This Constant Storm

This constant storm

Crashes on my beach,

Abuses my soul, keeps

Dreams out of reach.

Swirling sand akin

To verbal abuse.

No one’s seeking

Any form of excuse.

Those on the left;

Those on the right:

Nuking the middle

With hate and spite.

Pounding the good book

With bias and greed;

It’s God’s will that

The innocent bleed.

Man, what kind of creed

Can do these things?

And folks still wonder

Why caged birds sing.

This constant storm

Keeps coming and coming.

Waves of anger,

Waves of despair,

Waves of methane

Killing the air.

Some say all’s well

with the atmospshere;

Yet the Arctic is melting,

Smog refuses to clear.

Pretty soon

No alien in space

Is gonna come here.

Why visit a planet

That can’t decide

Between fact tellers

And those who lied?

Alternative truth?

The universe is grinning:

“Those folks on Earth

Can't fathom losing from winning.”

Meanwhile entitled

Good Ole Boys

Keep spouting,

“Wham bam

Thank you mam

Grab that pussy

Cause I can!”

This constant storm

Is a huge harpoon

coming from every direction:

The only barrier

Is the coming election.

So quit whining

And cussing:

That’s no antidote;

Instead, bide your time

And by all means vote

A hundred times

If that’s what it takes

To turn this tide

Toward a more gentle norm

And remove the threat

Of this constant storm ... 

                                         This time.

                                                           For awhile.

They Went To Paris, Part 2

Earlier in the week, I shared remarkably optimistic lyrics for The Ryder Cup, which concludes this morning, if you are reading this on Sunday, Sept. 30, 2018.

Team USA did get off to a great start in the morning session of fourball (all four players play their own ball, if you are not familiar with the Ryder Cup format), but all hell shook loose in the foursome session, where two players use one ball, hitting alternate shots. This is a tough format. Very, very, very tough in the best of conditions.

The Euros won all four matches in foursomes, the first time they'd swept USA in that format, and seized a 5-3 lead after Friday's two sessions.

Saturday's two sessions were just as horrid for Team USA, which managed to win 3 points , 1 in fourball, 2 in foursomes, while the Euros again claimed 5.

This Ryder Cup is being played on a course outside Paris, France. It is one of the regular European Tour venues. The Euro team, thus, knows the course, having accumulated some 250 or more rounds on that layout.

Team USA had eight rounds of experience.

The Euros, as host team, get to set the course up.  Thomas Bjorn, the Euro captain, let the rough grow. Think Gabby Hayes at Woodstock. Think wheat fields. Corn as high as elephant's eye.

Why?

Because the Euros have a bunch of players who drive the ball straight, while one of the key strengths of team USA was how far some of its players can hit the ball. Usually, it comes down to putts to decide team competition. Bjorn cut to the chase by making hitting the fairway an equal component, and considering how the Americans have performed, the deciding component.

The feed for this blog sends new posts out at 6 a.m. This will arrive in your email about the time singles play begins. Europe leads, 10-6. There will be 12 singles matches. Because USA won the last Ryder Cup, they need 14 points to retain the Cup. The Euros need 14 1/2.

The Euros, obviously, are in great shape.

Match play can be fantastic theatre. Even if you don't care or know much about golf, you might find observing what pressure can do to be of interest.

My prediction for the outcome returns to to the Jimmy Buffett song, HE WENT TO PARIS.

Today, I suspect another rewrite is in order. This one is not long.

They went to Paris
Looking for answers
To questions that bothered them so.

And failed.

They Went To Paris

(with sincere apologies to Jimmy Buffett).

They went to Paris

Looking for answers

To questions that bothered them so.

They were impressive,

Seasoned, yet quite aggressive:

Savin' the world on their own.

When they missed those summer breezes.

They leaned on French wines and cheeses,

But nothing put their ambition at bay.

They kept their resolve,

Determined  to evolve,

Seizing 6 points the very first day.

On and on it went:

Some of it perfect,

Some of it boresome.

