.

Signs of Spring

Hit the road again last week, not for a fishing trip or high school basketball, but for a family wedding in Ponte Vedra Beach. My first trip to that part of the world, and it's lovely, of course. The bride, one of my first cousins, grew up in Tallahassee but wanted to get married on a beach. She chose wisely.

So I'm outside on the patio at the Surf Club at the Ponte Vedra Inn on Saturday evening, dressed in full wedding regalia, enjoying the company of various aunts, uncles, and second-cousins-once-removed that I haven't seen in a while. Perfect night. Reminded me of my own wedding, more than eight years ago, held on a similarly pristine evening in Orlando. Good times, good vibes.

My father caught my eye from across the patio and motioned me over, a serious look on his face. I thought, perhaps, that he wanted to place his arm on my shoulder and share some of those memories from another nuptial of long ago - mine, from January of '98, or perhaps even his own, from December of '65. A family moment, the sort of thing that happens in every corner during a wedding.

At that moment on Saturday, he leaned in close, and I'll never forget his words to me:

"Second half. Gators up by 19."

Only then did I notice the earbuds and portable radio in his pocket. Welcome to March Madness.

While pondering the Florida Gators' run to tonight's National Championship game, ponder this:

The Miami Heat's record over February and March: 20-5. A ten-game winning streak, which ended with a loss to Golden State on March 10, was followed by another five-game winning streak. Tell me again how the Heat are sleepwalking into the playoffs?

And there's this: The Orlando Magic have won nine of their last 13, and didn't lose a home game in March. Meanwhile, Tracy McGrady has missed 24 games for Houston this season due to back trouble, and hasn't seen the floor since March 12. All conversations about "losing T-Mac and getting nothing in return" will now cease.

While the Heat have already clinched the Southeast Division, the Magic wake up on Monday morning to find themselves five and a half games behind the Sixers for the final playoff spot in the Eastern Conference with nine games to play.

So which is more improbable: a team that was 20 games under .500 as recently as March 6 still alive in a playoff race, or a team that lost three straight SEC games to close the month of February now playing for a national title?

And does an NIT Championship now make South Carolina's two wins over Florida this season a little more excusable?

Good week for sports fans. NCAA Championship game, Opening Day in Major League Baseball, and the Masters. Harbingers of spring tend to lose their weight when viewed from Florida, where it's always golf season, but I'll buy the whole "renewal" thing for this week.

Enjoy the game.