Simple Things

So, I just got back from lunch with an old buddy, Jedz.

Jedz and I went to UNC Chapel Hill together from '82-86 ('87, actually, but who's keeping score?) I met him on a hot August day, as I was taping a Springsteen poster up on the wall of my dorm room. He did not greet me with, "Hello" or "What's Up?" but with a question.

"You like Bowie?"

Soon, we realized we were kindred spirits, passionate about our music, our sports, but more than anything, we loved to laugh. And oh how we laughed. Some of the things that made us laugh were sophomoric and childish, others, I must say, a pretty high-brand of humor.

Twenty-plus years have passed since we would stay up all night, because we couldn't stop laughing...but we've still got a bond. I can send Jedz a three-word email and I know he'll get, as we used to say, "an abdomen workout." I send these emails because I know he'll respond in a matter of seconds, and get the same reaction out of me.

As I've grown up, become a husband and a father, been able to earn a living to feed and clothe my kids, pay the mortgage, etc., I can say, it's all been good. It's also amazing that my kids have grandparents that live 10 and 20 minutes away. Truly, I'm a lucky guy.

As those T-shirts say, "Life is Good."

But if there's one thing I miss, it's the laughter I shared with Jedz and other college buddies. I don't know, it's been the one thing in my post-college life that I've never been able to replace. I think I've gottean along well with co-workers, and made some great friends in my profession from age 25-45, but...none could make me laugh like Jedz.

Honestly, it's a void in my life.

And why am I choosing to write about this today, after more than a month in hibernation? Because Jedz works about a half a mile from my house and this was the first time I'd seen him in probably five years. How the heck does that happen? I know, I know, people tell me, life gets in the way. Jedz has a 14-year old daughter and a six-year old son. I've got my boys.

There's always stuff going on.

But doesn't there have to be time to laugh?

Thanks Old Pal...let's do it again soon.

Tweet

The Fine Line

I love my job.

Not always, mind you, but on nights like last night I realize how lucky I am to do what I do. And how, in 20 years in the sportswriting business I've been able to meet some really cool people.

Back in the fall of 2005, I got to write a story about the PGA Tour Qualifying Tournament, aka Q-School (also aka Hell Week). I got close to a number of players, including Boo Weekley and Will MacKenzie. But the guy I have followed most closely since that story is a gentle giant named Ryan Hietala. And, here at the Masters, I ran into Ryan and some of his buddies. It was great to see him.

Ryan is a 35-year old Nationwide Tour veteran who earned his PGA Tour card back in 2005 at Q-School. He didn't make enough cuts (or money) on Tour in '05 to keep his card, so it was back to the Nationwide where's been grinding it out for the last couple of years.

Ryan is here at Augusta as a fan this week and will head to Athens, Ga., on Monday for the Nationwide Tour's Athens Regional Foundation Classic, which will be followed by the South Georgia Classic in Valdosta. People who know way more about golf than I do have told me Ryan's got what it takes to be a Tour player. They told me the same thing about Boo Weekley (who played so horribly at 2005 Q-School that I basically wrote him off).

And I can't help but think of how it must feel for Ryan to sit at Augusta (it's his first time here, it's my seventh) and watch players he's rubbed shoulders with compete for the Green Jacket. In fact, at Q-School, I watched Ryan completely outplay Steve Stricker, who happens to be sitting in fourth-place on the Masters leaderboard heading into the final round. "One round at a time," Ryan said to me last night, when I told him he was ready for a Boo Weekley-type breakout.

It's a fine line, for sure...one I hope Ryan can cross in 2009.

Tweet

Moving Day

It's Day 3 of the Masters aka "Moving Day" and it's Day 6 for me on the road, aka "Twice as Long as I Like to be on the Road." It's been an interesting week that started with a 12-hour delay in Newark, then brought me through Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill for the Tar Heels' fifth NCAA Hoops championship and then about 250 miles South to Augusta for the Masters. Time to give you some of the highs and lows.







I Miss My Family

Not to get melodramatic here, but I am not a big fan of the long road trip. Yeah, I know it's the Masters and every dude worth his salt would give up a limb just to be here, but it's a long time to be away from Linda, Tyler and Beau (and Remy). I am grateful, however, that I am a feature writer for ESPN The Magazine and not a beat writer for a newspaper. Those guys grind it hard.