What’s the difference

between fourball and foresome?

Yet none of the antics

of full-throttle romantics

Could keep this team at bay.

A hard-earned infusion

and a heart-felt transfusion

Turned harsh rival into prey.

One in particular

Had arrived in style

Exuding savvy and warm guile.

His body had been battered,

His whole world had been shattered,

Yet still he managed to smile.

Because he’d been

through the fire

and taken his life higher

With patience and persistence.

So it just goes to show

No matter how harsh the blow

You can still go the distance.

Without improving their lies

They claimed the Ryder prize,

Then jetted to the Bahamas

Where they finished the plan

By strolling on sand

In red, white & blue pajamas.

Yeah, they went to Paris

Lookin' for answers to questions

That bothered them so.

Sweet Are The Uses of Adversity

“Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.”

AS YOU LIKE IT

(ACT 2, SCENE 1)

By now, most of the planet is aware of what transpired late Sunday afternoon on a world-class golf course that was the home venue of one of the game’s most revered icons.

How fitting that another icon — akin to a warrior finally returning home after a series of conflicts overseas — chased and caught his former self. And all of us, like Tommy Fleetwood in the first round of The Tour Championship last Thursday, witnessed the past and the future in the present.

I want — no  I must — believe that somewhere Bobby Jones is smiling. Perhaps he is lounging just down the road from East Lake in the Champions Locker Room at Augusta National. He never won The Masters, but what the hey, Jones invented it.

Bobby has uncorked a bottle of the great stuff. Shot glasses all around. One for Ben, one for Byron, one for Sam, one for Arnie.  Bobby beckons to a gentleman wearing a Hoylake t-shirt to join them in the inner sanctum and hands him a shot glass.

 “One for Earl,” Bobby says, then adds, “Gather round, gentlemen. And allow me to tell you of great things.”

Everyone nods and smiles. Even Ben Hogan smiles.

And so it goes for the Ghosts of Excellence that hover near every kid’s first efforts to hit a cracked range ball in the air. The thousands and thousands and thousands of balls a great player must strike if a career is to be a career.

Every kid likes to hit putts on the practice green for big stakes. “This one’s for The Masters. This one’s for The U.S. Open.” Over and over and over again. Every kid also imagines he is Bobby, or Ben, or Sam, or Byron, or Arnie, or Jack. And most certainly, Tiger.

Ask one of the game’s young guns. Tiger Woods was a myth that has become real.

So from dawn to dusk, the realist chases the dream. Over and over and over and over again.

That’s the key.

The work.

Gary Player said. “The more I practice, the luckier I get.”

You have to wait for it, though.

Chi Chi Rodriguez said, “Patience is genius.”

Turn back the clock. Relive those riveting amateur performances. The interview with Curtis Strange, where a prodigy was admonished for believing he could win right away on Tour. And he did.

Then, the prodigy followed that first triumph with an ever-building collection of amazing, of incredible, of perfectly timed excellence achieved in the most stressful situations. The runaway at Augusta in 1997 transcended not just golf and sports, but social barriers. A statement was made by default. 

He was not a race or creed, he was Tiger.

And was he ever.

Over and over and over again, Tiger Woods rose to challenges and steamrolled deep into the record books.

So good he got bored with a great golf swing. He created a new one, the first of several. And won again. And again. And again.

Nothing, however, matches winning the U.S. Open on a broken leg. At that point, perhaps, confidence ventured into the red line area that reads BULLETPROOF.

Sports fans, particularly Americans, have love-hate issues with their heroes. They love finding them and building the perfect pedestal, which are too easy to dismantle.

We love our heroes. We love to see them rise. Some of us love to see them fall.

And most of us love to see them regain what was lost.

Mistakes are human. The body does decline.  Even after multiple surgeries sometimes  the body gets so bad you can’t walk or get out bed. Then the mind-numbing fear that you might never hit a golf ball again.

Lending enormous weight to the Joni Mitchell observation, 

“Don’t it always seem to go

That you don’t know what you’ve got

Till its gone.”

