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The Hainer’s Resolutions for the New Year
Every year, there are things I promise I will do differently in my approach to the new golf season. Every year, I start off keeping these promises until…I don’t. Well, this year is going to be different. I promise.
Here are a few of them. Perhaps they can help you as well.
1- Keep the workouts going all summer.
I start working out in the winter. Then, just as April arrives, I kick it up a notch. The annual sensation of increased strength and stamina, along with a righteous sense of well being kind a gets me thinking that I could whip the entire Taliban one handed. I usually end up feeling that the physical requirements for good golf should be no more than a canvas-bound tomato can in comparison.
Then, the weather breaks and practicing starts and tee times are made--and homes, families and jobs do not necessarily disappear—but time does. The workouts have been the first to go for me. First I rationalize that walking 18 holes is a “workout.” Then by early summer, hitting balls after work and an evening stroll through the subdivision is my “workout.” Finally, when the dog days arrive, simply parking at the far end of the parking lot at my sons little league games, and then afterward, carrying out some Papa Murphy’s pizzas becomes my “workout.” (I do, however, carry the pizzas with one hand…to feel the burn.)
What I will do this year is get up at 5:05 a.m. instead of 5:55 and get my “workout” in. What’s 50 minutes? It’s not like the alarm goes off and I do a forward somersault with a twist from my bed at 5:55 anyway.
Therefore, I shall keep the workouts going through the summer tournament season by getting up earlier. Tiger, Vijay and most the tour boys all do. So should I.
2- Watch what I put in my mouth.
Yes, I know, we all do. We watch it go from our hands into our pie holes. But there comes a time when Culvers just can’t mend a broken heart anymore. So often the cheeseburger is placed upon the altar at the center of many a player’s post round ritual, at least for most denominations. Be they The Victorious or The Demoralized, the burger becomes the “Body of Christalmightythatsgood.” But it doesn’t do ones body any good--especially if your workouts become reduced to a walk across the parking lot.
As I’ve noted in a past column, what one puts in their mouth can affect ones golf game. It was the dried mangos of course, that had sadly become my personal savior, thereby reducing the importance of any one shot. Just remember this; it’s always bad when comfort food becomes too good at what it does.
One other thing I must mention. Last year, I accidentally took my wife’s morning vitamin, “Woman’s Way”, instead of the guy brand I had been taking. Don’t remember the brand name, but they were for “Lions and Tigers and Bears….with Omega 3.” Anyway, when I played that day, I wasn’t myself. I wanted to stoop to tee the ball up instead of bending over. I fumed over the conditions of the courses restrooms, and the fact that there were no lemon slices in the on-course water coolers. One time I came to a funky lie in the short rough and thought “that’s just dandy…I need my lucky nine wood.” Finally, when the cute little cart girl came by to sell me some bottled water, (still no lemon wedges,) before I knew it, I blurted in jest “You’re so skinny, I hate you...ooh, I’m sorry, where did you get that bracelet.”
I won’t make that mistake again.
3- Play more than I practice.
At some point every summer, I find myself practicing on the range, trying to find a way to play better. Instead of playing better, I just get better at the act of practicing. Sometimes I’ll get in a groove and my practice session will become like a trick shot exhibition. It’s like I’m Hainer the Harlem Globetrotter. Then I get on the course and I’m still Hainer, the klutzy white Washington General.
Therefore, I resolve to play more holes and add some consequences to every swing. I must understand that every shot is different. I’ll dedicate more of my practice time towards the short game. One still has to work on their swing, but the sessions on the range will be shorter. Sessions lasting longer than four hours, though rare, will require immediate attention from a doctor, probably a shrink. (Come to think of it, shouldn’t the folks at Cialis recommend a “shrink,” of sorts, for those rare, longer than four hour occasions?)
4-Go back to Art over Science
The more I have attempted to learn about the golf swing, the more trouble I have found myself in. My brain just doesn’t easily wrap itself around angles and sequences. I’ve tried, and failed. I have actually succeeded in being able to intellectually present the concepts and theories of the various schools of thought on the golf swing; I simply have no real facility for the practical application of these ideas.
