Whoa Nellie!

end of the season?

last ranging of the year today?

with boys in tow, halloween party early, grocey shopping, friday afternoon. i thougtht of going to the college and being a part of the new prez. installation but no... i was dressed poorly, two kids in tow and instead we went to the range - nice late october scene at the golf course, wind streaming, diehards playing, only one at the range that afforded an opportunity to get out to gather the balls they'd hit 20 yds. out. what to say? bliss, functional bliss. some seven irons sweet.

for those who are interested, no word yet from tom creavy's daughter. not sure if she's forgotten about me yet but i have some leads in re: NBC producers to contact about his feat 75 years ago.  an old high school friend is working for NBC and i might make an inroad there.

the golf season this year seems a ghost. i always loved fall golf but with the clock turn back approaching i'm not sure if it's happening this year. 

I tried to sneak on to a private course last weekend but there were members watching and it didn't seem worth the risk.

I'm old and tired and drunk now. i have my objectives and i'm not that old to see them through. we'll see where this fall season brings us.

Creavy update

A few weeks back I gave the heaving sigh re: my man, Tom Creavy, 1931 PGA champion – called by SI’s Jaime Diaz “the most obscure major champion” of the modern era. Not a local boy, but he was Albany Country Club head pro when he won the thing and, more noticeably, the second youngest ever to win this major crown jewel. Mystery surrounds an accident that befell Tom soon after his PGA victory. Ed Huba, the no. 1 caddy for Creavy when he was a lad, said he slipped and wrenched his back. But, if it’s something so simple, why the mystery, Ed? Ed’s not a mysterious guy, God bless him.

Well, late last week, I was in contact with Tom’s daughter, Jean Chodkowski, who’s a special ed teacher in Delaware.

I emailed her on a whim and she got right back, (this internet thing is sumpin’), said she’d get in touch. I’m still waiting to hear from her but I thought I’d be proactive and say I’m making progress here. I guess the ultimate goal is to get a piece on Tom for the 2006 PGA at (Medinah??). Anyone know any NBC sports producers? It’ll be the 75^th anniversary of his victory…. and the eventual decline into near obscurity. Let’s see if we can get the real story…..

Geez, Louise...

One rain-soaked nine on Friday and a bit of range work this weekend – I’m beginning to fall into my old ways. It’s shameful what parenthood will do to your golf game. Shameful, I tell you. Not that I was any better back then – pre-life-engulfing responsibility. There has been, is now, and perhaps forever shall be a pre-determined mediocrity to my golf game, which follows along one of several paths. Let me outline them for you:

The steady descent into madness – This round usually begins well. A nice string of pars and bogeys, followed by what might be described as an “oops” hole. I’m fond of eights. There’s something about the snowman that speaks to the mediocre golfer. It says, “You will shit the bed on nearly every shot on this hole…”

Bad drive; perhaps a failed attempt at a heroic punch out from beneath the limbs of a snaring pine. The pro-forma topped shot. The angry eight iron that flies (with venom and adrenaline) the green. (Where is your target??) Bad chip. Three putt. Eight. Sign it, Roberto.

The train wreck – Have you ever gotten a double bogey and then couldn’t…stop… getting… double bogeys? I have, lotsa times. It can strike anytime, trust me.

The “what might have been” round – I’ve outlined here before my random glimpses of greatness. Pars in bunches, steady driving that makes opponents cry, miraculous chips, but for whatever reason I’ve never been able to sustain it for more than nine holes. Never had the nuts to put together two solid sub-40 rounds. I’ve probably shot below 85 less than a half dozen times in my life and only on the strength of some “out of mind’ putting. I wouldn’t necessarily call it choking but a simple un-athleticism. A failure perform the needed shot when needed. Ok, scratch that. I will call it choking.

Ah, well, the past.

The rain round on Friday, played with co-workers, started bogey, bogey, bogey. But it was one of those tri-bogey starts that could have been bogey, par, par, for lack of a decent approach here, or a passive chip there. Tap-in bogies, if there is such a thing. Three fine drives. That’s what I remember.