Or The Byrds, courtesy of Otis Redding, who insisted,

“You don’t miss the water

Till your well runs dry.”

None of us who follow Tiger Woods will forget his yips trying to chip. Or the kindness given by Billy Horschel to an icon, who had lost his way physically, mentally, and, in my view, spiritually.

You don’t know how deep the lake is until you touch bottom. And until you do, the gratitude of surfacing is not quite as profound.

Then the first step. Back fusion, which repaired some of the physical and, perhaps, some of the mental, because there was caution chasing apprehension. The gradual ascension with steps forward, sideways, back and forward again.

Americans cherish stories about the journey as they relate to comebacks. 

Yesterday at East Lake, one of those stories arrived at the intersection of Redemption and Perseverance.

As Big Bill said at the beginning of this post:

SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY.

Changes In Magnitudes, Changes in Certitudes

Tour to make extreme changes in FedEx Cup in 2019

Excerpts in bold from above link, article by CBS analyst, Kyle Porter:

What if I told you not all playing fields were level? What if I told you that golf, the ultimate meritocracy, was no longer being played equivalently at all? 

That's what's going to happen at the 2019 Tour Championship when players will start with staggered scores with the leader of the FedEx Cup coming into the tournament beginning the event at 10 under. Here is how players will start.

• First in FedEx Cup coming to Tour Championship: -10
• Second: -8
• Third: -7
• Fourth: -6
• Fifth: -5
• 6th-10th: -4
• 11th-15th: -3
• 16th-20th: -2
• 21st-25th: -1
• 26th-30th: E

This was done so that whoever wins the Tour Championship automatically wins the FedEx Cup. It will prevent situations like last season where Xander Schauffele won the Tour Championship, but Justin Thomas won the FedEx Cup.

One aspect of golf that is inherent to its purpose is its tradition. Certainly many, many components of golf have changed in the past century. Equipment is a biggie, as is how a round is observed, particularly after the Internet and that there is a single TV channel devoted to golf, as well as a reporter who calls himself Tiger Tracker, and does exactly what his name indicates … he follows and tweets every shot Tiger Woods takes.

Reminds me of tram cars blasting Jimmy Buffett music in Key West, perhaps giving the ghosts of Hemingway and those who followed “Papa” down A1A seeking artistic inspiration a throbbing dose of Caribbean soul, whether they want it or not.

Imagine as you trudge toward the Hemingway House, one of those tourist vehicles, akin to a conga line, snakes past with its speakers trumpeting A PIRATE LOOKS AT FORTY … one of the quintessential Key West songs Buffett uncorked at the beginning of his career.

Doubt even Buffett himself would have predicted that his popularity would equal Hemingway, then soar to new heights.

Change is inevitable.

But I can also see the ghost side of the Key West equation. Does the sleepy, quaint, almost idealistic, island village need to have constant reminders that a musician became famous by jotting down a few lines about the town’s existence? What about the “real” Key West genius — Hemingway — whose style has influenced and will continue to affect those who put “quill to parchment” and create a story.

For me, that’s the same type of crossroads professional golf faces, notably with its desire to amp interest. On one side of the equation, there is a basic concept that, after much meandering to and fro, I think now has significant value. Does golf need a season-ending event, other than team competitions, that highlights and magnifies the pursuit of excellence?

Easy answer.

Of course.

But how?

And that is certainly the rub. How does the Tour meld tradition with change?

Change the size of the hole on the green? Use 14 holes instead of 18? Create par 8s and 9s?

Not too likely.

There are some basics to golf that, perhaps we can all agree need to be kept.

Playing the ball as it lies, for instance, is another.

The equipment and ball is in this mix, but for the sake of brevity, which is non-existent in this post, let’s shift focus to scoring.

I am not in favor of “giving” a lead to a player on the actual scoreboard. Perhaps those who are supporting this change can elaborate their position.

