Catching Up

Work and other circumstances have conspired to keep me away from the blog for a couple of weeks. As always, it's not my fault.

However, I am several weeks behind on more than one topic. Like, for example:

Erik Spoelstra, Miami Heat head coach

I'm sure that many fans in our fair state were a little taken aback by this announcement on April 28th, but I wasn't. For one thing, Pat Riley favors loyalty and 'buy-in' above all else, and Spoelstra has been nothing if not a loyal soldier in the Riley system. More than that, however, Spoelstra had the enthusiastic support of Dwyane Wade, which is much of the battle in today's NBA -- if your star player is on board, you can pretty much fudge the rest.

I covered the Miami Heat during their playoff run in 2004, when Wade was a rookie and Spoelstra was the third assistant on the bench. I noticed Erik Spoelstra then, perhaps because he was so close to my own age, but also because it was obvious that players reacted to him.

Often times, when a third or fourth assistant goes out to the floor early to help a player work out, it's a desultory, bloodless affair: shoot, rebound, pass. Shoot, rebound, pass. With Spoelstra, however, it was different. The young coach -- not much older than most of the players themselves -- looked them in the eye, joked with them, but didn't patronize them or appear overly solicitous or deferential. He engaged them, and they responded. There's an incredibly high value placed on that skill in the NBA, and that's why I'm not surprised about Spoelstra's hire.

In his first season, at his age, there will be moments when he gets outcoached. He'll get overwhelmed at times, even for a short stint. It's going to happen. Happened to Byron Scott, happened to Mike Brown, happened to Doc Rivers back in the day -- like Spoelstra, they all started their NBA head coaching careers while in their late 30's.

And all three have subsequently taken a team to the NBA Finals. As long as the Heat supply Spoelstra with some players, he'll be fine.

Kobe Bryant

For the last few weeks, I've been telling anyone who listens that Kobe Bryant must be the best basketball player on the planet.

Not exactly groundbreaking, I know. But here's my evidence: the Lakers' roster.

Here's what I see: Pau Gasol is a really good player. Lamar Odom, who you all know I love, is a pretty good player. Ronny Turiaf is an intriguing project. Derek Fisher is an inspirational, level-headed veteran.

That's about it.

The rest of these guys are castoffs, injured, unproven, or average. Yet the Lakers beat the defending champion Spurs in five games in the Conference Finals to get to the championship round.

Conclusion? Kobe Bryant must be the best basketball player on the planet. Because beyond that, I have no idea how LA got this far.

The US Open

Even if you understand nothing about professional golf, and care even less, you have to believe me on this one: the USGA's opening-round grouping of Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, and Adam Scott at the 2008 US Open at Torrey Pines is a joke.

First of all, Tiger and Phil hate each other. If that's not common knowledge by now, I don't know what qualifies as "common knowledge." I thought that superstars were supposed to get star treatment -- meaning, pairings that make them happy. There's no way either of them are happy about Thursday and Friday.

But more to the point, the USGA has created a logistical nightmare. The largest gallery of the year to date will be following this one group for all of two days. Did anyone consider traffic flow on the golf course? You put Tiger Woods or Phil Mickelson out there with any old average Tour player, the gallery is massive. You put Tiger and Phil together -- nobody on the course will be following anyone else. How are they going to get around? And what did Adam Scott do to deserve this? Stupid.

Orlando Sentinel columnist Jerry Greene asked precisely the correct question on a conference call with NBC Sports -- "was this a gift to the fans or just cheap pandering to TV?"

The producer and the talent demurred, but ol' Johnny Miller laid it out there: "I talked to Phil and I can say he sounded like he was not to thrilled about it."

Of course he's not thrilled about it. Who wants to grind through the first two rounds of a US Open with every yokel in a five-state area breathing down your neck? Mickelson would trade Woods for a Tim Herron and a Bart Bryant To Be Named Later in a heartbeat.

And trust me -- there's no possible way that TV didn't have something to do with this. While NBC has only a two-hour window at the '08 Open on Thursday and Friday, mighty ESPN brings you a whopping seven hours of coverage each day.

Woods hasn't played since the Masters in April, meaning he's been absent from ESPN's highlight reels for a full two months. Fourteen hours of major championship coverage of Tiger's return from knee surgery is good TV -- fourteen hours of major championship coverage of Tiger's return from knee surgery while playing next to the 2nd-ranked player in the world, whom Tiger happens to despise?

Pure gold. Which is why I'm positive ESPN had something to do with it. I certainly can't blame them. You watch: the ratings for the first two rounds of this year's US Open will probably be the highest in history.

That is all.

Rubbernecking At Augusta

Hearty congratulations and general huzzahs to 2008 Masters champion Trevor Immelman. Let me be the first to say, I had absolutely no confidence that he would actually win the thing.

Not that Immelman can't play -- we know he can. He was the PGA Tour's Rookie of the Year in 2006, and already has 7 wins worldwide. He belongs.

What I mean is, I couldn't foresee anyone winning at Augusta on Sunday. It was like watching a train wreck in spikes. The winner, to beat a cliche' to death, was the golf course itself, which yielded a final-round scoring average of 74.67. Immelman's Sunday 75 was the highest final-round score by a Masters champion since Arnold Palmer did the same in 1962.

As contender after contender went smashing into the shoals -- Brandt Snedeker, Steve Flesch, and Paul Casey were all within four shots of the lead on Saturday night, and all three went plus-5 or worse on Sunday -- I was reminded of a comment made by Tom Kite many years ago at the Players Championship near Jacksonville.

It was 1994, when I was a freelance producer for a golf radio network and Kite was still a relevant member of the regular Tour. You may recall the '94 Players as the year that Fuzzy Zoeller famously waved the white towel at Greg Norman, who won the event with a four-round total of 264, a staggering 24 under par.

At one point that week -- probably after his opening-round 65 -- Kite opined that if the Players truly wanted to be considered a "fifth major," as tournament organizers desperately wished, the course needed to be harder.

"The fans want to see us chop," I remember him saying.

This became a theme to the weekend, as several other players were asked about the relative ease of the TPC layout at Sawgrass. Zoeller himself took an opposing stance to Kite, saying "they shouldn't make any changes...there's nothing wrong with the course. It was just the conditions and you can't do anything about that."

(Note: Zoeller shot four rounds of 68 or better at Sawgrass that year and made $270,000 for the effort. What else is he gonna say?)

History suggests that the PGA Tour, which owns the TPC Sawgrass complex, took Kite's words into consideration. The winning score at the 1995 Players Championship was a mere five under par -- 19 shots higher than Norman's blitzing the previous year. In the thirteen Players' Championships since '94, no winner has come within six shots of Norman's tally, and six of those 13 winners didn't crack ten-under.

The 2008 Players will take place next month, and you can expect this 13-year trend to continue, if not worsen. The Stadium course at the TPC Sawgrass was blown up and rebuilt from March 2006 through January of last year. At the moment, the pro tees on the Stadium course have a USGA stroke rating of 76.8 and a Slope of 155 -- that last number representing the highest possible number the USGA will assign to a golf course. It would be no surprise at all if the winner of next month's Players Championship came in at or above par.