Then came the deluge. Pitter patter for 10 minutes and it opened up. A full soak. The four mid-round holes were basically lost and after you’re that wet it really doesn’t matter if it stopped and the sun shone down. We came to the eighth (545 yds, uphill par five) still in the downpour, just teeth-gritting and I said aloud, with some semblance of conviction, “I’m going to hit three three woods to get it on.” Well, sir, caromed by the force of the deluge, they were three rather awful three woods but they stayed in play, and not yet thirty feet from the green, I played my fourth with trusty 56-degree wedge – the Performer - as its sole describes. “Da, da...” On… short, but on. Twenty five feet. And I hit it for my sole par of the round. I don’t know the final tally but I’m playing hopeful golf, and I think that’s good.

At the range Saturday I saw hippie guy, whose swing seems to have accelerated a bit since we last nodded to each other. (We don’t talk on the range, just self-actualize each other’s pain through nods and grunts…) He was wilder than normal. Also there were two other classic range characters – “older guy teaching wife” and “let me steal your balls,” whose MO is all about waiting for the range to clear and then stepping out past the rope a few steps to grab the duffer’s drubs. He then in turn hits these balls, sits down on the bench and waits for it all to happen again. In between, he chain smokes Marlboro reds.

I was making good contact but seemingly pulling everything. Any suggestions, folks??

Da da

Chumping on the range again this past Labor Day weekend. Twice, actually, but one time was with the boys and, as I’ve mentioned before, I just get freaked out that they’re going to clock each other with their little clubs that I end up hitting maybe four balls in the bucket.

“Back up. Back up! Your brother’s gonna hit you! Wait, don’t swing yet. Wait. Wait!” Couple this with the fact that they’d rather use their little nine irons as bowstaffs rather than their intended purpose and we have paranoia non-conducive to the range mantra. Speaking of such, new theories abound in my golflogic mind, but the best is the “da da.” I will attempt to explain.

Several years ago, I began collecting books about golf. Betting wars on Ebay. All that crap. I stayed away from instructional tomes, because generally they’re all the same and I have enough running through my pre-shot mind as it is. I purposefully avoid “swing tips” - the insidious little brain worms. (Remember that scene in one of the Star Trek movies where Chekov gets the brain worm. Cool. I digress…)

While the physical manifestations of golf have always seemed plain, the same can not be said for its mental side. But past experiences with breathing exercises, visualization, etc. have led me on that late-70s path of golfmind consciousness. You can’t think you’re way to a better golf swing, but you can get out of your mind’s way. Plain.

In a nutshell that’s the thesis behind “The Inner Game of Golf,” by Timothy Gallwey, which, I guess, in certain circles is regarded as the breakthrough book on golf psychology. I started reading – all about how Self One, that bullying, regulating taskmaster part of you seems to be helping but is actually hindering your golf – all the way from the swing to how you think about the game in general.

Block out that inner chatter and you’ve won half the battle. You’ve allowed Self Two, the unhindered, to take over your swing. Well, in theory. But in practice, too! OK, I haven’t read the whole book but took the first tip (sorry, suggestion) to the range. Don’t think about your swing, no tips or inner thoughts - just say the phrase “da” when you reach the back of your back swing and then say it again when you make contact – “da… da.” The idea is a simple one – take all thought out of your swing. It’s ideal if you don’t care about where the ball is going because the idea is to free your mind of the chatter. It’s just da, da. It’s hard to stop the chatter. You do the da, da and hit some shots and then you hit a bad one and the inner mind motor starts revving again, “What did I do wrong there? Must have came over the top somehow….” STOP! Free your mind, grasshopper! Just da, da….

I found when I did this chipping I was making the smoothest contact imaginable. The woods and long irons were a bit more of a challenge, but when I stuck to the da, da, they were was measurably smoother. Although the range was pretty vacant, I kept my vocalizations relatively mild. I noticed one guy looking at me kinda strange, but I’m not sure if he heard me or was just checking my powerful six irons out to the 170 flag. Perhaps we can add the Monica Seles grunts later. Or one day see the entire range echo with a chorus of “da…Da!”

i'm not acquainted with mr. par

Flickering hope is all that it is, you know.