I wish I had even a suggestion of a solution, but at this point, all I can offer is that the FedEx Cup is great for golf, but it has yet to find itself in terms of how the champion will be crowned.

Staggering the field with pre-determined scores under par, then proceeding as if those players had actually scored those numbers so that the winner of the Tour Championship also automatically wins the FedEx Cup is akin, in my view, to allowing ball in hand in perfect conditions. Too many rules in play.

Better, again in my view, to not manufacture as much and simply let the players speak for themselves in their relationship to par and each other.

Chasing Pure

Currently, the PGA Tour is engaged with the FedEx Cup, that for me, is mostly tedious.

Dustin Johnson, one of the current stars on Tour, tweeted yesterday that playing for so much cash is motivation enough for him. I agree. For him.

As a fan, however, I am not that engaged.

One of the keenest aspects of "professional" golf is that one gets paid.

For those with a chance to win a bundle, the event has significant purpo$e, opportunity, and deep interest (as well as a trunk of principle).

Key phrase, of course, THOSE WITH A CHANCE TO WIN A BUNDLE. I think the Tour is desperately trying to sell fans that this event has merit because of what a player can win, without addressing that it is a meandering distraction where eventually some lucky and skilled player takes home a huge bonus.

For me, that is not all that interesting. Certainly there is pressure, and there is often great golf. But it is a PPP event  — Paid Per Player.

Oddly, at least for me, at no time do I consider how much cash a player wins during a major, or many of the higher-tiered events, notably The Players and Memorial and Bay Hill. Nor do I scan the money list,

I'm engaged in those golf events because of the intangible and tangible factors that the FedEx Cup does not have and so desperately requires, in my view.

It is vastly ironic that the Tour dilutes the FedEx event every time it mentions the Ryder Cup, which has a higher, more pure purpose. Sometimes it seems there is a FedEx bonus BECAUSE of the Ryder Cup, which is an honor simply to make the team on your own merit. Those first automatic 8 slots reflect strong play over a significant passage of time. A great tribute to one's efforts. And the four that eventually get picked also can boast their games are peaking at a great time.

There has always been muttering by some players, though, that while it is highly fantastic to make this team, that with so much money involved, the "cast" in the film should be paid. I have no comprehension of what it must be like to make so much money, and play so well that you are involved with golf's most engaging event — The Ryder Cup.

Is that experience a reward? From the cheap seats it appears that way.

Can see both sides.

A barrel of cash near an 18th green, for some I suppose, creates fantastic suspense, mostly for those with a chance to win it.

I would think that concept would work much better if less players in the field were not already multi-millionaires. Kind of like the NBA. Does anybody really give a shit how much LeBron makes? What we care about, or at least me, is how he plays on the biggest stage.

Stories of journeymen pros strapped for cash, living in cars week to week, barely making a living are not as prevalent now as they were routine in the 1940s-50s. Winning a tournament then meant a pro and his family could keep chasing the dream which was essentially to keep chasing a dream.

Arnie changed that. Then Jack. Then Tiger REALLY changed how much a player might win.

Golf in the 21st century has sci-fi equipment and Warren Buffett rewards.

Meanwhile, a team event that involved at first two nations, the USA and England, then expanded to include more Euro countries — a notion Jack felt would make the Ryder Cup more fair and interesting.

Ha.

The Ryder Cup is a bag phone in a typewriter world clinging to the raft of social consciousness.

For me, The Ryder Cup is one of the basic elements of golf that include size of cup on the greens, each course has 18 holes, and that there are short holes (par 3), longer holes (par 4) and MUCH longer holes (par 5)  with overall par ranging from 70 to 73. That's the foundation.

Toss in the aspect of integrity ... that players of all levels — ideally — attempt to play real golf as in playing it as it lies, and that infractions are to be called by the participants themselves.

This is the pure stuff. Those amazing late afternoons when you and your fellow competitors are chasing daylight to finish before dark .. how the length of the shadows shifts ... the stillness ... the clarity of the moment.

There is nothing better.