Tough setups are hardly new, of course. At the 1974 US Open at Winged Foot -- the famed "Massacre," won by Hale Irwin at 7-over -- the conditions were severe to the point of incredulity. When players complained, as they are wont to do, championship committee chairman Sandy Tatum uttered these famous lines: "We're not trying to embarrass the best players in the world. We're trying to identify them."

(Coincidentally, it has long been assumed that the 1974 Massacre at Winged Foot was the USGA's response to Johnny Miller's final-round 63 at the '73 Open at Oakmont. Greg Norman is to Sawgrass '95 as Johnny Miller is to Winged Foot '74.)

Tatum's iconic statement from 1974 is not only revisited every year at each US Open, it has become the USGA's core philosophy in setting them up. Intentionally or unintentionally, the other majors have followed suit -- even staid Augusta National, which claims to care not a whit about such things.

Ever since Tiger Woods smashed the Masters scoring record in 1997 at 18 under par, the course has undergone a steady diet of subtle changes designed to, well, make it harder. It hasn't done much to stop Woods -- in his four Masters wins, he's a combined 58 under par. However, the "new" Augusta can produce days like Sunday, when two players shot in the 80's and 23 players -- fully half the field -- failed to break 75. Further, as CBS Sportsline's Steve Elling notes, Woods himself has only broken par five times in his last 13 rounds at Augusta National.

Elling begs for a softening of Augusta National because he misses the birdies and "crazy rallies," and it's true that Sunday's final round of the Masters offered nothing in the way of such hope. However, that's not what turns me off about the 'bigger, badder, harder' course setup philosophy.

With all due respect to Tom Kite, he's wrong. I do not watch professional golf to see them chop. If I wanted to see hackers, I would set up a lawn chair along the first fairway at Winter Park Country Club.

I watch professional golf with the expectation of seeing something I CANNOT do. Putting the ball off the green, rinsing a tee shot on a 150-yard par-3, making double or triple on a par-5 -- been there, done that, have the scorecard. Sure, I identify with the misery, but does that mean I want to watch it on television? I suppose there's a sizable element of the golf-watching public that revels in the Tour stars' pain, gives it a mental "now you know how I feel!" at each agonizing miscue, but I'm not in that group. In a related story, I cannot watch five minutes of "Borat" without feeling a pang of discomfort in my stomach. I derive no entertainment value from others' pain or embarrassment.

Of course, I'm not in favor of Bob Hope Classic-style birdiefests, either, and I like watching the US Open just fine. I'm simply asking for something in the middle. Narrow the fairways, plant some trees, do what you gotta do, but soften the greens a hair and keep the tee boxes in the same county as the rest of the course. Allow shotmakers to make shots. "Bomb and gouge" sucks, but so did Sunday.

Can we not have some moderation?

A Tradition Unlike Any Other

Nine times out of ten, I write these blog entries with the reader in mind. This is not one of those times.

This is for me, and for any serious player who may read it.

By "player," of course, I mean one who plays golf. Note that I write plays golf, not "golfs." "Golf" is not a verb. One does not "golf," any more than one "soccers" or "tennises" or "baseballs." One plays golf. If you get that, and agree with that, read on.

Zach Johnson, the pride of Iowa and a current resident of Seminole County, Florida, won the Masters last year. He has won three times on the PGA Tour and twice on the Nationwide Tour. I once chatted with him on the driving range at my club, talking football and such. He's all of 5-10, maybe a buck-65 soaking wet. A wee thing. Hits it as pure as the driven snow.

Justin Rose, on the other hand, has won five international events, and has a history of early leads at The Masters, as you may have heard during Friday's second round coverage. He's a star. Broke out at the 1998 British Open, appears in television ads, has a swing to die for. He's dreamy. On the surface, if you were a betting man, you'd take Rose over Johnson every day of the week and twice on Sunday, especially the Sunday of a major.

Unless you're a player. In which case, you'd recognize one of your own. Which brings me back to Friday.

There were two moments that stood out to me in watching coverage of the Masters, both involving Johnson and Rose. I'm leaving out Tiger, because everything he does is a "moment." Yes, his par save on 18 on Friday was All-World. Of course it was.

Let's instead start with Johnson's par save on 18 on the same day. Little Zach Johnson, he of the sweepy hook swing and wedge game, got himself into downright jail on Augusta National's final hole. He hit it long, to the back tier of the three-level green, in a position from which no human could possibly escape. Par was the goal, bogey was the reality. He was deader than fried chicken.

Sometime within the same ten minutes, Rose decided to lay up on the par-5 fifteenth, even though he had but 213 yards to the hole. This decision, although on Friday and not Sunday, may someday be regarded in the same breath with Chip Beck, but that's another blog entirely.

The point is, Johnson looked over his 80-foot birdie putt from nowhere and promptly knocked it down to within a brush-in. It will never be revisited again, because Johnson won't win tomorrow, but it was among the five best putts I have ever witnessed.

Rose, on the other hand, with a sand wedge in his hand from less than 100 yards, dunked it into the creek. Drop, thin skank over the green, chip, two putts, triple bogey. Goodbye, Masters.

Johnson, I failed to point out, came to 18 on the heels of an atrocious double-bogey on 17, where he toured every bunker on the hole. Yet, rather than pack it in, he redoubled his efforts and managed a stellar 4 on the final hole, thanks to that incredible putt. It's worth noting that he bounced back to shoot 68 on Saturday, with five birdies and one bogey.

Justin Rose, who is, as we have agreed, dreamy, responded to his triple on 15 on Friday by throwing a bogey at 16, followed by three more bogeys, one double, and four birdies on Saturday en route to an irrelevant 73, a stretch in which he pretty much played his way out of the Tournament.

Understand that I come here not to bury Rose. Rather, I come to identify with Johnson, who is nothing if not a grinder. He willed himself into contention on Saturday, as tenuous as that may be. That's the difference between a guy who has won a major, and a guy who has a nice swing.

The final round comes tomorrow, one of my favorite days on the sporting calendar. If I had to pick anyone other than Tiger to win it, I would go with Steve Flesch or Brandt Snedeker, both of whom have demonstrated the kind of stuff that Johnson showed on 18 on Friday -- fearlessness. That's the secret, in case anyone was wondering. Fearless swings at precise targets, as Gio Valiante likes to say. Not how, but how many. The battle of wills is what makes Augusta so compelling, year after year.

Me, I'll be rooting for the grinders, if only because that's the sort of player I'd like to think I can be.

Winning Entry

Golf Digest, NBC Sports, and the United States Golf Association are sponsoring a doozy of a contest.

Last year, at the US Open at Oakmont, Tiger Woods famously commented that with the way the course was set up for the second round, "a 10-handicapper wouldn't break 100." Thus, the magazine and the network mentioned above are giving us a chance to prove him wrong.

The "winner," if you can call it that, will play 18 holes at Torrey Pines in San Diego with three celebrities in the days leading up to the 2008 US Open -- in other words, a round on an Open course, under Open conditions. The whole thing will be videotaped and shown during Sunday's final round.