Third hole, after a birdie, par, par start and I’m thinkin’ - “Damn, I own this game! I control the very destiny of my shots. Jump ahead why don’t you? Yeah why not, think about it. Sub-par round, baby. (Strolling down the fairway after a decent drive on the fourth) I am the living, breathing man of this course. You, over there, playing the fifth hole. Did you see that chip? Did you catch that approach shot on the first? What was that, five feet for the birdie? You saw that, right? Cause I sure as hell saw it….. Damn, I own this game!”

You can guess the rest….

But it was there, at least for a moment. The feeling that I was playing golf. That I was mastering par, the very yardstick of the game. I’ve played golf for 20 years, and I’m an average golfer, mediocre across the spectrum with the exception of putting, where I most humbly beseech you to know that I’m the nuts. Really. Well, better than Vijay at least. But my game is very “old man.”

I play bogey golf, but not “wild-ass I’m all over the course bogey golf,” more like “I can’t even make it to that 417-yard par 4 in two shots bogey golf.” Can you dig it? So while slow and steady may make for unspectacular low 90s rounds and a feeling of contented competence, it’s rare that I get the balls on feeling I’m mastering the course. It’s quite the jones, I must admit.

Just a warning...

At some point I'd like to do a few entries on the fine art of ball hawking - you know, going into the woods and looking for the errant tee shots of your fellow golfers. There is a science to it. well, maybe not a science, but an art to figuring where the slicers will place their shots. I've always been proud of the fact that I've never purchased a single golf ball in the 20 years I've been playing this game.

1931 PGA Champion

I’m not good with math, you know. Just one of those humanities jerks who wants to revisit history, explain things and argue about them; find the nuances that are woven through lifetimes and distill tragedy until some kind of truth can be found. My truth, at least. But couch-lounging in front of the PGA Championships this weekend I grabbed the calculator and punched in some numbers. Next year will be the 75^th anniversary. Perhaps I should do something about this….

New York’s Capital Region has very little presence on the national golf scene. Oh, sure we have a few Ross and Tillinghast and RTJ courses. Dottie Pepper’s from around here, and Laura Diaz. Most folks know that. Fewer still know that the three-generation chain of Duval family golfers started here with old “Hap,” who toiled on Depression-era courses long gone. But mention the name Tom Creavy and you’ll get mostly blank stares.

74 years ago, however, Tom Creavy was the toast of the golf world having become the second-youngest player ever to win the PGA Championship. He also got a new job, as head pro at Albany Country Club.

But here’s the weird part, some type of “mystery injury” (some say he fell, some say it was an meningitis or something like that) befell Tom within a year and he never regained the promise launched by his major win. He competed in the first Masters. He made it to the semis of the next two PGAs, but not much else, and he faded away seemingly into a respectable club pro.

It’s a mystery and I love a mystery.

Why not make it my job to find out just what happened to Tom Creavy… at least in time for next year’s PGA. It’s the least I can do for the only major champion to ever call Albany home.

I’ll let you know what I find out.

Aaah, Francis, me boy...

Since I'm at a loss for posting blather material, I thought I'd pull something from "Bogies and Billygoats: A History of the Albany Municipal Golf Course".......available at fine online booksellers

Frank Cummings

The trophy was three feet tall, the younger Frank Cummings said.

Somewhere along the line, it simply disappeared. Frank lives in Albany and plays golf every now and then. His father, the senior Francis Cummings, was a bit more serious about the game. In the 1930s, Frank Cummings was the first three-time city golf champion and the first to retire the Mayor Thacher Trophy, a feat that would be accomplished by only three other golfers throughout the years.

