Thursday, December 31, 2009

The Name Game

As Makai and I took our walk this morning, I reflected on the names of our goats. For the most part they have been named by our daughter, Gwaltney, “our little ham.” (FYI: Gwaltney is not her real name, she is embarrassed enough that I write these little stories. I am trying to stave off her total and abject humiliation by hiding the fact that her real name starts with the letter “C”.) For the first time it dawned on me that most of the goats had names starting with the same letter. Clover, Corriander, Chrysanthemum, Cassidy. Of course there are other names like Ben and G.G., and most famous of all, Magic, a buck that Mrs. Commish and Gwaltney purchased. Believe me, my golfing buddies have, a good time with that name. “Hey Commish, are you still doing Magic?” or “The Commish can’t have another cold one because he has to get home and do Magic again.” Heh, heh heh. The BGA boys are so clever.


Gwaltney, "The Little Ham," many years ago


While realizing that I would never be in a position to have a stadium named after me (like “Commish Caverns at Camden Yards”), the act of giving a name to someone or something has always seemed important. I suppose I came by this honestly as, reflecting back, my parents had a naming system of their own.

When they were first married they bought a chow dog and named him “Rusty,” because of his red color, I assume. When Rusty died they got another chow chow and named him “Rusty.” Now we referred to them as “Old Rusty” and “New Rusty”. When “New Rusty” died he was replaced by, are you ready, Rusty III. Then came Rusty IV, V, VI, VII, and VIII. (There is some family debate as to whether there are 7 or 8 “Rusties;” I am no longer sure.) In conversation now they are known as First Rusty, Crazy Rusty, Mean Rusty, Fat Rusty, Good Rusty, Current Rusty, etc. There is some confusion when Crazy Rusty is mixed up with Mean Rusty because Mean was also crazy or with Good Rusty because Good was also silly and crazy sometimes.


My parents also named their three sons with the same initials as “Rusty Chow S.” So, we have three R.C.S. brothers and we think all of this derives from the soda pop our Dad liked. His cola of choice wasn’t Pepsi or Coke but Royal Crown Soda. The family secret is no more!


Makai, our Anatolian, got his name because we were in our “Hawai’ian” period. Makai means “towards the sea.” Max is the most popular dog name and “Mak” was close but different. Our chocolate lab was named “Jack”. His father was Jack, making him Jack’s son. So he really named himself, "Jackson Browne." Zeus, our rottweiler, was a year and a half when we got him and that name was already perfect. We also had a Doberman who was so perfect that we said he was just “Dandy.” Many years ago, Mrs. Commish and I went to college in cold and snowy Rochester and had a huge St. Bernard named Artemus (a contraction of “Arctic Moose”). All of these are stand alone names; not pattern names like RCS and the Rusties.


Mrs. Commish and I raised and showed Persian cats for almost thirty years and this is where we honed our naming skills. Our first Grand Champion was “Bilbo Baggins” from the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. We followed with Legolas, Heathertoes, Beorn, Glorfindel. We tried to stick with some of the lesser known characters to show our “creativity.” We moved on to other themes.


“Patent Pending” was a beautiful blue girl that was known as Fatty Patty. We bought her to be the foundation of our line. Fatty Patty gave us the “Leader” litter with three grand champions in it. Gwaltney was responsible for these names as she always wanted to be first in line; she wanted to be the line leader. We let her name the blue boy we were keeping “Line Leader” and he became a national winner as the Best Blue Persian. His brothers also granded and were named “Scout Leader” and “Troop Leader.”



Cotton Baugh                                Line Leader

We had a series of work-related (film and printing) cats: Kodacolor (Kodie), Shadow Dot, First Edition (Edie). Then we moved to the “balls”. There was a terrific cat named Radabaugh and we bought a cream boy from him. We wanted to keep the name going so we named our boy “Cotton Baugh.” Cotton was also a national winner and he sired a line that included “Basebaugh,” “Basketbaugh,” “Black Baugh,” etc. There were some cats that we named to honor old friends like the “Margret” and “Edgar” litter (Stonybrook Cattery) and “Louise Birdwhistle” (Chatalain Cattery).