The hook? You have to write a 100-word entry explaining why you should win. Right in my wheelhouse.

Here's my entry:

"Why me?

I've interviewed Bobby Knight. I've run the Boston Marathon. I've climbed the Eiffel Tower. I've watched the Indy 500 from the infield. I've been to the Artichoke Capital of the World, the Indoor Foliage Capital of the World, and the Norman Rockwell Museum. I've placed my children onto the back of a live alligator. I've caught a lemon shark and body-surfed with dolphins. I've ridden a cafeteria tray down Libe Slope at Cornell University. I've seen Springsteen live. Once, I met Shania Twain in a bar.

But I've never played in Open conditions. And I'll break 100, dammit."

Should we go ahead and engrave the trophy now?

If you'd like to beat it, here's the link. Good luck. See you on the first tee.

No Surprise

My man Mike Bianchi whipped up a steamin' bowl full of righteous indignation this morning with his column from the LPGA's Ginn Open here in Orlando.

Mike asked Annika Sorenstam for her opinion of the Don Imus v. Rutgers women's basketball fiasco, and the exchange went a little something like this, according to Mike:

"Annika, some derogatory comments were made about the Rutgers women's basketball team the other day; obviously, you've heard about them..."

Before I can finish, Annika stops me cold with her response.

"No, I haven't."

You haven't?

"No," she says, shaking her head.

Uncomfortable pause.

All I can think of to say at this point is, "Never mind."

All she can think of to say is, "Sorry."

Yeah, I'm sorry, too.

Mike goes on to term Imus's comments as "one of the most infamous cases of verbal sexism ever uttered against female athletes." His argument, well-stated in the column, is that while Imus's phrase has justifiably outraged many for its racism, the sexism is "much more offensive." Interesting point, one that I'd be willing to discuss.

But not here.

No, my attention was grabbed by the fact that Mike found it "shocking and disappointing" that Annika Sorenstam apparently knew nothing about the Imus story. He also points out that Nancy Lopez, who is attempting a mini-comeback this week at the Ginn Open, apparently knew little about the story as well.

You can be disappointed. That's fair. But don't be shocked.

Before I go any further: there's a better-than-average chance that Sorenstam knew EXACTLY what Mike was asking about, and intentionally played dumb to keep her name out of any story connected to Imus. In fact, without being there in person, I would almost bet on it. Sorenstam, like her friend Tiger Woods, is famously protective of her image, and has rarely uttered anything even remotely controversial in public. Lopez, on the other hand, was most likely honestly flummoxed. That's just my vibe, anyway.

Which brings me to the point: why should we expect professional athletes to follow stories like Imus as closely as we civilians do? It's an easy assumption, but a risky one. We, the media, and we, the sports fans, live this stuff every day. We read the sports section first; we browse internet sites during the day; we flip over to one of the myriad 24-hour sports channels in between bites of ice cream at night. It's part of our routine, either because it's our job (media) or it helps us take a break from our job (everyone else).

Pro athletes? Not the same world. Not even close. Celebrities at the Sorenstam or Lopez level simply do not live the same way we do. Think about it: regardless of their chosen sport, the athlete's livelihood depends upon their physical ability to perform at the highest level. That involves hitting millions of golf balls, or taking hundreds of free throws, or lifting tons of weight. Being at the top of their game mentally isn't enough; a lawyer can get away with that, even if he weighs three bills and does nothing more physically demanding than walk the dog. A professional athlete has to be exceptional both mentally and physically. That means practice, and that means time.

Throw in the travel demands of a player like Sorenstam, who jets from home to tournament to business meeting to Sweden and back on a monthly basis, and you can understand why she has no time or interest in watching ESPNews. It's just not part of her reality. Tough to understand at our level, but I've seen it everywhere. Remember, I was working for the Orlando Magic when Shaquille O'Neal returned from a trip to Greece and was asked about visiting the Parthenon: "I can't really remember the names of the clubs we went to."

The flip side, of course, is the fawning attention we devote to athletes like Grant Hill, those who display at least a passing interest in current events, or fundamental knowledge of a world beyond their sport. Truth be told, Hill is the exception, not the rule. That's just how pro sports work. I'm not sure I can totally excuse it, but I can understand it. Reading an article about Don Imus does absolutely nothing for Annika Sorenstam's golf game, and without her game, she's not, well, Annika Sorenstam.

Now, the bigger question from Mike's column -- where was the female Al Sharpton? Who speaks on this issue as it pertains to women, as opposed to African-Americans? That's a valid query, and I have no ready answer. However, it's naive to assume that she will come from professional sports.

Charles Barkley once said, famously, "I am not a role model." He was half-right. He can be a role model, and so can Annika, if the goal is to become a Hall of Fame basketball player or golfer. If the goal is to become a well-rounded, sensitive citizen, there are other options. My first place to look would not be the sports pages. For what it's worth, I'd like to think that in my house, my kids should start with me.

Lord Byron vs. The Striped One

I have been reminded that with his win at the WGC-Amex, Tiger Woods is up to six in a row, seemingly within striking distance of a mark that I have termed unassailable: Byron Nelson's 11 in a row in 1945. It may appear that Woods has a shot at Lord Byron.

He doesn't.

The tough part of making this argument is the fact that Woods plays tournament golf about once a month, in stark contrast to the lads of Nelson's era, who slogged it out week after week. During Nelson's record run in '45, he won his first five events in a 31-day span from March 8th (the Miami International Four-Ball) to April 8th (the Atlanta Iron Lung Championship). After a lengthy respite in May, Nelson was back on the horse for the summertime, taking a grand total of one week off from June 7th (Montreal Open) to August 4th (Canadian Open).

On the other hand, Tiger Woods played in only 16 of the first 43 sanctioned PGA Tour events this year. Nelson played (and won) five events in 31 days in 1945; Woods required eighteen days more than that just to GET to five events this season -- recording two wins, a T-9th, a T-20th, and a withdrawal.

The point of this is not to criticize Woods; he builds his schedule around majors, WGC events, and tournaments with sponsorship ties. Bully for him. The point, as stated above, is that it's hard to predict WHICH events will make up his next five, much less try to predict if he can win them. Of the five official events left on the schedule (as of October 4th), he's only a sure thing for the Tour Championship. Thus endeth 2006.

Turning to 2007: the Mercedes-Benz Championship in Hawaii is a given. He has never played the Sony Open or the Bob Hope. He's the two time defending champion at the I Don't Really Drive One But Their Name Is On My Bag Invitational at Torrey Pines. Check. Those are his next three events - '06 Tour Championship, '07 Mercedes, '07 Buick Invitational.

Phoenix Open? No appearances since 2001. Pebble Beach? Absent since 2002. Nissan Open? Only missed it once since turning pro. That will be the fourth event he plays from right now.

Assuming he wins all four of those events, guess which one he has to win to record his 11th consecutive victory: the WGC-Accenture Match Play Championship. Yes, he's won it twice, most recently in 2004. However, the million-dollar-plus top prize has also gone into the bank accounts of Geoff Ogilvy, David Toms, Kevin Sutherland, Steve Stricker, Darren Clarke (who beat The Striped One 4&3 in the 2000 final), and Jeff Maggert (beat Eldrick 2&1 in the quarters in '99). Tiger has played the WGC Match Play in each of the tournament's seven years of existence, bracketing his two wins with losses to luminaries like Nick O'Hern, Peter O'Malley, and Chad O'Campbell.