I taught myself to golf by imitating other golfers. First, it was a senior golfer on the high school golf team. I was a sophomore and had been playing for a year when I decided to try out for the team, basically because I had recalled the scores the guys on the team were shooting the year before. (High forties for nine.) We had winter practice in the gym, hitting into a net. Using my $29.99 set of department store clubs (putter included,) I imitated Jeff Long, the team stud-- and made varsity for the first match without playing a hole of competitive golf in my life. All I did was imitate J –Lo’s swing and it worked.
Since then, I’ve done the same with various friends and Tour pros. It always works the best for me, if I can just see their image in my mind. Most of my tournament wins and better rounds have been while I’ve imitated someone else. Everyone from Isao Aioki to Hubert Green. From Fred Couples to Paul Azinger to Ernie Els, to Halla, Welton and Gregorski and on and on. Seriously. Though sometimes it is the player’s rhythm and tempo that prompts the imitation more than their specific action.
If it is true that art imitates life, then art must be the way I go. It has been the way that has worked best. Someone once said that “cheesy art provides answers, and true art poses questions.” If my swing makes you say “What?” then I’m on my way. All that matters is how many shots one takes per round. Not much else.
I’ve wasted years on analysis and “getting into positions,” always thinking that doing everything the same way every time is the next step one must take to (relative) greatness. This may be the case for a chess-playing, ELO adoring, precisionist math junkie dentist like The Driller. But for The Hainer, it would be like the String Cheese Incident trying to play their music in the vein of Steely Dan.
And so…string cheese it is. As each slender thread and artful ribbon of cheese is pulled from it fixed axis, it is different in some way from the next; and meaningful in that it can never be, exactly, replicated again--much in the way every shot in any round of golf is unique--despite the uniformity of the tubular Motherstick from which it came.
My resolutions then, suggest some past failings, and one man’s need to address the important issues of health and art and play as they relate to the upcoming golf season—at least from a late February point of view.
It seems evident however, that the interactive art and unpretentious imagery of your better String Cheeses just may be the key to a successful 2005. Yeah, String Cheese, the nutritious, individually wrapped and always fun little treat has done nothing more than perform day in and day out for many years, humbly avoiding the limelight, yet teaching, always teaching. Until I got it.
“Now we go.”
The Hainer resolves to read his email. You can contact him at thehainer@golftalkwisconsin.com
for a printer-friendly version of this column, click here.
In prosperity our friends know us; in adversity we know our friends. — Churton Collins
John Haines
I was playing the Tommy Armour mini-tour back in the early nineties when my ‘then wife’ decided she would prefer to spend her life with the portly fifty-something marketing manager at the company where she worked.
It was bad timing. I had just figured out the key to succeeding on this particular tour. It was so simple: just reduce my shot attempts per round. I had been playing like Allen Iverson, hitting plenty of spectacular shots but with too many misses in-between. What was I thinking!
My ‘then wife’ would eventually comment that my discovery was categorically whoop-de-doo. “Categorically?” Hmmm… six syllables…The Round Man from marketing had to be consulting her. Turns out they had been feverishly consulting with each other for some time while I was in Florida.
“Come on, Cady will be crushed, this will kill her,” I whined at the time. Cady was our little one, she came with the marriage, but I loved her like she was my own. But, alas, she died soon after our split, well before the divorce was final--and well before her time. She was a loving and lovable little Lhasa Apso. But…her Hainer, the one almost as cocky as she, had been sent away.
I decided to come back to Wisconsin to deal with the divorce, taking the crisis as a sign (one of several) that professional golf was a pipe-dream. So-- I had no job, no wife, no dog, and no clue what to do next. I was low on cash and moved in with my folks.