Hard to believe it's nearly 14 years ago I made the decision that I could not be a baseball beat writer and a husband and father. During the 1995 American League Championship Series between the Yankees and Mariners I learned that Linda was pregnant with Tyler. I learned over the phone while in Seattle and was not home to celebrate for another three weeks. Not being around for that moment was all I needed to know. I was not going to spend my life on the road.

Still, it was five years ago that I stood here in Augusta, covering the Masters while Tyler played his very first Little League game. None of the dads could believe it, but I was despondent. To this day, 100s of youth sports games later, there is no way I'd choose the Masters over one of Tyler or Beau's games. Amazingly, this week, I haven't missed any. But I will be here on Sunday as the family heads off to church, hunts for eggs and sits down for Easter Supper. I miss you guys.

Wayne the Giant

Now, to the fun stuff. I wandered into Hooters Augusta the other night, because old friend Timmy Cutting asked me if I could check out the John Daly Merchandise truck (never found it) for him. Of course, looking for the Daly truck made me hungry and thirsty, so I sat down for a drink and a bite. And I found myself sitting next to a giant. Seriously.

He introduced himself as "Wayne" and he was, seriously, 6-foot-9 and 400-plus pounds. He had a gray beard that touched his chest and the squeakiest voice I've ever heard. Wayne told me he had lived in Augusta his whole life and that he used to come to Hooters "every night" but was now down to "three nights a week" because "Momma said I got to start taking care of myself." At which point, Wayne pointed to his ginormous belly.

I swear to you this is true.

Wayne (and I) sat up at the bar, near all the fryers as the Hooters Crew (many imported, I was told, from other Hooters in Georgia and South Carolina, for Masters week) prepared wings and burgers and other delicacies. Wayne drank diet Coke (actually sent one back, declaring it was not diet (a weight-loss program has to start somewhere) and passed out candy bars to the waitresses whenever they wandered by, which was often. Every couple of minutes, a Crystal, Amber or Cheri would wander by and ask, sweetly and Southernly, "Wayne, can I have a Butterfinger?"

Wayne was a nice fellow and was very happy for the owner of the restaurant because the joint was hopping. He told me a few times how much money they'd made on the night, though I wasn't really paying attention. He also invited me to attend the bikini contest with him (I declined) and told me, "I'll see ya tomorrah." That was Tuesday night and I have not been back. But there's always tonight. And I'm guessing Wayne will be there.

Teeing Off

This ain't really writing, but I'm going to throw out some things here rapid-fire...It's going to be sort of a laundry-list of things that are getting on my nerves here at the Masters...I have bought some Masters merch through the years, a few different hats, shirts and windshirts for the boys, chairs, coffee mugs and, last time I was hear, a belt (which I'm wearing today). But for some reason, I get irked when some guy feels it's necessary to wear all his Masters gear at the same time, logo'd up from his hat, through his shirt and shorts, through his watch and belt, down to his socks. Why I find this offensive, I'm not sure...When did it become fashionable to put your college major on your college sweatshirt. I saw a guy with a shirt emblazoned "Virgina Tech Industrial Engineering" and have seen many others this week touting law schools, pharmacy programs, business schools and the like. Annoying...If I'm not having a beer, I do not want to be near anyone else who's having beers. As funny as the guy who's got a comment for every shot coming into 11 green and off of 12 tee, and as much as he's killing his boys, I hate him with every ounce of hate inside my body. Shut up....Any dude out here who's dying his hair, Note to that guy: I can see you're dying your hair. You look stupid. Especially you, Red....Overly polite Southern people wear me out after a while. There's no way you're that nice. Go away...The press center Men's Room on Day Six of the Masters is rank. When you consider what a bunch of sportswriters have been eating and drinking all week, while putting in 15-hour days, sorry, I just dry-heaved...Note to guy in golf shoes and TaylorMade hat. You do not have to wear your Oakley sunglasses on the back of your hat. Sergio Garcia does that because he's paid to display the TaylorMade logo. You are not. There is absolutely no funcionality in wearing your sunglasses that way, OK?...Who dressed Phil this week? The tight pants, white belts, and tight shirts are for skinny European guys, not Philly Mick...Just because the players are close to you when you're in the gallery does not mean they want you to talk to them...And they do not need to be told, "bad break" or "the wind is kicking up" or even that you are "pulling for" them. Seriously...Finally, the tradition of the green jacket is great, but I think only person wearing a green jacket is the Masters champion on Sunday. I mean, the only person who should EVER be wearing a green jacket, at any point, at any tine, in the WORLD, is the Masters champion on Sunday.