It is fantasy to believe that golf at its highest level and on its most mammoth stage can retain that sense of universal joy .. as if a world class guitarist chooses to sit on his porch and concoct a tune ... and if one is lucky enough to be there ... well .. there could be nothing better, say, than listening to Eric Clapton or J.J.Cale (name your own artist), work magic on an acoustic guitar. No crowd. No microphones. No lights. Just an artist and his music.

I remember as a kid watching Arnie strut up the 18th fairway at Augusta, and I’ve been hooked ever since.

Drama. Passion. Victory.

Then the countless hours on forgotten dog tracks, where at dawn or dusk, I trudged down fairways, through trees and poison ivy, hunting cracked Titleists and putts for par.

How I scrunched my shoulders a la Arnie to putt … or when on the tee after a sprayed drive, used Arnie’s signature body language to will the ball back into play. Sadly, that worked only for Arnie, and only sometimes, even for The King.

I guess the point of this post is that the money is meaningless unless you have a chance to take it home. Happy for those who have that chance, but that’s not what engages me.

The Tour needs to figure out why its fans “need” the FedEx Cup, and not continue to assume that it is the cash.

Rustler's Renaissance

So …

Once upon a moment

Luck beckons,

Then turns south.

No fire on the mountain.

No gift horse

Or its mouth.

Above the saloon

In a stale room 

One eye on the ceiling

The other on adieu

No one promised heaven

Or even

A damn good view.

Down below

A pack of drifters

Lurks as idle

As muttered threats

Until they hear

The signal

That sets them free.

Dust on the horizon;

Someone yells

Stampede.
Nostrils flaring,

Pistols blaring:

Someone’s burning

Rattlesnake weed.

Running hard

To the river

Where tracks

And sins

Disappear.

As if someone

Willed release:

Taming a hurricane,

A bandit priest.

Then, the hidden trail

To the secret canyon

That no posse will ever find.

In the distance

Near the concealed cabin
A lonesome fiddle

Greets an old companion —

A steel guitar

That had just made bail.

Soon, even the veterans

Feel the urge to dance;

Echoes of Butch

And Sundance

Trading desert jeans

for tailored pants;

Getting primed for

The revolution:

A Rustler’s Renaissance. 

Home

A New Citizen Decides To Leave The Tumult of Trump's America

The link above leads to a remarkable account. So clear and heartfelt. And perfectly tuned to the times.

Who better than an immigrant to display affection and concern for her "second" country, and why she must leave. Hopefully, not forever.

My father was born in Cyprus. He essentially taught himself English. His dream was to come to the United States, which he did and wound up at the University of Missouri, where he met my mother, a student at Stephens College.

At first, Peter G. Phialas anticipated going to medical school, but his aversion to blood and love of language steered him toward a masters and Ph.D at Yale and eventually Oxford in England. He chose to teach Shakespeare, which he did his entire career at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill.

A life-long democrat, my dad died in December of 1999, a month short of George W. Bush taking the oath to serve as president of the United States.

Nor did Pete witness the two elections won by Barack Obama.

And luckily, did not have to endure the cruelest and most shocking election in the history of the country, a sketchy, shadowy, if not corrupt, takeover by a con man and his throng of quick-fingered cronies.

But i can hear what my father would be saying. And he'd be saying it often, too.

Thus, immigrant stories that reflect profound love for the United States of America carry special weight for me. Rebecca Mead's masterpiece should be read by all Americans. It's long, but totally worth the effort.

Karmic Gold

A fascinating week.

Omarosa has done more than steal focus. She has injected a fresh dose of hope into the spiraling, evolving, perhaps way-too-optimistic mix. That she is on the verge of trumping Trump with his own tactics is Shakespearian rich — a karmic gold mine spiced with the notion that this version of Lady Macbeth might channel Shylock. What can be better than this form of devious revenge?

If only the current folly was just a dream in midsummer, rather than the nightmare that it is.

At any rate:

Is Trump a racist?

Is he a bigot, a charlatan, a con man, an asshole, a serial liar who lacks any sense of moral fiber?