I did have good friends however. I talked to my good buddy and best ball partner Tom Halla, I gave him my comically rehearsed and reggae-inflected litany of “no chick, no job, no dog, no clue. Jah! I’m 36 years old and living with my folks. Jah!” routine, but I had to add that “at least I’m puring it---Jah!.”
Tom, who I thought was only pretending to listen, said “Well… just be glad it’s not the other way around…mon.”
I said “Yeah mon, from sad to tragic….thot woould be bad.”
I called my buddy and fellow golfer Bob Gregroski, still practicing law back then, and said, “Hey Bob, I got some legal looking crap in the mail, says I’m a respondent, what should I do?”
Long story short, Bob clobbered “opposing counsel,” charged me very little, and after every hearing or signature session, we would meet with our buddy Mike Dailey at Milwaukee Country Club where he is a member. There, the three of us played golf amidst the splendor that is that place. After, we’d sit in the locker room with a beverage and peel away the layers of the feminine mystique and break down the nuanced application of various idiosyncratic measures we might want to try with our future soul-mates--it was either that or our position at the top. You know, left wrist, cupped or bowed? It’s a bit of a blur now.
Whatever, the divorce process had become significantly less painful. Bob and Mike’s divorces didn’t happen for at least another year, but when they did, my pullout couch was theirs whenever. Still, I couldn’t ever do as much as they did for me back in those days.
I landed a job in my former industry; paperboard packaging sales and got an apartment. Along with my family, my golf buddies helped me move. Later, when I bought a small house on the Milwaukee River, my golf buddies again helped me move. After remarrying, we bought a new house on #5 Blue of Mequon Country Club. This time, I simply felt I had to do this move without calling on my buddies. After all, I had hired some movers for all the big stuff. We were moving a week before last Christmas. I would simply handle it. Then the closing date was changed.
When I hurriedly got everything boxed and ready, it became obvious there was no way I could get out of my old house in time to close, even with my ever helpful folks, who at nearly seventy can work as hard as Vijay Singh would like to. The night before the move, I called Christo Van Pietersom and Tommy Welton, famous golfers and notorious employees at The Bog. I said, “Help.” They did.
They showed up the next morning and worked like pack mules. After several hours, Tommy called Bill Raebuck, head pro at The Bog, the place they were supposed to be working--for money--not a sub sandwich, a few beers and some cold pizza. I heard him say on the phone, “uh…The Hainer he, ahh….no way we can leave him. He’s got more…more stuff than a Home Despot.” Billy Ray said, “Stay.”
Paul Zarek, a fine golfer and a good friend popped some pills for a sore back and worked hard too. We got it done, and we got it done because my guys showed up. These were big moments in my life, and they were there for me on a 23 degree day the week before Christmas.
Golf is the ultimate glue for bonding among fellows. There is something about the entire process: sharing tips and stories and misery and Advil. The competing becomes a relative cycle of relentless truth; sailing on the good days, plowing through the bad days and tugging at the leash on the many days in-between. Seeing each other work so hard, grinding and swearing at themselves in cartoon voices, only to improve a fraction more, if at all; and then, taking some time off or playing hurt with no hope at all, and have it lead to a high finish or even victory. Sometimes we see each other scrape it around and achieve something good using smoke and mirrors. The very next day, we might smoke the ball with ease, yet must avoid mirrors for fear the reflection may just shake its head and look away. How do you turn 72 into 80 Mr. Brainless? Tsk, tsk… another day, another hazard stake up the ass (sigh.)
We know how cuckoo it can get. And only comrades in competition can know why. I mean, really know why. Why? Because we know that there will be times we can never know why. It is a funky kind of knowledge really, to know that you cannot always know.
It’s going to happen like that sometimes, but there is salvation in knowing it’s not forever. And when you eventually do lapse, there is nothing left to do but eat the Coco Puffs. But hey, everybody suffers and redemption always beckons, it’s an endless loop that goes at a speed that reflects one’s ability. Ultimately, and existentially, it is simply the shared experience in a common pursuit among different people that glues us all together. I guess that part goes for many things in life. Again, lines blur.