Many of these names are still remembered decades after the cats were shown. It goes to show that names are important. Give them some thought and make them count. Our daughter Gwaltney’s middle name is “Leigh.” She got that from a good friend of ours that we haven’t seen in many years but every time we say Gwaltney Leigh’s name it brings to mind the “original” Leigh with a smile and some fond memories. If you are going to name something or someone, take the time to make it count. Just say no to names like MoonPie Zappa or Cherie Sunbeam Madonna.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Today the Easter Bunny Died

Today we will show the interconnections between Santa Claus, Mr. Fifteen, the Easter Bunny and the “Stork”. The bittersweet story goes like this…


As we pass through the Autumnal Equinox we know that Spring is on its way.  Even though Santa has barely left the building we know it is time to begin thinking about cleaning our golf clubs and shoes, changing those soft spikes that should have been changed last July, and making a resolution that this is the year that we actually improve our game.


This year it is a little different because when Santa left town he took with him the Easter Bunny. Silver Bullet died this morning. For a generation of children, Silver Bullet was the Easter Bunny. Let me explain.


When Mr. and Mrs. Commish’s daughter, who shall henceforth be known as Gwaltney (she has always been a little ham) was but a wee lass (eight years old by true and verifiable count) she joined the 4-H Rabbit Club. This simple beginning led to The Commish coming home from a Myrtle Beach golf trip and presto he became a goat herder; but, that is another story best told over a few cold ones at the nineteenth hole.


So for almost 20 years now Mrs. Commish and Gwaltney have raised and shown bunnies. A dozen years ago they decided to get a large breed rabbit known as Flemish Giants. These puppies top the scales at 18 plus pounds, some of them with lots of plus pounds. About this time they began taking some of the rabbits to visit the children at several of the local country clubs on Easter. The kids, of course, liked all of the rabbits, small ones like Netherland Dwarfs and bigger ones like English Angoras, but they liked the Flemish Giants, Big Mama and her offspring Remington Steele and Silver Bullet, the best. They were huge and Big Mama was the biggest.



It always surprised me when teenagers would come over and ask about Big Mama even though she retired from this activity four years before she passed away. They had begun taking pictures with Big Mama when they were only six or eight and looked for her every year. The bunnies would rotate and the children would have their pictures taken and pet the animals and the parents would always gasp at their size. It was a rewarding experience, and, best of all, the bunnies earned some money to buy their own food. This past Easter only Silver Bullet represented the Giants. His brother Remington Steele was losing weight and was showing signs of aging so he stayed home and was replaced by a perky Netherland Dwarf and a floppy-eared Holland Lop named Charlie.


After the Easter gig, Silver Bullet retired to his huge pen in the back of our barn. His pen is so large that we have a goat milking stand and stool inside his pen. This lets us interact with him whenever we milk the goats (they have to be milked twice a day). Last night when I locked the barn doors I checked on The Bullet. He had hopped up on the milk stand and was sitting quite contentedly, all 20 pounds of him. This morning he had followed Big Mama and Remington Steele to another hutch. Silver Bullet died last night.


He literally saw a generation of children grow up and to them Silver Bullet was the Easter Bunny. So, fifty years ago today The Stork brought my youngest brother, Mr. Fifteen, into this world and today Santa departed with my Easter Bunny. Happy Birthday, Mr, Fifteen and Farewell Herr Hare.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Wii Knee (with Apologies to Thomas Paine)

As I took Makai, our Anatolian Shepherd, on his walk this morning, I watched the sunrise breaking in the east. My mind drifted back to the founding of this nation and the awe that must have been experienced when viewing this wonderful “new” land for the first time. Out of this vision of majesty and freedom evolved the great American experiment, The United States of America.


Founded on principles higher than our ability to live them, America’s development, I was thinking, was similar to the evolution of a child from infancy through adolescence to adulthood, and finally into our old age and eventual demise. I reflected on Thomas Paine’s “Common Sense” pamphlets that helped to galvanize an infant colony into a nation. Even then he wrote of the trade-offs of freedoms that would be extracted by the formation of a new government. Paine did not presuppose to suggest the form a new government should take but did warn of the inherent oppression that any form of government would eventually impose upon its subjects. Even a small grouping of like-minded individuals would eventually change from a successful collective with common interests to a more selfish and less cohesive grouping as interests changed and self-interest became more important than the security and prosperity of the group.


While I was thinking on these lofty philosophical issues, and minding to stop by each and every tree so that Makai could pee or else determine who had recently peed on the tree, it hit me. A more encompassing and engrossing issue was suddenly all that I could focus on….Wii Knee!


Christmas had come and gone and Santa had brought a Wii console and accessories to my daughter and son-in-law. Mrs. Commish wasn’t feeling too well so there was nothing to keep the Commish from showing the younger set that he still “had it.”


