Category Archives: my golf

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A man must persevere

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When I was five, I was in the back seat with my cousin Eugene who was also five, and he started whining about the car ride. I told him in Korean, “Nahmja neun ch’ah m’uh ya deh,” which loosely translates to “A man must persevere.”

The Korean phrase doesn’t refer directly to perseverance but to a kind of bloody mindedness involved with smiling at someone while they rip out your fingernails or holding your pee until you are about to burst. My mother has told this story repeatedly to where I now believe it. 

That I have to bring it up reflects how much I have changed since that bloody minded 5 year old. At that age, I didn’t mind so much pulling out loose teeth and even not so loose teeth just to prove a point. At seven, after we had immigrated to the US and ended up in Cleveland, Ohio, I made it a point to start rolling a snowball around the apartment complex repeatedly to make it the largest one ever seen. I made it around one and a half times, before I attracted the attention of older kids who then joined in. At that point, the snowball was taller than me. At the end of the day, it was taller than the cars, and we left it in the middle of the driveway up to the main entrance. I had no gloves on, and I couldn’t feel my fingers or ears for a week. 

I’m much less hard core now, but still have that Sisyphean bloody mindedness when it comes to getting something done my way. I would hope to have the wisdom to pick and choose my battles. In golf, it’s called course management when you avoid the hazard by taking two strokes, and it is bloody mindedness that has you going for it in one, dropping balls and trying over and over until you do.

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Santa is just another clown

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G has never like clowns, Barney the dinosaur, and Santa. Likes the Tooth Fairy and Santa as concepts and business transactions, but creeped out by the reality of confronting the figures. Probably the last year he believes in these fellows. I’m on that To Be Formerly Magical List, along with a whole bunch of other people. I’d better enjoy it while I can!

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Send in the Clones

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clonesI wish I had a clone army. I would have them do my bidding for a year and set up a nice bankroll to retire on, and then send them all off on their own lives. I’d be curious to see what happened to all of me. Would they marry or would they live the single life? Who would they end up with -women who look exactly like J? Would they find tragedy or happiness? Would they be driving Porsches? We’d  keep in touch by Facebook.

Status update from #231,221: #231,221 is at werk and really wishing he could play golf.

Status update from #5,234: #5,234 is wishes there were more snack breaks during a Costco workday. 

Status update from #16,213: #16,213 is wishing there was a third kind of Cheeto.

Mobile upload from #421,231: Pictures from Spokane with Candy and her sisters

I could ask the best of them to stay around and help Jennifer around the house. I might keep one by my side to mix drinks, crack jokes, and beat up people for me. They’d all show up for G’s birthday with presents. 

I asked my wife about this, how convenient it would be for her. It’s almost as efficient as polygamy in getting more help for her around the house. I got a lecture about how awful that would be, how we’d see more cluttered deskspace, underwear on the door knobs, and unflushed toilets than even I could tolerate. They’d leave the lights on, not use coasters on the woodwork, and generally avoid work by “working” incessantly on the computer. No, one of me is enough for her. 

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Man-Anger, more potent but shorter lived than Woman-Anger

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graham-fussyMen tend to get angry about small things like particles of sand clinging to the skin between the fingers (above), and the bigger picture gets lost. But if you can distract him with small shiny gadgets or the keys to a Porsche, the moment passes and all memory of it will be lost. Women, on the other hand, get angry about big picture issues, and stay angry, and have the amazing capacity to get angry again if the issue is brought up, even after years and years have passed. I just saw a couple in my office who are celebrating their 65th anniversary, and I asked what the secret to their success was. The man who hadn’t spoken a word the entire visit, piped up, “you’ve got to give up and surrender.” And he raised up both of his arms. Very funny, only the young lady was not laughing.

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The Manual

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preppyI have read that President-Elect Obama learned about being African-American through the lens of television. I am not surprised. All land mammals take cues from the environment and do internal, brain-stem level assessments based on first impressions. That’s why some dogs bark when I approach. That’s why the groundhog on Wakonda #11 rears up on it hind legs and hisses at me (I’m going to get it and turn it into a hat). That’s also why I don’t wear a Batman costume to work.

That is also why I bring up this book: The Preppy Handbook. It was written as satire, but in fact, it was a cultural Rosetta Stone, Enigma Machine, and decoder ring wrapped up in a pocketable volume. Being an immigrant, I had no clue as to how to dress or talk in the social cauldron of a southern prep school. Having just come from Brooklyn was no help -I may as well have arrived from Mars.