Match Play, kids. All bets are off.

To make this really interesting: assume that Woods wins his next five starts, tying Nelson's record (across two seasons, unlike Lord Byron's calendar-year run). In all likelihood, his 6th start, and his shot at 12 in a row, would be at Bay Hill in Orlando, an event he once captured for four straight years (2000-2003). However, his last three starts at Arnold's clambake went like this: T-20, T-23, T-46.

Long story short: 11 in a row is untouchable. Twelve in a row is damn near impossible. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Gentleman's Game

Had a great story for the blog today, but it lost steam when I learned of the passing of Byron Nelson late Tuesday afternoon.

Not that I was personally affected by his death. Obviously, I didn't know the man. His best years in the game were several decades before I ever set foot on a driving range. Based on what I have read and heard, however, there were two things that always jumped to mind when I heard Lord Byron's name:

First, "11 in a row," as in his 11 straight PGA Tour wins en route to 18 total victories in 1945. An entire generation of Americans grew up believing that 60 home runs would never be topped. Then, 61. Then, 755. Two of them are down; 755, steroids or no steroids, will likely fall as well. There might be a kid in Belgium right now - or Spain, or Italy, or Austin, Texas - who will grow up to win seven Tours de France. There might be a player in the NFL today who will survive long enough to break Emmitt Smith's rushing record of 18,355 yards.

11 in a row, however, will never be done again. Ever. By anybody. Including Tiger. Woods himself has said that DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak has a better chance of falling. So there.

As unthinkable as that record may be, it pales in comparison to Nelson's accomplishments between 1942 and 1946, the magical stretch that bracketed his dominant 1945 season. Over those four years, Byron Nelson finished in the top ten in 65 consecutive professional golf tournaments.

Read that again.

I did not write "made the cut." I wrote "top ten." Sixty-five straight tournaments. I consider it one of the most staggering individual marks in American sports history, and terribly underreported. And again, nobody will ever match it.

Nelson won 52 professional events and five majors, but the most common storyline after his death involved the second word that always jumped to my mind: "gentleman."

That word has morphed into a sports cliche', but you cannot go one paragraph in any story about Byron Nelson without encountering it. For that matter, it's impossible to locate anyone who met the man and failed to find him utterly wonderful and decent - and that includes his opponents, who got their lunch handed to them by Nelson on a regular basis from roughly 1935 to 1951.

Go read the wire stories on Nelson's passing. Nicklaus, Palmer, Watson, Woods, Augusta National chairman Billy Payne, Ben Crenshaw - they all, independently of one another, use the word "gentleman" to describe Nelson. Woods, in particular, adored him. There's a reason why Tiger, who doesn't roll out of bed unless it's a major, a WGC event, or one of his sponsors' tournaments, missed the Byron Nelson Classic only twice in his first ten full seasons as a pro.

Nobody in the world has a bad thing to say about Byron Nelson. Not the guys he beat, not the guys he taught, not the guys who followed him on Tour. That, to me, is a life fulfilled. Fortunately, it's a record that anyone can set, if they choose.

Oh, and my story? I happened to play golf on Tuesday, before I learned of Nelson's passing. As it happened, it was on the same golf course where I carded that nearly-perfect 73 a few months back. Only this time, it was a 72. As in even par. First time in my life. Like I said, I had it all written out, hole by hole, but I think I'll pass.

I'd love to play golf like Byron Nelson, but I'd be much happier to know I was remembered like Byron Nelson. A life fulfilled, indeed.

A Tournament For The Worst

One sunny Saturday in September of 2002, I flat-out skanked an 80-yard lob wedge over the green on the 18th hole at Alling Memorial Golf Course in New Haven, Connecticut. Thus ended my most recent foray into tournament golf.

When I say "tournament golf," I'm not talking about your weekend Nassau with your buddies, or even your club championship. I'm talking about down and dirty, USGA rules, marshalls on the course, an entry fee, the whole nine yards. History will record that your reporter - despite my brain fart on the 36th and final hole of the event - still managed rounds of 75 and 76 to finish 11th in a field of over 90 players in the 2002 Connecticut State Public Links Championship. That was the last time I attempted to play golf at anything resembling a competitive level. Until this week.

The Florida State Public Links Championship, like its Connecticut sibling, is open to any amateur golfer with a handicap lower than six and without a membership at a private club. The 2006 FSGA "Publinx" was to be staged at Grande Pines Golf Club in Orlando, a long, narrow, highly penal track nestled among the timeshares and t-shirt shops of International Drive. Armed with the inflated confidence of a summer full of scores in the 70's, and with my handicap hovering under four - an all-time best for me - I signed up. One week prior to the tournament, I played a practice round at Grande Pines with a few of my buddies and shot 77. Bought a yardage book, filled it with notes on strategy and club selection, spent the next few days sweating buckets on the driving range, and arrived in the parking lot on Friday ready for action. Or so I thought.

FRIDAY, JULY 21 - ROUND 1

I'm already running late. I hate that.

Arrived at the course at 8:30am for my 9:21am tee time, without breakfast. Farted around in the parking lot, found my cart - the FSGA asks that players ride, which I also hate, but I understand it, given the probability of heat stroke in Florida in July - and walked to the range to warm up.

First rule of golf with me: the skill and command I display on the practice tee prior to a round of golf is inversely proportional to my level of success during the round itself. This is an incommutable law, and cannot be argued. Bad news: I'm striping it on the range. Every club responds like I gave birth to it. I've got a bad feeling about this.

Armed with my trusty margin-filled yardage book, I step to the first tee - the tenth at Grande Pines - to chat with my playing partners for the day. Jacob is a 19-year-old behemoth from Melbourne who plays for Brevard Community College. Bruce is an independent businessman from Ocala. Neither of them have any clue who I am, which relieves me. The elderly volunteer from the FSGA announces each of our names as we place peg in ground. Not quite the same charge as the guy from the R&A who belts out players' names at the British Open every year, but cool nonetheless.

Jacob is first, and he nukes a three-wood into downtown Kissimmee. I'm second to play, hitting driver. The hardest shot in tournament golf, for an amateur like me, is the first one. Jangled nerves, tense shoulders, a hop in my step. My immediate goal is to get the damn thing airborne and get out of here.

Which, inexplicably, I do. A little draw, three feet into the rough on the left side. Then, just to make it interesting, I knock a five-iron to ten feet and sink the birdie putt.

So I'm one under par after one hole. The leader on the course. Thoughts of turning pro have crossed my mind. I bogey the next two, but birdie the par-5 13th, my fourth hole of the day. Even par after four. What's so tough about this game?

In every round, there comes a tipping point, and for me, it was the 7th hole of the day, the 16th on the card, a 400-yard dogleg right. My drive hooks over the trouble and into Position "A" in the middle of the fairway. From that point, with a six-iron in hand and a green light, I proceed to rope-hook one into a greenside bunker. No explanation, no excuse. The sound you hear is the wheels coming off.