“It was a big trophy, I remember, but it’s probably long gone by know,” said the son. Cummings Sr. pulled off the feat in three consecutive years – 1933 through 1935 – but he and his twin brother, John, would remain competitive throughout the 1930s in the Mayor’s Cup tournament that would soon be considered the Muni’s annual championship.

John Cummings was involved in the only disputed tournament final on record, although the story is a bit second hand. Jack Vogel, a generation younger than the Cummings twins and a student of the game himself, was compiling a list of past city champions in the late 1950s. He wanted some recognition for those who had won the city title and, finding the clubhouse bar empty of such, he set out to comb the newspapers. “I asked Mickey Marcy. I said ‘If I can get these all together, would you put up a plaque or something?’ So I started working on the list. The only year that I couldn’t find was this one. John Cummings and Clare Graves played in the final, and I asked Jerry Dwyer about it and he said there was no winner. I can’t remember exactly what he said happened, but there was some kind of penalty called and they never resolved it,” Vogel said.   

According to his son, Frank was a CHristian Brothers Academy grad, class of 1925. He worked for the telephone company most of his life, retiring in 1971. Frank married later in life so his younger years were often spent around the golf course. Marriage came and the golf became secondary.

His son remembers his father telling him about playing on the tour for a while, and that’s quite possible. To enter most tour events in those days all one needed was a handicap below two and the entrance fee. Money winners, of course, would have forsaken their amateur status.

“He tried to teach us when we were kids. We would go out to the old Muni course or Western Turnpike,” younger Frank said. “These days, I get out when I get a chance, maybe three or four times a year,” said Frank. “I’m a typical hacker. I’ll never get any better.”

How to explode a round in two holes….

First hole: Crap tee shot, nice pitch, miss par putt. Ok, ok. Let's move on.

Second hole: Three consecutive pulls into the woods, no survivors found. I hit the same shot three times. A dead pull. You know, that kind of I...need...to....hold....on....a.....little.....bit .....longer shot. I’m hitting seven off the tee on the final shot, right?? Let me repeat that - I’m hitting seven off the tee….

Actually the round wasn’t too bad after that, but when one marks a "10" on one's scorecard, you might as well pack it in. It's not that so much but I'm just absolute crap with the putter these days. Oh, not when I go out and practice but three putts have just been killing me during the rounds I've played. The best part of my game and it's killin' me.

It's only a game...

As I slip begrudgingly into middle age a few revelations, uh, reveal themselves. Let me start again...

I've always considered myself to be an optimistic person. You know, the kind that always hopes for the miracle comeback; always sees the tiny glimmer of hope when the skies are darkest. With my beloved Baltimore O's having a fine first half I was thinking, hey, maybe they can hang on here. And after, what, five consecutive losing seasons, it was a stretch to consider that they would even be competitive. But I'm still convinced that winning at team sports is alot more forest than trees. Chemistry and the right combination of timely hitting and workmanlike pitching can carry a team through a full season. But when the (I see now) inevitable slide began, I kept up hope. They were losing close games, but losing nevertheless. Four games out, six and eight, a slide into fourth, not mentioned in wild card. And now, Raffi.... a patented fool if he did what they said and shame on him. It's truly too much pollyanna to think he didn't do something wrong. 

With yesterday's Raffi doping revelation, I've not only lost faith in my O's this season, but pretty much turned the corner on the whole optimism thing. Wholesale. I realize now that baseball, indeed, all sports, are not some magical eternal rhythm that mark the years and provide context to the highs and lows of our lives. They are businesses, not unlike, say the automobile industry or international shipping. They are a product and we are a consumer. If, indeed, they hold some magic for us the fans it is because of our own foolish imaginations and our consistent desire to project ourselves on the outcomes of "games." These are games, people.

I will no longer get angry when the Orioles lose. It's a game. I will no longer root for the underdog against Tiger Woods. It's only a game. i will no longer obsess over my pitiful driving, putting, chipping, etc. It's only a game. I will no longer attempt to piss off smug Yankee fans. It's only a game

And after having written all that, with conviction, I know it's false. Call me shallow.