Whoa Nellie!

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.