Tweet

In Memory Of: Connor O'Gorman

Today, I'd love for you to read the words of my brother Scott, who learned last Sunday that one of his former Princeton players, Connor O'Gorman, had been tragically killed...struck by a car as he crossed a Manhattan street.

Thursday, when I watched all the news reports of Angels pitcher Nick Adenhart's tragic passing, I quietly thought about Connor and how he touched the life of my brother and so many of his Princeton teammates.

All week I've been contemplating writing a tribute based on the words Scott spoke to me on Tuesday over the phone. But lo and behold, today as I googled the name Connor O'Gorman for the 100th time this week, I saw that Scott had written a tribute of his own on the Princeton sports website. This weekend, Connor's teammates past and present will return to Clarke Field to honor their friend.





"Impact Player"

By Scott Bradley
Head Baseball Coach
Princeton University

In July of 1997 I was hired to be the head baseball coach here at Princeton University. And as I anxiously awaited the start of my first season, I often looked at the names of the returning players as well as the members of the incoming class, wondering who the impact players were going to be. I reviewed the statistics from the previous years and tried to figure out which player would provide the leadership we needed to have a successful program. Little did I know at the time but the pleasant young man who walked into my office with his Dad, asking to tryout for the team would become exactly the player we needed.

About a week before Orientation began for the Class of 2001, Connor O’Gorman knocked on my door and asked for an opportunity to walk on to the baseball team. He seemed like a good kid and his baseball resume was different than most of the other players. He learned to play baseball growing up in the Atlanta area but his high school years were spent in Singapore where he attended the Singapore American School. Still, there was something special about this young man and I agreed to let him work out with the team when our fall practices began. I was certain that I would let him practice for a few days and then he would figure out that he was not good enough to play with all of our recruited players.

For the next two weeks Connor lived at Clarke Field. He was always there. When I drove past the batting cages on the way to my office he was hitting off the batting tee. When I went to get some lunch, he was there. And when I left at the end of the day he was still there. I jokingly asked him, "Are you actually enrolled at Princeton?" because it seemed as though he did not have any academic responsibilities or worries. He smiled and looked me directly in the eye and said, “Coach, I handle myself very well in the classroom and you do not have to worry about my grades. But baseball is what I live for.” Not long after that, I told him that, more than likely, he'd never play a meaningful inning while at Princeton, but if he promised to work hard and keep his positive attitude he could have a uniform for as long as he wanted. He once again looked me directly in the eye and responded, “That is all I needed to hear.”

For the next four years Connor O’Gorman was our impact player. He made everyone on the team a better player because of the work ethic and passion he brought to the field every day. He was the best friend and teammate anyone could ever possibly have and he impacted all of our lives.

We won Ivy League Championships in 2000 and 2001 and although Conner did not have many opportunities to play, he put his stamp on the personality of the team. He was well-known for making passionate speeches about the importance of Princeton baseball and what it meant to be part of the baseball family. For several years after graduation Connor would return to campus in the fall so that he could give his speech to the freshman players, so that they also understood.

We played Harvard in a doubleheader this past Sunday and Connor was to meet up with his best friend and Princeton teammate Andrew Hanson in Boston so that they could watch us play. He did not make it to Cambridge. Connor was tragically killed early Sunday morning when he was hit by a car, while walking back to his Manhattan apartment. In between games of the doubleheader, I spotted Andrew along the fence behind our dugout and I immediately walked towards him to say hello. As soon as Andrew looked up I could tell that something was wrong.

While it is hard to imagine that someone who appeared in only 16 games during a four -year career could be considered an impact player, after reading the numerous e-mails I have received in the past two days from former players, some who played with Connor and others who had not, there is no doubt that the title is accurate.

Connor may not have impacted the game between the lines but he impacted all of our lives in so many ways. His passion for the game of baseball was contagious and his devotion and loyalty to the program as well as his friends and teammates was undeniable.

He cared more about wearing a Princeton baseball uniform than any player or coach we have ever had -- or will ever have -- in the program.

Our team won the 2001 Ivy League Championship with a dramatic come-from-behind, extra inning win against Dartmouth. We had one last regular season game at home before the NCAA Tournament began and in the hours before the final contest virtually every one of the team's usual starters came to me and asked that Connor take their spot in the lineup. If my memory serves me correctly, Connor went 2 for 4 that day with a couple of RBI’s and as he told me after the game, “ I finally did something to help the team.”