We competed in bowling and archery and various other gaming forms, looking always for something in which I could shine. Then we opened the Wii Fit Plus (or Extra, or whatever it is called). We got on the Wii Board and got measured and balance tested and so forth and so on. The Commish came up with a Wii age of double nickel. Not too shabby for a recently turned 61 year old. BMI was borderline between “Overweight” and “Obese.” This, too, was a win as everyone else was firmly in the “Obese” range. What a great Christmas gift. For a mere $400 we have a game that not only insults you but tells you that your goals to get better are not within reason!


Then we took some Wii Fit options to improve ourselves. The Commish immediately choose “Yoga” and excelled at “Breathing.” Hey, how wrong could I go? I figure if you are still alive then you must have a handle on the concept. The “Obese” youngsters proceeded to advance to “Hula Hoops” and then “Super Hula Hoops.” Of course, since Mrs. Commish was home in bed nursing her head cold, nothing could stop me from playing again and again, knowing that this next round was the one I would win. Finally the phone call came saying, “It’s 11:30, do you know where your Commish is?”


Leaving the scene of my defeats, I knew that I could have won if only we had Hula Hooped one more time. Well, tomorrow there would be Wii Golf. After all, I am the Commish of The Bad Golfers Association and I intend to use all of my skills to bury the competition.


This morning as I walked the dog and thought about Thomas Paine, Mr. Real Paine made himself known to me in my left knee. Wii Knee, I was sure. Well, I hobbled back up the hill pulling a dog the size of Delaware that just wanted to smell one more tree and chase one more small herd of deer. Strange to believe, but even Wii Knee has an upside. My son-in-law, who beat me in archery, hula hoops, bowling, etc., woke up with Wii Shoulder!


Tonight I will use my secret weapon, learned during the many rounds of bad golf I have played…tonight I will take Aleve, not before tee time but an hour before Wii time. Tonight Wii means ME.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Merry Christmas

Please don’t take offense. I meant no harm. I merely wished to convey to you the joys and blessings of this time of the year that is so important to many throughout the world. How can I express it, what should I say? I know…”Merry Christmas.”

Once upon a time, in an America far away, we said these words and didn’t have to look over our shoulder to make sure someone wasn’t taking names. Today we feel compelled to be so “politically correct” that even when we say “Merry Christmas” we feel guilty. Guilty of what you ask. Guilty of displeasing our elected and unelected betters, of course.

Let’s make this the year that we begin to let the joys and blessings that we feel be freely given away to those we meet, whatever our or their religious or secular persuasion. Wish me a Happy Chanukah and I will smile with gratitude. Wish me a Happy Kwanza and the same feeling of warmth will be felt. Wish me “Season’s Greetings” and I will thank you but in the back of my mind I am asking myself, “What exactly are those Season’s Greetings?” Does that mean “Winter will be cold this year” or “Spring is still a long way away?” What does a “season” mean when it gives me a greeting?

Make this the year that we express what we feel and let those that want to tell us how we should feel and how to “correctly” express those feelings wrestle with their own demons and leave us alone.

From the BGA Central Office and The Commish let me wish to one and all a very Merry Christmas. There, very simple, very sincere. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Another Christmas miracle (with a small “m”)





Miracles come in all sizes and as far as miracles go this one was very, very small. I don’t know about you, but I’ll take my miracles in any size.