I honestly cannot say that I was nervous to be playing tournament golf again. Sure, I was tight, but the fact is, I simply did not execute. For that matter, nobody in my threesome did much executing; we recorded two 82's and my scintillating 86, a number that sounds much worse than it felt. More sleep, less sleep, more work on the putting green - who knows what I needed. Once I reached plus-ten, my golf brain shut down in self-defense. It was a race to finish and get the hell out of there.

I should point out that I was far from the bottom of the first-round leaderboard. Two guys turned in scorecards that read triple-digits - and remember, the handicap limit for this tournament is around six. There were dozens of scores in the 80's. Had I actually played to my handicap, I would be in the top-ten right now. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. There's always tomorrow.

SATURDAY, JULY 22 - ROUND 2

I think I set my goals a little too high for this thing.

My target number for the first two days of this three-day event was 150 - as in, two rounds averaging 75. Had I actually accomplished that - and all it required after the first-round 86 was a second-round 64 (chuckle) - I would be sitting pretty in the Championship Flight on Sunday, maybe seven shots off the lead. However, my two-day total of 168 (82 in the second round, highlighted by an aggravating double bogey-bogey-double bogey finish) still had me in the upper two-thirds of the 100-man field. There are only two explanations for this outrageous error in math:

1. I seriously overestimated the relative talent of the field, including me; or
2. I seriously underestimated how tough Grande Pines would play from the way-back tees, firing to pins placed in utterly evil positions.

The good news is, I sucked on the range before I played, so my confidence was high. I also putted better than day one, and ran off a nice string of pars in the middle of the round. But for the third straight day on this particular golf course - two tournament rounds and one practice round a week earlier - I fell apart over the last three holes. I'm starting to understand why Vijay and Tiger spend all that time punishing themselves with personal trainers. It's not how you start; it's how you finish. I think I'm 12 over par on those three holes this week. Perhaps an energy bar would be in order for Sunday's final round.

The FSGA Public Links is flighted after two days, so my 168 total places me in the Second Flight (or, as I call it, the Losers' Bracket), competing against other players who shot similar numbers. I'm three shots off the lead in my particular grouping, a mere 20 shots back overall. I can't hit a 4-iron, 5-iron, fairway wood, or hybrid to save my life, and my short game is a coin toss from hole to hole. Other than that, I really like my chances on Sunday.

Bruce shot 88 on the second day. Jacob rallied for a 78, which included a triple-bogey. Jacob is in the First Flight, one step below the Championship group; Bruce will slog it out with me in the Second Flight. We have agreed that it's probably a good thing that we don't do this for a living.

SUNDAY, JULY 23 - FINAL ROUND

By the time I finish, Tiger Woods is hoisting the Claret Jug as the 2006 British Open champion. He need not look over his shoulder to see if the TV guy from Orlando is coming.

Let's focus on the positive: I sucked on the range again, so I felt good off the first tee. I played holes 2 through 8 in one under par, including a birdie on the 210-yard 7th hole. I parred the 18th. Other than that, well, it was the worst day of golf that I can remember. Really.

Where to start? How about the first hole, which I tripled. Pulled a drive into the rough, got stuck behind a mountainous tuft of sawgrass, took a penalty drop, punched out, knocked the next shot into a greenside bunker, blasted onto the green, two putts. Yep, that adds up to seven. The ensuing seven-hole stretch of sub-par brilliance was quickly ruined on the 9th hole, where I struck a lone pine tree so solidly with my tee shot that nobody in the group had any idea where it landed. It might still be rolling. Re-tee with a penalty shot, into the fairway in three, hit the green, two putts. Yep, six.

The back nine? Hell, I can't even talk about it. It started with another double-bogey - at some point on Sunday, my driver tendered its resignation and excused itself from my bag - and then got worse, if you can imagine. No greens hit in regulation on the back nine until the 18th hole. There was even a rare and mysterious quad on my scorecard. Right side, left side, chunks, blades, you name it. I made every short putt that I looked at, which was nice - the downside being, most of those putts were for some number higher than 5. It was so bad that I couldn't even get angry. "Mystified" is a better word.

Here's the difference between the golf we play and the golf the pros play: in tournament golf, everything is by the book. Hit one into the water? Fine. There's a very specific set of rules that govern where you may drop a ball, and your buddy hollering "just toss one down right there" does not factor into any of them. There are no gimmes, either, no matter how close you came to making that 30-footer, no matter how many strokes it required to get you to that point, and no matter how desperately you wish for your playing partner to mumble, "that's good."

It's not good. Not until you put the damn ball into the hole.

There's a life lesson in there somewhere, I suppose. We can send our kids to schools that do not issue grades, we can reward "almost," we can accept "close enough," but we're doing ourselves a disservice in the process. At some point, the ball has to go into the hole, and every stroke counts. There's no gray area. In that sense, three days of intense competition at a game I adore might serve me well, someday. Right now, I'm just glad it's over.

Jacob rallied for a 76 on Sunday, his best round of the week, to tie for second in the First Flight. John Veneziano of Mount Dora won the state title with rounds of 72, 71, and 71 - those final two scores being the only sub-par rounds among the entire field all three days. And as bad as I felt on Sunday afternoon, I still beat 14 other guys in the Second Flight.

On the bright side, my kids still like me, college football season is coming soon, and I'm not quite ready to take up tennis. If I'm lucky, I might even stink up another driving range later this week.

The Best Father's Day

My six-year-old son has developed an interest in golf. As you may imagine, this pleases me greatly.

His curiosity was mined from the same patch of grass that spawned my obsession - the driving range at Winter Pines Golf Club in Winter Park. "The Pines" is one of the busiest munis in Orlando, and the driving range is rumored to be among the busiest in the country. My dad used to take me there after work, where I flailed away with a set of Jack Nicklaus Golden Bear blades until I caught one flush and got hooked for life. Now, a quarter-century later, I take my son and his graphite-shafted US Kids Golf set to the Pines, where he whacks striped Top-Flites until it's time for the perfunctory lemonade-and-pretzel break. It's important to have a good practice routine.

Every time we go to the range, I get one of two reactions from the weekend warriors on the tee line. The most common is a wistful stare and a shake of the head, followed by this comment: "I wish I had started when I was that young." Makes me think I'm doing something right. Also makes me silently thank my Dad for starting ME that young.

The second common reaction is a comment about my son's address - he's left-handed. When he started eating, drawing, and throwing things from the port side, his mother and I wrote it off as a stage of development, reasoning that with two parents and four grandparents all playing from the right, he couldn't possibly be a lefty. But he is. Somewhere back in the deep end of our gene pool, somebody was a southpaw, and the kid got it. He's legit. His handwriting is impeccable for a rising first-grader. No way am I attempting to change him over. For one thing, it means we can face each other on the range, which allows me to keep an eye on his wayward shots. That's how Phil Mickelson got started, you know. For another thing, he can pitch in the majors until he's 45. My Golden Bear irons remain in the attic, awaiting his little sister, who will probably choose field hockey.