Little did he know.

Rest in peace, Connor.

Tweet

My Athletic Career...Golf

I once shot 74. That's right, 41-33 at Wild Wing in Myrtle Beach. That was in November of 1999.

Of course, my friend Steve likes to remind me that we were playing the "magenta" tees. I don't care. My 74 was sent from above, I believe, because it was on a college-buddy golf trip that was supposed to be the 10th Anniversary of our first golf trip. But somewhere in the planning stage of that fabulous 10th Anniversary Trip our group became fractured.

There was a faction of fellas who decided we needed to go "big" and that meant Atlantis in the Bahamas. Now, I was not born yesterday and know that Atlantis in the Bahamas is not a "golf trip" destination. It's a casino. So, I revolted. And me and the guys on a more modest budget decided on Myrtle Beach, site of the first ever golf trip. And that was that.

Now, in nine years of golf trips, I'd always gone through the same ritual. A lot of practice, some new equipment, a new shirt or two, maybe new shoes. I always wanted to play my best.

And without fail, I'd play horribly. Of course, by the Back Nine of Day One, I did not care how I was playing. I was with my buddies and it was going to be 72 hours of fun, regardless of scores.

But in 1999, I had no time for any pre-trip preparation. No practice. No new driver. No new nothing. I basically threw my stuff in a suitcase, packed up the sticks, flew to Myrtle Beach, bolted over to Wild Wing and spiked a ball in the ground. And I shot 74. Afterward, I went to the bar and told my buddies, I was going to celebrate the greatest round of golf I'd ever play in my life. Understand, I'd never broken 80 before, so to shoot 74 was a pretty big deal.

For a second, I thought of trying to call the gang in the Bahamas to boast. But I thought better of it. I'm sure they'll have fun. But none of them are going to be able to say they shot 74. Ha!

It was a little while later when I touched base with the Atlantis Boys. Turns out they didn't even play golf. Didn't even take their clubs out of the travel bags. I was right. It was not a golf trip.

Nope, they'd spent all their time in the casino and on the beach. And I was justly rewarded by higher powers for my dedication to tradition and to the great game of golf. Right?

Well, I guess you could say that. Turns out, the guys in the Bahamas had a nice run of luck on the craps table. I think someone told me the low man in the group brought home about 2-grand. And did I mention they got comped the rest of the trip? And were offered free return visits.

But I shot 74.

I came to the game late, taking golf as a Phys Ed. class at UNC in 1986. Then, when I moved to Boston, I did not play for three years. I did not pick up the game, for real, until the fall of 1989, when I moved back to Jersey and started playing with my dad. I've been hooked ever since and still try to play as much with my dad as I can.

But the thing that means more to me than anything in golf is not my 74, nor the fact that I'm now covering my seventh Masters, it's that my 12-year old son Tyler and 10-year old son have taken it up at a young age. That means with me, Ty, Beau and Dad, we've got a foursome.

Tyler, who is 12, has already beaten me. I'd say he plays to about an 18-20 handicap and has played in a number of U.S. Kids Golf tournaments. If he continues to find time to play in between soccer and baseball games and practices, there's no doubt in my mind that one day he will be a single-digit handicap player, and perhaps even a scratch player. It's all up to him. (That photo above is from Akron, Ohio, where last summer Tyler got to play the Firestone 9 while we attended the World Golf Championships at Firestone Golf Club.)

Beau, 10, is going to have a big year in golf. I just know it. At the end of last summer, I could tell he was not only starting to strike the ball better, he was also beginning to like the game.

As for me, when I'm playing with my boys and my dad, it's like I almost don't even care about my game. I've broken 80 a few more times, but I'm pretty sure that 74 will stand the test of time.

Tweet

The Road Rules

So here I am, on a seven-day roadie that's already started out in weird fashion (more on that later).

Because I consider myself to be an "interesting person" (translated: bored out of my mind with nothing but a laptop and some time go kill) I am often compelled to share stories from what I like to call, "A Sportswriter's Life." Often glamorous, never lonely (ha!), here's a snippet.