Makai is an Anatolian Shepherd. He is our LGD (large guard dog) and was bought to guard our herd of goats and chickens and geese from predators. Anatolians are “serious” dogs. They are born knowing how to protect, when to spring into action, and when to relax. This is so innate in them that they get their feelings “seriously” hurt if you tell them what to do and when to do it.
After waiting for almost eighteen months to get him, four years ago we drove to Michigan to pick up Makai (Hawaiian for “towards the ocean”). What a cutie, just a few months old and already had lion-sized paws. The final decision to get him was after foxes had killed my Father’s Day gift of three heritage turkeys. These Broad Breasted Bronze birds were going to be my “guard turkeys” as they grow to almost 60 pounds and have a wing span of 6 feet, instead they became fox-food. Time for the LGD!
The breeder bet us that we would make him a house dog and not be tough enough to leave him outside to bond with his herd. We agreed that she might be right but the plan was to let him guard our one remaining goose and the goat kids. Like in the movie “Gremlins,” we had a final warning to never let him escape because once he found out he could, he would, always. And we were off back to the wilds of Sparks, Maryland.
Makai’s father was 185 pounds and chased off coyotes and bears. We figured Makai could handle a few foxes and raccoons. Even though cougar, coyote, and black bears have been spotted in our area, foxes are the largest predator we have seen in our thirty years there. (I think the black bear sighting by a neighbor was actually our rottweiler, Zeus, but that is another story.)
Makai rather quickly killed our last goose by constantly returning it by the neck to the goat herd where he could watch over everything. The goose kept wandering off and he would bring it back. Finally, the darn goose just “broke.” With that duty over Makai settled in to be quite a good LGD and went about his business very seriously. He was constantly on watch until we brought him in to the barn at night to eat and sleep. As soon as the barn doors closed Makai was off duty and it would take an explosion outside to make him stir.
This serious dog never learned how to play. I would throw a ball and then he watched as I retrieved it. I would throw him a snack and he would watch as it bounced off his nose. Stick? Same thing. He saw no reason for such foolishness. Duty was Mak and play was for the silly Labrador Retriever that our daughter had. Then his friend Zeus died.
Over the previous four years Mak grew to the point that our 130 pound rottweiler literally could walk underneath him. They got to be great buddies until Mak lost his friend this past summer. He watched closely as we dug a grave for Zeus and seemed very interested in our lugging his body around and putting it in the ground. As was his nature Makai watched everything intently that went on around him, as if he were trying to understand all of our actions. As soon as I put the first shovel of dirt on Zeus’s body Makai freaked. This very serious dog leaped up and leaned over the side of the grave as if he knew something was wrong. The next day he escaped.
Every week he escaped two or three times. I couldn’t plug the holes because I couldn’t find how he got out. Everything was the same as it was for the previous four years when he never got loose and now I could not keep Makai home. So this very serious dog moved into our home. Over the next six months he learned to love table scraps and chicken grease poured over his kibble. He still can’t catch anything thrown to him but he has become a “rug potato.” Every morning I take him for a half-mile walk then let him loose in the field while I tend to the goats. Makai checks his herd, checks the perimeter fencing and by the time I finish my work he is ready to go back into the house and sleep until it is time to go upstairs for bed. As I said before, when Makai is off-duty he is seriously off-duty.
Today a small miracle occurred. Now if you are looking for the Virgin Mary in a bag of kibble or a long lost uncle leaving a fortune in his will kind of miracle, then forget it. This is a miracle with a small “m”. Today Makai played!
When I put him in the field this morning he did his normal routine then he stopped near the buck pen and looked straight up to the tops of the trees (FYI: we live in a forest). This was peculiar, looking straight up and, like a fool, barking at nothing. So being sort of a fool myself, I joined him in the field, stood next to him, and looked up at nothing, also. At least I wasn’t barking. We both walked around the trees to get a better angle to see nothing until I convinced Makai to come with me into the barnyard and from there to the house where he could nap until it was time to sleep. This is when the miracle happened.
As we entered the barnyard from the field, Makai found a tennis ball that my daughter’s Lab had left and he brought it to me. Could it be? Was he ready? Not wanting to be the retriever myself, I walked to the bottom of the sloping barnyard and threw the ball uphill. This way gravity would bring it to me. But Makai ran to the ball and brought it back! He laid down at my feet, gave me the ball and retrieved it two more times. By the fourth throw he had had enough. He got the ball and laid down at the top of the hill by the barn. It was time to go in and nap until bedtime. But I knew that I had witnessed a small miracle, Makai had allowed me to play, at least a little bit, with him. This may not sound like much to most of you out there, but if you have an Anatolian then I am here to tell you they do have an un-serious side. It just takes a miracle to see it.


Wednesday, December 16, 2009

It's Not the Tool, It's the Carpenter!