Are these trick questions?

But in my view, the issue is no longer Trump. It's the vast throng of elected enablers, as well as those who identify themselves as being in Trump's base, where, apparently, myopia has reached crisis levels.

The elected Republicans in Congress who continue to look the other way with each of Trump's attacks on decency are digging a deeper pit for themselves. These folks are not just on the wrong side of history, they are creating it, hook, line and sinkers.

Power above party and most certainly country. That level of arrogant greed does not suggest there is a rainbow at the end of this storm.

It's not a stretch to predict that eventually Trump's incendiary tactics will produce an epic catastrophe. The war on the media, for instance, is a first-rate example of blaming the messenger in advance, that under no circumstances will CNN, The Washington Post or The New York Times tell the truth. If the "news" is anti-Trump, it is fake. And we've been asked by our petulant, orange-hued menace that we should believe him and only him.

Isn't it amazing how Trump's supporters refuse to see this tyrant in his ill-fitting nudie suit for what he is? Hans Christian Anderson must be humming Chuck Berry while rolling over in his grave, eager to tell Tchaikovsky (and the rest of us) the news.

Have you ever seen a human being with so little regard for others, and even less for animals?

One of the more salient aspects of "human" nature is that most of us crave association with a pet, most commonly a dog and/or cat, who give unconditionally and ultimately take so little.

What kind of person despises these engaging, honest creatures? One that likely has difficulty with projecting any of those traits because he lacks them himself. When everything  is scam/sham/thank you ma'am, it's hard to trust someone will "care" for you unless you pay them.

One of the infinite joys of getting to know a new friend, be it canine or feline, is the discovery of its habits that make that "personality" unique. I believe it's one of the most compelling rabbit holes that exist ... because part of that "discovery" reveals as much about you as it does your new associate —  each day you wish he/she could speak as loud verbally as it does with its actions. But the actions are plenty, aren't they? In fact, the actions are the truth.

I find it impossible to trust anyone who despises animals. Trump's well-known disdain for pets reveals just how shallow, heartless, cruel, self-absorbed, and morally bankrupt he is.

i also find it impossible to like anyone who lacks a keen sense of humor.

Laughter and a purring cat go a long, long way to help make a part of what is so wrong just a bit better.

Of course, the genre of pet I'd love to send to the White House is as reptilian as the creature who occasionally stays there when bored with golf and fast food.

The one difference, obviously, is that one type of flesh-consuming carnivore was born in the muck, and has little choice. The corporate upside for an alligator is a "fresh start" as a pair of shoes, a belt or even a suitcase. Not exactly a shrewd career move.

Meanwhile, another inhabitant of the slime craves junk food, over-cooked sirloin with ketchup, and in spite of what he tweets, has no intention whatsoever of either draining, fixing, or even leaving his "natural" habitat.

"Swamp Thing. 

You make my heart sing.

You make everything ..."

Grinding

If you are not a Tiger Woods fan, start typing that weak, snarky sauce now. Or, perhaps, just move on.

Regardless, what follows is my assessment of what transpired last week in St. Louis and in part the entire season in professional golf

Brooks Koekpa won the PGA Championship, but Tiger Woods claimed Sunday with one of the strongest-willed performances of his career.

I think Nick Faldo was on to something about TW’s 64  … that most players would have finished 10 shots higher.

Tiger’s run on the front nine Sunday in spite of missing every fairway was, even if you loathe Tiger Woods, remarkable.

From the first disappointing near-make for birdie on the first hole, Tiger maintained his focus … and only after the wild tee shot on 17, did we see frustration. I’m sure most of his fans at home went into deep funks as that tee ball sailed wide right. While the golf gods of the greens screwed with Tiger all day, the fairway/rough gods were a tad more benign. On 17, the ball was “playable” from the hazard, as in dry and not bellying up to whatever creatures lurk in streams in Missouri.