I like to rent the ugliest car on National's Emerald Aisle. Why? Because when you have to park in big parking lots outside of stadiums, arenas and golf courses, it's pretty easy to forget if you rented the charcoal gray Pontiac Sunfire, the black Chevrolet Impala or the silver Saturn Ion. I go for things like the PT Cruiser (got a royal metallic blue one for spring training once) or, this week, a black Chevrolet HHR. The other reason I go ugly early is because...I amuse myself.

Lack of water pressure sets me off. I'd rather stay in the Super 8 than the Ritz-Carlton if the shower in the S8 has a powerful shower head and the RC has a dripper. I bring this up because here in Augusta, I'm staying in someone's condo (lovely) for the week, and the shower does not produce enough pressure to remove soap from my body, much less shampoo from my hair. Speaking of soap, my host provided me a bottle of "body wash" instead of a bar of soap. I will be making a trip to Walgreen's later.

Jeff, Party of One, Your Table is Ready. So, last night, I had to break one of my Road Rules. I always eat at the bar when dining solo. And then you come to an event like the Masters and the bars are all packed with people in official Masters merch, and...you gotta eat. So, I had to walk up to the hostess and put my name on the list. "How many, sir?" she asked. "Just me," I said, staring her right in the eye, daring her to even so much as roll her eyes. So, just me, my Blackberry, some bread and a glass of wine. That's such a good look.

The Masters. If you have never been to Augusta and you are a golf fan, I encourage you to try and get here at least once in your life. Come on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, walk the grounds, buy a shirt or hat, eat a Pimento Cheese sandwich (I actually prefer the egg salad), take pictures and have pictures taken of yourself in all the usual spots, smell the fertilizer, then go home and watch the golf on television. Seriously, if you want to enjoy the Masters and see the shots that matter, it ain't happening out here, especially on Saturday or Sunday when the field has been cut.

Plus, it's hard not to get irritated by golf fans, dressed up to play, practicing their grip and putting stroke with their umbrella. Saying, "Nice swing" to Phil Mickelson after he's hit a shot. Or, better yet, "Good roll."

PS: My son Tyler is picking Geoff Ogilvy.

Tweet

Not a Travel Nightmare Story...No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know, I know...no one wants to hear my travel nightmare story...not when I'm on my way to the Masters...but I'm stuck inside of EWR with nothing but time on my hands.

Alarm rang at 4 a.m.

Left house with coffee in hand at 4:20.

Gassed up the Subaru.

Flew to Newark, in the airport an hour and 45 minutes before my scheduled departure at 6:50 a.m. A line I cannot fathom awaits me at the US Airways Ticketing/Baggage Area. Fast-forward...I barely make it to the gate in time for my flight.

I buy coffee and a muffin for the flight, because U.S. Air (like most airlines these days) gives you nothing for free ($15 for a bag to be checked)...sit down. Immediately hear, "This is a full flight." I'm on the window, not the middle, which is usually a good thing. 'Cept I now see the fellow who's going to be sitting on the end is carrying a seat belt extender with him. Dude's pushing four bills. I swear. He sits down and immediately falls asleep and, like all obese people, starts snoring like a mountain lion. Drool, the whole bit.

And now the flight's "delayed" and, 45 minutes go by, and I've had too much coffee and I gotta pee and the fat dude's basically so "out" that there's no waking him up. I'll just hold it.

Another half-hour passes, we're still on the runway..."We've got a medical situation onboard, so we've got to go back to the gate." Fat dude is still sawing logs. I really gotta pee.

Another 30 minutes pass, we're at the gate, fat dude hasn't budged..."This flight has been terminated...your bags will be at Carousel 10 and US Airways Attendants will be at the gate to assist you with your travel plans."

We have to bang Fatso on the arm about 15 times before we can startle him. I get out, run to the men's room, get my bag and now, the line at the US Airways ticketing/baggage counter is twice as long as it was, oh, four hours ago...

I won't make it to Augusta today...

But I'll have another story to tell tomorrow.

Couldn't get to Columbia, SC...which is where you fly when going to Augusta, so the closest I could get to Norther Georgia today was Raleigh-Durham, which puts me kinda close to Chapel Hill, where I could find a familiar (if 23 years ago remains familiar) watering hole for the big game tonight. So, hopefully, all's well that ends well.

Go Heels.

(PS: As of 3 p.m., I'm still in Newark Airport and now considering buying a Hugo Boss suit, a pair of Ray Bans, a new cell phone, MP3 player and a vintage 70s NASA orange space suit).

Tweet