My dual careers consist of being a printer and also a goat herder. Except in passing, this blog will have very little to do with either. A goat herder from 200 years ago would easily recognize what I do with our flock of nubian goats. Within 2 minutes he could tend the flock and probably do a much better job of it then we do today. A printer from Johann Gutenberg's era might recognize a printing press but he would have very little idea of how to get ink on paper. Technology has advanced the process so much that Herr Gutenberg would have to be re-trained.
Now, if Old Tom Morris were to suddenly appear on one of our modern golf courses he would have no trouble understanding the technological advances and immediately could play a round. So in a roundabout way, I disagree with the concept held by many that technology has ruined golf. That said, I have reservations about how the game is developing.
Do not forget that this column is being written by The Commish of The Bad Golfers Association, and in that context I am reflecting what I think are the views of those of us that are no longer deluded about ever playing on the PGA Tour, the Champions Tour, or even the Hooters Tour. (However, many of us still hope to some day have a caddy from Hooters for a round. Shhh, just in case Mrs. Commish is listening!)
We are the great unwashed of the golfing crowd. We may play once a season or, more likely, 20 or more times a year. We like to hit longer drives, we like to spin our golf balls off the green to impress our friends. If we knew how to play we would hit our approach shot past the hole and spin it back close. But, we just like to see the ball spin and pretend we can be just like Tiger, er... Phil.
Technology helps us to do this. Our scores have not really improved but our enjoyment of playing the game has. My problem with technology is that the course architects feel that courses have to be lengthened. Hell no. Years ago a 425 yard hole played like a par 5 for me, today it's a real par 4. I like it like that. If I hit a 240 yard tee shot (which does happen occasionally) then I have a chance to hit the green with my hybrid. If I miss, then I have a chance to save par with my sharp grooved sand wedge. Will I save par? Not likely, but I have a chance. Twenty years ago, when I was, coincidentally, 20 years younger, the same hole would play like this:  Driver (180 to 200 yards), 3 iron (140 yards, right), 6 iron chip out, pitching wedge approach, then either a chip and 2 putts or else three putts from 50 feet away. Technology lets me play a better and more fun round of golf.
This same technology in the hands of good golfers has made courses too easy. Hence, 7200 yard courses are becoming more the norm. This is not how I want to play every week. The solution, to the BGA at least, is simple. PGA quality golfers (remember, "These guys are good!") can shoot under par using hickory shafts and woods that are actually made out of wood. Why not have "professional level" clubs that would put the emphasis on shotmaking and controlling your ball. Let technology have its way with golf balls 'cause all of us want to play what the pros play; but, since we don't play the clubs they play anyway, why not make the differences in sticks even more pronounced.
Golf would not be unique in this. Baseball has used different bats for play at different levels for decades and the game has flourished. Golfers at the highest levels would use golf clubs that are more of a throwback to the old days. They could adjust much more easily then the great unwashed of golf can adjust to playing 8000 yard courses in the future.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Walk Ons, Part Deux