Like most dads, I'm terribly cautious about forcing anything on my kids. The surest way to breed resentment is to create an obligation. When he wants to hit balls, we hit balls. When he wants to drink lemonade, we drink lemonade. When he wants to watch the airplanes drifting south over the Pines on the way to Orlando International, we discuss the colors on their tails. Of course I want him to like it. I pray for it. I just don't force it. He's six.

So last week, I took the family on vacation to Amelia Island Plantation, north of Jacksonville. We spent a week there last summer and loved it. Couldn't wait to get back. Beach for all, 72 holes of golf for Dad. One of the assistant pros there, a nice young man named Matt, watches Sun Sports. Treated me well last year. When my son asked if he could bring his clubs, I figured, what the heck. Maybe he'll come out to the range with me once or twice while his mom and his sister kick up their heels in the condo.

On the third or fourth day - after Alberto had passed, giving way to clear skies and cool temperatures - he did exactly that. Went through his routine of whacking 3-woods off the tee in between sips of lemonade, while I tried to straighten out a disturbing hook. I was fresh off Brady Ackerman's charity tournament in Ocala the week before, where I was lights-out during the Friday skins match (me, Peter Tom Willis, Shane Matthews, and Judd Davis - good grouping) but very average during the event itself on Saturday. While I tweaked my setup and grip pressure, I noticed my son paying close attention to me, and to the other golfers on the range.

You have to understand this kid. He's a deep thinker. There's none of the typical six-year-old hysteria about him. He was the peacemaker in kindergarten, the smart, quiet one that all the other kids wanted to be around. I'm not sure if a six-year-old can be "wise," but he comes pretty close. On this particular day, I could see him chewing on something in his mind. His mother and I are powerless to resist when he moves into one of these reflective moods. He sets world records for sweetness. At those moments, it's anything he wants. And I thought I knew what he was thinking.

So the next day, with permission from The Mom, I rolled the dice.

I told him we were going back to the driving range. He was excited, but I could tell there was something he wanted to say. When we pulled up to the parking lot at Amelia Links, I played my hand:

"So, do you want to get a golf cart and go play nine holes?"

You would have thought I just told him that every day from now until November was his birthday. Wide eyes. Bouncing in his seat. "You mean PLAY GOLF? On the golf course? By the ocean? Wow! That's EXACTLY what I wanted to do, but I thought you wanted to go to the range! Yeah, Daddy, can we play golf?"

At those moments, anything he wants. Anything.

And what he did, was play golf. What I mean is, the boy - the six-year-old lefthander - dead solid PLAYED nine holes of golf. Tee to green, chipping, putting, racing to the next tee. I couldn't hold him back. We've played nine holes at executive courses before, but this was his first legit round, with a golf cart and everything, and he was absolutely geeked. I think he shot 150 for those nine holes - we're not quite at the "keeping score" level yet - but he showed no signs of boredom or fatigue. He was enthralled. The child was playing golf, completely of his own free will. My job was to stay the hell out of the way and enjoy it. It was the finest two hours of the entire trip to that point, and among the top ten in my lifetime.

Until he trumped it in the parking lot with this little gem: "Daddy, before the vacation is over, can we play 18 holes?"

I had the tee time booked before he finished his sentence.

Two days later. The Oak Marsh course at Amelia Island Plantation, a short-but-tough sojourn through the marshes of the Amelia River and the ICW. Nobody but us on the course. Daddy playing from the tips, Lefty playing from the reds. The only allowance made for his first 18-hole round was a promise from Mom that Dad would get him a snack after nine holes. Dad dutifully obliged. Chocolate-chip muffin and lemonade.

At the turn, I gave him an out. He was looking a little peaked, despite the 80-proof sunscreen his mother had lathered all over his forehead. I told him I would take him back to the condo if he was tired, or just let him ride for the last nine holes while I played.

"Nope. I want to hit every shot. I've never played 18 holes before."

Let it be known that while the best players in the world were slogging through the third round of the 2006 United States Open at Winged Foot, a six-year-old lefty was playing every single shot over 18 holes at Oak Marsh on Amelia Island. Every single shot.

My dad taught me how to play at Winter Pines. Coincidentally, he recalls that I broke 80 in a round of golf for the first time at Amelia Island, playing the Long Point course at the age of about 14. He's wrong.

It was Alaqua Country Club in Longwood, and I was 16. I shot 76. Dad was there, along with one of our neighbors, who commented afterwards, "that was fun to watch." I'll never forget it. Though my dad's memory of my first sub-80 round is hazy, neither one of us knows or cares about the first time I beat him over 18 holes. That kind of thing doesn't resonate much in my family.

Someday, my son will kick my ass. I can't wait. I'll cherish it. But not as much as I cherish the vision of 18 holes in the dying afternoon light over north Florida. The little lefthander, Red Sox cap pulled down tight, swinging from his heels and chasing after it. Catching one flush and seeing it soar off the tee box. Draining a long putt and cheerfully tromping all over my line, followed by him reprimanding me for stepping in his "imaginary line," the one that I explained to him only moments earlier. Happier than pigs in slop, both of us. A round that will never end.

While Colin Montgomerie and Phil Mickelson - the "other" Lefty - are drowning their sorrows over missed opportunities at the Open this year, I hope they'll take a moment to at least thank their dads for introducing them to the game. I'd like to thank my dad for doing it. And I'd like to thank my son for reminding me that it is, in fact, a game.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. And happy father's day to me. The lefty wants to play.

Red On Sundays

Dan Jenkins once said in a Golf Digest interview that during his salad days as an up-and-coming sportswriter at Sports Illustrated, he was frequently asked to urge Arnold Palmer to wear a red sweater on Sundays.

Red, you see, shows up terrifically in photographs, and since Arnie was such a magnetic and reliable winner, the SI editors wanted him in red for the inevitable cover shot. Jenkins, who would grow into one of the best sportswriters that ever lived, considered this practice "idiotic" - aware, no doubt, of the SI "cover jinx," which dates back to the 1950's.

There's a great story out there (and for all I can remember, Jenkins may have written it) about a professional golfer who held a sizable lead after three rounds at a major championship and was asked to wear red on Sunday - again, for the benefit of photographers. It might have been Palmer at the 1966 US Open, where he coughed up a seven-shot lead with nine holes to play on Sunday and lost to Billy Casper in a Monday playoff; it may have been Andy North. I can't remember, and after an embarassingly exhaustive internet search, I can't find it. Anyway, the golfer in question, whoever he was, lost. This would be much more powerful and pithy had I actually located the damn story.

In any case, wearing red on Sunday for the benefit of a still-undecided magazine cover shot is a sure way to tempt fate. Tiger Woods likes to say that he wears red (or vermillion, or coral, or whatever Nike is calling it that week) during final rounds because his mother believes it to be a color of strength; personally, I think he's facing the Golf Gods head-on. You can play it safe and appease the Gods, or you can tell them to pound sand. It's pretty obvious which side of that fence Tiger and Arnie inhabit.

On December 27th of last year, I presented my fearless predictions for 2006, having already graded myself on my fearless predictions for 2005. We're not even halfway through the year, but I feel compelled to provide an update. You'll see why in a moment.