Being an analytical yet typical teen, I set upon a quest to break out of non-conformity, and did it the only way I knew how -by research and keen observation. Funny thing was, this book was available at my school’s library, and I checked it out for about …26 years. It was like reading Jane Goodall’s field notes, and it was with the same determination that I jumped into the world of tassel loafers, khaki pants, and button down Oxford shirts. It took Jane about a year before the chimpanzee’s of Gombe let her sit among them. It took me about the same amount of time before the inner ring of high school students let me lounge around with them at the gazebo on our sprawling campus. 

Ultimately, it was about one thing. Okay, maybe two or three things, but I was still too young to even think that the third thing was possible. But who knew? Knowing what I do now, I have no regrets.

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The Bathist

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I just came from Spa Castle, formerly Inspa World that got a terrific write up from the NY Times (Link ).The only way to describe it is that in Korea and in Asia, neighborhood public baths were a family and community experience. Homes didn’t have bathtubs and you went down the street to clean up, soak in a hottub, schvitz in a sauna, and get massaged and exfoliated. I remember going as a 3 year old with my grandfather and soaking in the hot tub up to my neck.

As an adult, going out and drinking and partying all night in Seoul with friends and roudy cousins always ended up with a session in the sauna sweating out the toxic waste from too many bottles of Scotch and Soju.

The arrival of a public bath in NY that openly catered to non-Koreans was not surprising considering the congregation of bathing nationalities from Central Asia and the former Soviet Republics. I went at seven in the morning -these are open 24 hours, and you check in. Fees were 50 bucks which are about what you pay for a medium grade spa in Seoul. You are given a wireless key to a locker where you leave all your clothes. This section is not coed. You go in, shower, shave, brush your teeth, and soak in the 109 degree tub. I am a bit jarred by the bear soaking next to me but soon realize it’s a human, likely Russian by his Cyrillic tatoos. I go for a scrub down and massage 50 bucks. A heavily muscled man scrapes all the dirt and dead skin off my body along with some skin and then methodically tries to rip off my appendages after smashing every muscle on my body. I shower and consider putting on the shorts and gown and going upstairs to the coed family areas, but skip it because time is short.

They’ve renamed the place Spa Castle and have shuttles from Manhattan. Prepare to be naked. The food upstairs is supposed to be unbelievable. I feel completely rejuvenated, but a bit sore. No skin grafts or MRI’s were needed in the creation of this entry.


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Golf hut, then lunch

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Mighty Oak of Wakonda

Mighty Oak of Wakonda

Was at the golf hut today. Figured out that the better I swing, the more I’m likely to hit a slight draw. To get a reliable fade, I intentionally insert conscious thought into my swing, add a bit of stiffness, and there you go, you fade it. Afterwords, we went and got lunch. Walking up to the clubhouse, I noticed the trees and their dendritic branch points resembling neurons, and how the trees seem to approach but not ever really connect with another tree, likely its close relative, maybe from the same season of acorns. Do they have conversations that we’re too short lived and too attention span-deprived to hear? Are they really pissed about so many of their brethren taken to the axe? I’ll tell you after next season.

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Axle grease – an increasingly scarce commodity

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swing-on-plane001The great thing about watching a kid swing a club is that left alone, they will fall into the most efficient pattern of swinging. This is seen in the picture above (taken with iPhone btw), where the club is perfectly aligned, and the hand and arms are in perfect position. It was a slight toe hit, but the groove is setting in. 

Grip, address, and small photographer

Grip, alignment, address, and small photographer

The picture to the right shows an older, larger man who has to work at getting loose. The waggles help un-stiffen muscles that get in the way. The fidgeting shifts help settle the feet into the correct spot. The deep breaths help empty the mind of thought. But it’s all so conscious nevertheless. 

The axle grease that makes your joints glide gets clogged with the grit of fear, anticipation, and desire. It is letting go that gives you the ease of movement of a child. G doesn’t care so much that the ball goes, and every once in a while, he’ll tag one a hundred yards because the conditions all line up. 

He’s more interested in just being there, and I like to think it has something to do with me. The great thing about taking G to the golf hut is that I learn a lot from him. 

The score, the shot, the swing, are a by-product of your presence and actions. The key is to be present and to act accordingly.

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Balance

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Moment of Impact

Moment of Impact

Out at the golf hut, girded against the frigid winds blowing in from Minnesota, we practice with the concentration of meditating monks, one swing of the club at a time. When he’s done, I invite him to watch me for a while. Usually after a few minutes, he’ll go back to swinging and I’ll sit and watch him. We speak few words. Both of us share an enjoyment of pure ball striking, as well as a healthy loathing for putting.