Yesterday I wrote about an event that happened almost ten years ago that still makes me smile. It was about someone who lives in Japan and we had not seen or heard from Sushi since her graduation in 2002 from the same school my daughter attended, Oldfields School. Amazingly, last night Mrs. Commish received a Facebook email from Sushi, the same day that I wrote about an incident that she is probably unaware of. How do you explain a coincidence like that?
Anyway let's continue with my discussion about Walk Ons.
If you play golf regularly you will be placed by the starter with many different players to complete a foursome and keep the pace of play moving. For the most part I think golfers, because of inherent insecurities about golfing abilities, would rather go off as a single and just play their game and not feel like they are being judged. Usually this feeling lasts less than the first hole. You tee off, you whiff your second shot, and you see that the guys you are playing with are no better than you. Or, if they are, they were once where you are now and have some sort of sympathy for your plight. Often by the second or third hole you have sized each other up and have a kidding/small talk patois going between everyone. This makes for a comfortable and enjoyable round of golf but for the most part no one remembers anything about the people you played with. There are, however, some that remain as a permanent part of your memory.
Like the time Mt. Pleasant Golf Course instituted fivesomes. This meant that every week we had a walk on with us. That year The Snowman missed a lot of rounds and for a few weeks in a row we played with a dad and his son. The kid was a little wild but at about 12 years old he really could outdistance any of us. I wonder if he is playing for a college team these days.
Another time we were teamed up with an elderly gent who got maybe 150 yards off the first tee, but right down the middle. The first hole is a par 5 about 560 yards, basically straight. We were at least 100 yards ahead of him but scattered to the left and right and thinking that this was going to be a long round. The old fellow hits his next shot barely past our tee shot and we pound our shots in a display of army golf (left-right-left, etc.). The old guy hits his third and is still 140 yards from the green. Hits his fourth up to the green and one putts for par. Meanwhile we are four in the bunker, five in the other bunker, six to the fringe, seven close, miss the putt for snow and record a nine. See, we were right, it looks like it will be a long round. I don't remember much else about this guy because he rode a cart and we all walked, but it was amazing to watch him not be long enough to reach any greens in regulation but play such a beautifully controlled game that I doubt if he was more than 3 or four over par for the nine holes. As it turned out we didn't hold him up too much because in the BGA we might play golf badly; but, we play golf quickly. Eighty-five year-old guy who we outdrive by a mile and he calmly beats all of us by 7 or 8 strokes a side.
Then there was the guy that was matched up with us another time. We went through the meeting and greeting and told him we weren't very good but we were quick, etc., etc. He says it doesn't matter to him because he's just out for a relaxed round. From the whites we hit our usual left side and right side shots, not too far but, we are sure they will be findable. This Walk On guy pounds his from the tips right down the middle a beautiful, PGA-quality shot. We search to find our balls and get ready to hit, look around the trees to make sure it's clear and this new guy is nowhere to be seen. He evidently marched out to his ball, hit his second to the green and continued his "relaxing" round without benefit of our company. Was it something we said? We literally didn't see him the rest of the day. One shot and he knew he didn't belong in the BGA!
Then there was the fellow with the putting "ticks." Every putt, and I mean even 10-inchers, he would line up, take exactly 11 practice strokes and then miss his putt. Don't miss playing with him.
There was a cute girl that we enjoyed playing with even though it was mildly embarrassing to be beaten so badly by her. But after the old guy we were getting used to everyone beating us. Never saw her again, either.
One hot shot stockbroker from New York was moving to the area and walked on with us at Mt. Pleasant (a nice muni in Baltimore). He actually was a very pleasant guy once you got past his "big person" routine. By the time we reached the sixth hole he asked us very seriously about which country club he should join. I had to tell him that I was sadly disappointed in his judge of character because we certainly aren't the ones he should be asking about country clubs. Maybe he saw something more in us then we do ourselves. Nah!
There are also the guys you hook up with that become regular playing partners. At Longview we used to walk on before the official first tee time and over time we would be teamed up with a fellow named Dean Johnson and got to be golf friends. For several years we played routinely together every Sunday morning until he got married and changed his routine.
I've was teamed up once with a guy that looked familiar and it turned out that we were in elementary school together 40 years before. Another time I played with someone who had a daughter that was a friend of my daughter. They had been in the same class for several years in Montessori. After talking a while we found out that we had met twelve of fourteen years prior.
Walk Ons. Mostly unrememberable but often worth your time. Hope you have a few Walk On memories of your own.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Walk Ons and "Pago Pa"