Note that I am fully aware of the grave consequences of tempting the Gods. I do not talk to the pitcher during a no-hitter; I always let the goalie hit the ice first. Like I said, I'm wearin' red. Pound sand, you onerous Gods.

From the December 27th blog entry:

"The Orlando Magic will reach the playoffs, aided by a nose dive from Indiana, Philadelphia, and/or Washington. Miami will make it as well, but won't get past the second round. Dwight Howard will not win Most Improved Player - they'll give that to Boris Diaw, Mehmet Okur, or Gilbert Arenas - but Howard will capture the NBA rebounding title, thanks in no small part to the inevitable Marcus Camby knee or shoulder injury. Chris Paul wins Rookie of the Year in a runaway. Flip Saunders wins Coach of the Year, but the Pistons lose to San Antonio in the NBA Finals."

Ahem. The Magic missed the playoffs by a fraction, winning 16 of their final 22 games. Philadelphia tanked to the tune of a 10-16 record in March and April (and Indiana made it despite a 13-16 record over the same span). Diaw indeed won Most Improved, with Okur also receiving votes. Dwight Howard finished the regular season as the NBA's second-best rebounder, two-tenths of a board per game behind Kevin Garnett. Paul is a mortal lock for Rookie of the Year. Missed on Flip, but still like the San Antonio pick.

"Phil Mickelson and Tiger Woods each win another major this year."

Lefty at Augusta, check. On June 15th, Winged Foot will host the US Open, where Tiger has two wins and no finishes outside the top 20 over the last nine years. Stay tuned.

"In college hoops, the Florida men will become the next national media darlings, reaching the Sweet Sixteen and prompting dozens of comparisons to both their own Final Four team from 1994 and Billy Donovan's 1987 Providence Friars."

Looks like I undersold the Gators. Sure, they were 11-0 when I wrote that, but get serious. Half of those wins were against the likes of Albany, Bethune-Cookman, and Alabama State. We all undersold the Gators.

"UCF will have a down year, failing to reach their conference final, while Matt Doherty's FAU squad will sneak up on somebody - I'm looking hard at the Gardner-Webb game on January 15th."

Kirk Speraw's club went 14-15, failing to win 20 games for the first time in four years. They reached the quarterfinals in the Conference USA tournament, losing to Houston. And on January 15th, 2006, Florida Atlantic blew out Gardner-Webb, the defending Atlantic Sun Conference regular season champs, by a final of 72-51. I'll admit that I didn't see Coach Doherty doing a one-and-done in Boca.

"Watch for the FSU women to make the most noise in the postseason, skating into the NCAA tournament and shocking a favorite in the first round."

March 18, 2006: Florida State 80, Louisiana Tech 71. The only part I missed was naming the favorite - FSU was a 6-seed in the women's tournament, while Tech was an 11-seed.

A first-round win, more noise than Florida winning a national championship? No. But considering that Florida State was 5-22 the year prior to coach Sue Semrau's arrival, and considering that Louisiana Tech's program has won 899 games all-time and is one of only two schools to appear in all 25 women's NCAA basketball tournaments (Tennessee being the other) - well, that first-round win was pretty darn noisy.

"Having already disposed of the freaks from Harvard in the ECAC tournament, the Cornell hockey team will reach the Frozen Four in Milwaukee in April, where they will beat Minnesota and Boston College to claim the national championship."

This one hurts. Harvard beat the Big Red in the ECAC championship game. The Red made the NCAA tournament anyway, reaching the Midwest Regional Final before losing to Wisconsin in triple-OT. Note, however, that BC did indeed reach the Frozen Four.

It's only May, and we still have 2006's back nine to play, but I'm liking my scorecard right now. I might even spot the Gods a couple of shots.

And for the record, I'm wearin' red from here on out.

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.

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.

* * *

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.

Now On The Tee

Notes from the 53rd annual PGA Merchandise Show...

Wow.

The Orange County Convention Center in Orlando is divided into two main buildings - the West Concourse and the North/South Concourse. Combined, they sport 2.1 million square feet of convention space, 74 meeting rooms, a theater, a lecture hall, three sit-down restaurants, eight food courts, 173 loading bays, and parking for over 6,000 vehicles. Step inside either concourse, and you are stepping into the largest empty space that you can possibly imagine. It's incredible what one billion dollars of tourist tax money will buy these days. Insert snarky comment about a new gym for the Magic here.

The PGA Show takes up nearly every single inch of the West Concourse, or roughly 1.1 million square feet of space. I'll give you a moment to digest that.

The PGA Merchandise Show is an annual meeting of golf vendors, representing every imaginable aspect of the industry - equipment, travel, clothing, instruction, education, you name it. Over 40,000 members of the golf industry attend the Show in Orlando each year, touring exhibits from more than 1,200 golf-related businesses. It's become such a happening that The Golf Channel does two hours of live broadcasts from the Convention Center each day during the week.

At one end of the West Concourse is perhaps the largest indoor driving range in the history of golf. Netting is hung from the rafters as local club pros and buyers hack away with the newest drivers and irons, all under the pretense of "field-testing" the product before they decide to stock it on their shelves. At the other end of the concourse - a fifteen minute walk, shorter if you take the tram - is the clothing section, where attendees can get an early glimpse at this season's latest fashions. The Greg Norman pavillion featured a salt-water fish tank with two actual sharks - one of them a baby Great White. I wish I were kidding.

In between the two, you'll find every training aid, hitting net, shoe, ball, wood, iron, wedge, putter, glove, bag, pull-cart, videotape, book, driving range mat, golf cart, silly hat, Chocolate Lab head cover, divot tool, and naked lady tee ever invented. It's all there for your perusal. Bring an empty duffle bag and an oxygen tank. If you're not back in four hours, have someone call a paramedic.

Golf freaks like myself have heard legendary tales of the PGA Show for many moons now, but since the event is closed to the public, those stories remained cloaked in mystery. This week, through the totally legitimate graces of a media credential, I stepped behind the velvet ropes for the first time.

Again I say, wow.

The largest buzz at the PGA Show, as measured by the number of golf pros and store reps hanging around the displays, was at Callaway, Srixon, and Bridgestone/Precept. Bridgestone has glommed onto the hybrid craze by creating an entire line of "irons" that are, in fact, full-bodied woods, not unlike the old Spalding Executives. Srixon (short for Sumitomo Rubber Industries) was intent on promoting all the tour pros who use their product, including Jim Furyk, Robert Allenby, and Fuzzy Zoeller. Callaway was pushing a new ball designed exclusively for women, called the "HX Pearl." It was a fascinating display of commerce, from the ball-and-club standbys to the emerging companies intent on cracking a $3 billion dollar industry.

To my surprise, however, a few of the industry leaders decided not to exhibit their wares at the Orlando show, including Titleist and Ping. I'm guessing this is somewhat akin to the annual Auto Show that also stops at the Orange County Convention Center, which, for the last couple of years, has gone without Porsche and Saab (trust me on this one - I take my son to the Auto Show every year). Perhaps there are certain manufacturers that feel they have nothing to gain by setting up camp in Orlando.