On the ninth hole, a yanked iron off the tee flirted with OB, then danced down the cart path toward the green, the way a golf ball should behave when struck by an icon. Even better, as Tiger took his drop, and the ball kept bouncing away, he was allowed to place his ball on the hard pan. It took several moments to do that, and here’s a strong opinion — when a Tour pro is given ball in hand, he knows exactly what to do. Amateurs, of course, have more practice, not that it does us all that much good.

Then, the sweeping 9 iron second shot that left Tiger with an opportunity which he cashed in, That was one hell of a fist pump, and the adrenaline flowed. “Oh waiter, another six shot espresso, if you would be so kind.”

Non-Tiger fans are likely wondering — are you gonna talk about this creep all day, and not discuss Koepka?

Yes, I am going to discuss what interests me, and I do have some things to say about Koepka. He’s a hell of a player who finished strong. I hope he brings that game to the Ryder Cup. Happy?

The images of the St. Louis fans that followed Tiger and surrounded the 18th green reflect the people’s choice. It’s an easy one, in my view.

Rewind the film to 2009, when the scandal broke. I suggested then that Tiger Woods see a therapist, rather than a new golf coach to alter his swing. What needed changing was his mind, not his launch path.

Eventually, if you believe in karma, that vengeful, insidious force shadowed Woods until it helped destroy his back. And then the period of time when no one knew if Tiger would ever play again on Tour — his personal Elba (an awkward exile from his chosen form of self-expression.)

Okay, “one” of his chosen forms of self-expression. I know that’s cheap. A Mick Jagger joke. But true.

Tiger might not have had discretion or morals, but he certainly, for the most part, had great taste.

The point is that Tiger did not change his attitude or his behavior when he returned to golf that April after the scandal broke the previous November. His wife wisely bailed, and Tiger moved on. 

I don’t believe Tiger caught up with himself until he realized he’d lost it all. Of course that’s just a guess.  And what I mean by caught up is that realm of self-reflection where you actually catch a glimpse of what a colossal asshole you have been, and how that behavior and sense of entitlement hurt you in ways that you could not fathom. And that what you loved even more than worldly pleasures was the joy you felt on a golf course. 

Golf is one of those bites where you live with the sting. You might take the boy out of golf, but you never take the golf out of the boy.

(I know this personally. I had no idea how much missed even posting about golf on a message board, a habit that returned earlier this year,  And as one thing often leads to another, clubs have returned to my car, and my body is trying remember its golf muscles. 

There’s a huge difference in comeback, and coming back. I’m just a hacker, but golf is in my soul. And for a decade, I thought I was done forever.

While I have doubts about what is ahead, I’m going down with a club in my hands. I love writing about golf as much as I love playing it, and no matter how dreadful I play, I will be grateful that I decided to resume,)

This segues back to Tiger.

One of the strongest aspects of the 2018 season has been TW’s heart-felt gratitude for being able to return to competitive golf. He’s much more gracious now, he chats on the golf course with his fellow competitors, he even gives some fans moderate high fives while trudging from a green to the next tee. Not all the time, but certainly more than NEVER  as it used to be in the glory years.

I suck at predicting outcomes. Like you, I hope more than I know. Keen observers of the golf swing can tell you what is right and what is wrong. Astute observers and healers in the field of human nature can help you understand what is wrong, and how to make it more right. I dabble a bit in both, but I am no expert. 

Life, like golf, is not a game of perfect. Even though that is what we universally share .., that quest of the pure … Anyone can hit a great shot (or act well on stage) when they are ON. Golf (and life), however, is more about how good are you when you are off.

We have no better example than Tiger’s round yesterday. That 64 was will power. And guts. And desire. And if you can’t love how a player can grind with that much devotion and passion, drama and empathy are not your thing.

My strongest hope is that one day we will look back at yesterday’s second place finish and smile …. That Aug. 12, 2018, was the day that WE KNEW … just as Tiger knows. 

Sure. I’m a fan boy. But that does not prevent me from “seeing.”

Is Tiger Woods going to win another major?

What do you think?