Walking on at a golf course can be one of the more stomach-wrenching things we can do. Think of that first tee shot of a normal round and then ramp up your nerves 10-fold. Here you are meeting up with three strangers and they have nothing better to do at that moment than to watch your tee shot on #1 and judge you, your athleticism, the state of your game, and whether or not you have any "ticks," those peculiar waggles and movements that drive others crazy. (Ticks: think of Sergio Garcia and his regripping problem or Jim Furyk and his peculiar habit of starting to putt and then backing away.) All of this aside, some of my most lasting memories involve either walking on or having someone else join us for a round.
One time in the late '90's I walked on at Longview Golf Course. By this time I was used to doing it and didn't feel any particular nerves or inner fears. After making the perfunctory disclaimers that I would try not to play too badly for their sake the round started. What was a little different about this round was that the three gentlemen I was playing with were Oriental. Were they Japanese or Korean, that was my thought. Why, you ask. Well, it's simple, sort of.
This was a week or so before Christmas and we had a foreign student staying with us. Mrs. Commish and I have one child, a daughter (who never practices her golf game but when she plays she has this beautiful natural feather draw that I would die for, but that's another story) who was a 10th grader at Oldfields School, a wonderful little school in northern Baltimore County that has students from all over the country and world. One of the girls, Suna Jo, was my daughter's "little sister." This meant that she would take Suna under her wing and help her to acclimate to living in America away from her family. Suna was Korean but her family lived in Japan. Mrs. Commish's mother, Buzzy (short for "Old Buzzard"), was getting up in years and was living with us at the time, also. Buzzy had a hard time remembering Suna's name and called her Sushi, a nickname which stuck with her for the rest of her Oldfields days.
Sushi was a boarding student and had gone to Texas to spend the holidays with one of her friends. Something happened with that family and Sushi had cut short her visit and return to the school. Oldfields asked if she could spend time with our family because there would not be any other kids in residence over the holidays. We said, "Of course," and with that a golfing memory began.
At the time Sushi was a little shy. Her English was fine but she was uncomfortable with it so she generally spoke only when spoken to. My daughter and Sushi, being kids, had a fine time and you could hear lots of laughing and such noise as high school kids make but I felt a little awkward because I didn't think Sushi was comfortable with us because of the language barrier.
Sunday morning came and I woke up to walk-on at the local municipal course. Did you remember, this story is about walking on at the golf course? Anyway here I was teamed up with three Oriental golfers and having a Korean girl staying with us that I wanted to make feel more at home. For the first 5 holes I wondered how to ask them if they were Korean. Would it be an insult if they were Japanese? Would I be thought of as just another "ugly American," an insensitive white guy, etc., etc. We talked small talk but nothing to remember until I finally thought, "What the hell, if I'm thought of as insensitive, so be it 'cause I'm trying to help my daughter's friend feel better." On the sixth tee I asked the most loquacious of the bunch if they were Japanese.
He laughed and told his friends what I had said (in his language) and they all laughed and told me they were Korean, couldn't I tell? After all, they said, Koreans have a more rounded head than Japanese and they are much more handsome. I said that it was great that they were Korean because... and I went on with the story of how Sushi was staying with us. I told them that I wanted to try to make her feel more at home and they helped me memorize a couple of phrases in Korean. The next 12 holes were some of the most fun golfing I have ever had. The joking between all of us picked up and by the end of the round we were good buddies and hoped to play together again some time. Before I left I had to repeat the phrases 2 more times, just to be sure.
I got back to my hacienda around 10:30 in the morning with lox, bagels and cream cheese for breakfast. Entering the family room I saw Mrs. Commish in the kitchen but the kids were still upstairs. I yelled several of the phrases up the steps and Sushi came out smiling and saying, "What?" I repeated, "Pago pa? (Are you hungry?)" and the smile across her face was beautiful. She started to speak in Korean and I had to stop her because I was done after the 3 short phrases, but Sushi felt, finally, at home.
The rest of the phrases are gone from my memory bank now but I still smile every time I recall "Pago pa." If it hadn't been for the friendliness of other golfers I would have missed this memory and have been that much the poorer.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Are You Playing Golf as Often as You Used To?

     F.I.S.H. That's how I feel about the Tiger Woods incident. Time for The Commish to move on.
     Are you playing as much golf as you did two or three years ago? We aren't.
     I enjoy playing but for some reason it is getting harder to justify paying the increasing costs. The BGA used to play every Sunday morning at one of the local munis such as Rocky Point, Longview or Diamond Ridge. We would make tee times two weeks in advance and the four of us would show up at the crack of dawn and play a relatively quick 18. It was fun and on the way home I would pick up some bagels and be home in time for Mrs. Commish to wake up and have a late breakfast. Fees were under $20 and we would pull our walk-behind carts and have a good time. This time was blocked out in our schedules and we had family stuff planned around our golf games.
     Then things changed, and not for the better.
     Greens fees were increased to over $40 but they included a cart. This way Baltimore County could pretend that rates really had not increased very much since before greens fees and a cart were $37. After a year they began letting you walk again, but with no decrease in the fees. Now the Commish prefers to walk but if he has to pay for a cart then he is going to ride in a cart.
     What this has meant is that we used to play 40 to 45 rounds a year as a foursome (at least 160 total rounds every year) and now we don't play at all on the weekends. We tried playing every other weekend or once a month but we could never get all of our schedules synchronized. Once the wives knew that we were not playing every Sunday at 6:00 a.m. they began planning what we would be doing on the weekends. It's not a knock on the wives because we in the BGA are such creatures of habit that we couldn't keep track of when we were to play and when we weren't either. It's a shame but for better or worse, the increased cost off golf has brought about the demise of our much beloved weekly game.
     We have resisted losing our twilight BGA event at Mt. Pleasant Golf Course where we play a 9-hole round every week at 5:34 p.m. (give or take eight minutes). This has been going on since 1991 and even though we have to all take carts (or at least pay for them anyway) we are hanging on to this last vestige of not letting anything get in the way of our golfing. Long live the Race for the Cheeseburger.
     Before going on with the rest of your day, please take a moment to remember this Day That Will Live in Infamy and those that lost their lives in the war that followed. Because of their sacrifice I can complain about the petty thing in life that bug me.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Tiger Would, If He Could