Golf being an inherently personal game, I was captivated by a display from a company called "Accu-Length," which makes expandable golf clubs for youngsters. Their secret is a tiny bolt inside the graphite shafts, which can be unscrewed to receive one-inch spacers, allowing parents to lengthen the clubs, year by year, as the child gets taller. You spend 200 bucks for a set of clubs that theoretically can last four or five years (each set comes with enough spacers to increase each club by four inches), as opposed to buying the kid a new set of sticks every 18 months. Genius.

I read every word of their PR packet, and noticed quickly that the word "kids" does not appear anywhere in their literature. That would be because the industry leader - and their chief competitor - in the children's club market is an outfit called U.S. Kids Golf, which also had an immense pavillion at the Show. See, somebody at Accu-Length had the foresight to leave out the word "kids," to make sure that no potential buyer was reminded of the other guys. Isn't business mesmerizing? As an English major, such canny marketing thoroughly impresses me.

Rule number one in all forms of journalism, even sports: follow the money. The biggest dollars, in terms of display and exchange, were in the golf clothing section of the Show, which took up at least half of the West Concourse floor space. Makes sense. Even if you play to an 18 handicap, you can easily dress to a two, provided your credit line is large enough.

I spent about five minutes at the exhibit of J. Lindeberg, the gonzo designer known for outfitting Jesper Parnevik in pants ranging from plaid to salmon to racing stripe, but decided I didn't fit the profile (literally - all their stuff seems geared towards a 28-inch waist and 36-inch leg). Several of the big names in clothing, including Antigua, Ashworth, and Tommy Bahama, displayed their new lines in full-scale store reproductions. One can only imagine how much money was spent on displays alone.

Celebrity sightings: golf teacher Jim McClean was spotted chatting with executives at the Golf Digest pavillion. Mark McCumber was pushing his Gaim Golf putter. Dave Pelz gave a lengthy talk on the short game to an audience of club professionals. Furyk and Norman were there. So too were brothers Chris and Rich Robinson, better known as the Black Crowes, who apparently have signed a sponsorship deal with Izod.

The Robinsons gamely posed for photographs and signed posters for a mildly curious crowd of onlookers, most of whom were wondering what in the world these guys were doing at the PGA Merchandise Show. Hands down, the Crowes win the award for Most Unlikely Attendees.

Sadly, I left the show without much in the way of swag - Stuff We All Get, the freebie currency of the media industry - as most exhibitors were extremely tight with their giveaways. I did pick up two new Precept golf balls, but that was about it. I'll have to marshall my forces for next year.

Expandable golf clubs for kids. Damn, why didn't I think of that?

A Man In Full

Sixteen months ago, Phil Mickelson was the Best Player Without A Major. Sixteen months later, he's halfway to a career Grand Slam. Fortunes can change on dime.

By the time he turned 33 years old, Jack Nicklaus had already won 11 professional majors - and would make it an even dozen during his 33rd summer, when he added the 1973 PGA Championship to his trophy case. That 12th major, by the way, came less than a month after Jack's fifth child was born.

From Michael Nicklaus's birthday - July 24th, 1973 - until right now, the Golden Bear won seven Grand Slam titles. Seven majors, while providing for five children. That, my friends, is clutch.

Phil Mickelson now has two majors on his resume' at the age of 35, the first of which came when he was 33. Mickelson, like Jack, barely knew the Tour as a single man. He and his wife, Amy, have known each other since college days back in Arizona, and now have three children, none older than six. While Tiger Woods has the playing record that most closely approximates Jack's at the same age, it is Mickelson who more closely resembles the young Bear in both girth and personal life.

I got to thinking about all of this as I watched Mickelson celebrate on the 18th green at Baltusrol on Monday with his wife and children. The two girls, Amanda and Sophia, are old hands at this, having lept into Daddy's arms sixteen months ago in Augusta. The spotlight means nothing to them. But Evan, the boy, had to be coaxed out on Monday morning, still a little shy around all those strangers. In the end, like it is in my house, the youngest one refused to allow the older ones to have all the fun.

When Tiger Woods got married, there were predictable editorials in print and TV media wondering if his "drive" would suffer. How could he maintain his record pace, they wondered, if he was burdened by honey-do lists and shopping trips at home? The possibility of fatherhood for Tiger further stirred up the critics. How does he maintain his edge if he's changing diapers? Never mind that Jack Nicklaus, of all people, was singing the praises of both marriage and fatherhood when asked.

I hope Tiger was watching Monday's finish closely. I hope he saw the look on Mickelson's face in the seconds that followed his winning birdie putt. First came the relief of finishing, then the joy of winning, and then - something else.

I saw it once before, about three years ago, when Lance Armstrong stood on the podium after yet another Tour de France win, holding his son Luke in that now-famous baby yellow jersey. Even while being interviewed on live television, Armstrong couldn't take his eyes off that kid. I know that look. It says, "I cannot believe how beautiful you are."

Lefty had it on Monday, and I hope Tiger saw it. It is the look of a man in full. You can be a father and husband, and be a champion. Jack did it, and Phil is doing it (and on that note, if Nicklaus could win seven majors with five kids, I see nothing to indicate that Lefty can't win seven with three kids).

Too often, we are focused on what's next, when we should be paying attention to what's now. Kudos to Mickelson for his second major - but I admire him more for how he looks at his kids. Tiger, don't be afraid. Fatherhood may not make you a better player, but it will make you a better man.

Quick Thoughts on Baltusrol, Second Round

1. No offense to Jim Huber, Dick Enberg, Jimmy Roberts, or any other sports announcer currently drawing a paycheck, but - does any big sporting event really need an "essayist?"

2. Again, I hate to harp on Huber, who I happen to think is very good, but he committed the cardinal sin of sports announcing during his post-round interview with Phil Mickelson - failing to actually ask a question.

You've seen this a million times. "Phil, you made a statement with your round today." Pause. Crickets chirping. Phil actually laughed as the two men stared at each other. You know what Lefty was thinking: "Yes, Jim, and you just made one too."

Imagine if Huber was interviewing Mickelson after a 75 instead of a 65, or imagine if he was interviewing Tiger during one of the Striped One's finicky moods. Woods would have given Huber a withering smirk, blurted something sarcastic, and then instructed Stevie to throw Huber into a water hazard.

Rule One, from the opening chapter of the Sportscaster's Handbook: ALWAYS ask a question.

3. In case you saw the leaderboard on Friday and were wondering: Yang Yong-Eun is a 33-year-old Korean who lives and plays in Japan. He was third on the Japanese Tour money list last year, with two wins. I have officially exhausted my Yang Yong-Eun knowledge.

4. Charles Barkley should be invited as a guest commentator for every event TNT televises. For that matter, I'd like to see him on Sun Sports, FSN Florida, Court TV, the Weather Channel, and Noggin.

Forget it - just give the man his own network. Seriously, is there anybody funnier on sports television? Or more terrifying to a network executive? There is absolutely no telling what might come out of his mouth.

5. Two words for Mickelson: Trucker Hat. Nobody looks good in a visor. Now, if we can just get the word out to the rest of the tour...