Each year after The Myrtle Experience, the BGA has a certificate that is awarded to the player that has the lowest stroke/hole ratio. It is called "The Tiger Would If He Could Award." Obviously it kiddingly m0cks our golfing abilities because even the best among us is pretty doggone bad. This posting is not in that vane. Sadly I don't find much to be humorous about today. First of all, no matter how we feel personally about Tiger, he is not immune to having jokes made about him. In fact, some of them will soon be posted on the BGA website. I am, however, not posting all of them because, in my opinion, Elin and the cubs should not be subjected to ridicule.
Would Tiger take back all of the affairs (and I don't feel that the word "alleged" is necessary here) if he could? I would like to think that he would. However, on the radio this morning I heard an advertising executive saying that Tiger's endorsements would be solid with his major companies because the public (that's us, folks!) will come out in larger numbers than ever to see Tiger now that his "indiscretions" have created such "buzz." Does this make any sense to you? I'm ashamed for us that notoriety and celebrityhood hold such sway with us.
Tiger appears to be shameful of his actions being made public and in that shame I think we might find hope. Our society seems to have made shame an unnecessary emotion. You should not judge me, I am free to do as I wish. Therein, as is oft said, lies the rub.
Sadly this attitude carries over to what we expect from our political class. Our elected betters seem to try to outdo themselves in poor behavior. They are expected to be crooks and we poor fools who vote them in don't condemn them but instead we point out how much worse the other side was. We have become relativistic in our approach to behavior and in so doing we have lost our way. Bad is bad, not less bad or more bad, just bad!
Here in Baltimore our Mayor Sheila Dixon has been convicted of illegally using gift cards for herself that were intended for needy children. What has the reaction been? Sheila says no problem, she is going to continue doing the people's business just like before. Her supporters are encouraging people to come out this weekend and "show our support for our mayor." There is no apology, there is no thought of stepping down; there is no shame. Her actions now are aimed towards parsing the law to point out the technicalities of whether she used the cards in an official or unofficial capacity. One would allow her to remain in office, one would require her to step down. What's the difference? Bad is bad. If she "unofficially" used the cards for personal benefit am I to believe that her behavior is less shameful?
Back to Tiger Woods. I heard that Jaspar Parnivik is now sorry that he ever introduced Elin to Tiger. How he feels is up to him and I can see how he would be disappointed in Tiger's behavior but it is not his responsibility to screen Elin's choices. At some point in our lives we have to become responsible for our own decisions and choices.
Tiger has quite a job ahead of him rebuilding that trust he has lost with his wife. By being ashamed of his behavior I think it is an important first step to being forgiven and thereby attain redemption and acceptance. Shame does not have to be a permanent condition, but it does seem to be a vital stage if there is to be any real healing.
Look, Tiger is entitled to live his life as he wishes but he does not live in a vacuum and along with his actions there will be reactions. Unlike our elected betters, Tiger appears to be acknowledging that he behaved badly and has not tried to point out how much worse other athletes have behaved. In this I see hope.
Will I continue to watch Tiger on the golf course? Sure. He plays the game in a way that I can't even begin to. Will I look towards Tiger as a role model? No. Being a role model is not a choice, it is an honor and Tiger's behavior has not earned him that reward. Can he become a role model? Of course, but that shouldn't be his goal. His goal should be to heal his family. His cubs are still young enough to love him unconditionally. Healing his relationship with his wife (and don't forget his mother!) will be much harder. I wish him the best of luck in doing this and if he acts from his heart and not from some PR department directives, I think Tiger will give all of us a chance to forgive him. And that would make all of us just a little more human and humane.
As for all of our elected betters, fat chance they will ever change. Thank God for golf and the chance to make all of that political class irrelevant for a few hours.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

From The Commish

Welcome to the first blog from the Central Offices of the Bad Golfers Association. Since it is the off-season here in Baltimore, there is less to report than during the prime duffing season.
Usually at this time of year we are getting ready for our annual Myrtle Beach Experience; but, for the first time in almost 20 years it looks like the links at MB have nothing to fear from the intrepid Snowman, Commish, Mr. Fifteen , and, of course, Mr. FourSkin. The economy might have done what losing 127 balls in one trip couldn't...stop the BGA from their attempts to master the game of golf.
If you get a chance check out our website, www.BadGolfersAssociation.com. It is always under construction as we attempt to get more of our records and statistics out. Our purpose is not so much to mock ourselves as it is to celebrate the enjoyment of playing golf, even bad golf.
Remember our motto, "Drive for Show, Putt for Snow!"
Til next time, hit 'em straight or hit 'em crooked, just do it quickly.