Not everyone, however, merits such kudos in this Christmastime message. There are guys who reveal the ‘Scrooge within’ regardless of how well they may play. But we must never forget how fun they are to talk about and make fun of. I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge how skilled some golfers are at just that. Is it nature or nurture, I don’t know, but the great ones have that certain something when it comes to verbally devastating the jackals that have it coming. When those rather few bad guys get lampooned by the good guys, well, it’s often pretty funny. But when good guys get lampooned by good guys, over a burger and a beer and in the presence of each other, it sometimes gets so funny that human fluids can go unmanaged.
“If you want to truly know a man, play 18 holes with him.” This is a famous quote from someone who I would guess is considered very wise. It has some truth to it, but change it to, “If you want to truly know a man, compete season after season with him,” and you can chuckle at the folly of how little the 18 holes told you. After so many seasons, however, the lines between golf and life eventually do blur into one. The people you compete against, with the fires of hell raging in your gut, end up being your insurance agent, your dentist (The Driller,) or a business associate. I’d like to mention everyone, but…all I have to do is forget one, and BOOM, there is one less person who may have helped me move next time. Seriously, I had to use a calculator to recall my age the other day, so it’s a chance I won’t take.
It’s all been said better by smarter guys (albeit much shorter hitters,) but the friendships I have with the good folks I’ve met through golf are a blessing of far more value than any tangible “gift” I could receive for Christmas. In fact, it is our many friendships in action that reflect the spirit of the season more accurately than all the colored lights and candy canes and Ho Ho Ho’s combined.
And it is going on right now (golfers cursing in cartoon voices,) all around the world (lampooning and laughter,) great friendships (“...uh, no way we can leave him,”) through the great game of golf (Cuckoo for CoCo Puffs.)
“Think where a man’s glory most begins and ends,” wrote William Butler Yeats, “and say my glory was I had such friends.” It is good to feel this way, even when you ache to hoist, high into the sky, the bloody and still beating heart of your best friend in the final round of the State match play. What better time to recognize this than at Christmas. (Someone please say “God bless us everyone.”)
And to think some of my buddies think a manger is the guy who runs their club.
Off season’s greetings and Merry Christmas to everyone. The New Year beckons.
If you would like to send Yuletide cheers or (hopefully not) jeers, you can send email to TheHainer@golftalkwisconsin.com
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During the recent presidential campaign, I made a point of reading many columns from various political pundits. Regardless of party affiliation or political position, I was struck by the colorful characterizations and preposterous leaps they made in their writings. A sliver of truth from a simple observation would often provide a foothold from which to jump to conclusions based on intentionally twisted logic; so that later in the column, we might accept questionable assertions based on logical assumptions as true.
Whether I agreed with these columnists or not, I must admit I was often entertained by the intellectual contortions they performed through the creative, albeit convoluted, sentences that spun their agenda. No matter how inconsequential the subject matter may have been, for sheer language arts, writers like Maureen Dowd, Leonard Pitts, Ann Coulter, George Will and many others, truly know how to make each paragraph a breathtaking spin, or twist, or turn, on a wild but literate amusement ride.
For the fun of it, I have written a golf column in this spirit. It is called:
Caught in the Act of Back to Back Birdies! Where’s the Party?
Ever play in a golf tournament with a guy who either spews nothing but expletives or says nothing at all? That is, until he makes back to back birdies and artificially resuscitates the remnants of his miserable personality just enough to stomp around on the green like a back-up wide receiver doing that ‘what-I’m-tawkin’about’end zone bobble-head power dis, after having soaked in the juices of his own depth chart discontent and perceived media disrespect. Then he snap-hooks one deep into the Disenchanted Forest, and starts shaking and swearing and looking around as if in search of a kitten to kick, and then rushes to finish his round so he can gamble on illegal cock fights after the strip joints close.
(Maybe I exaggerate, but this is fun.)
How about the guy who continues to spew nothing but expletives, or says nothing at all, even after back to back birdies. His face often wages an internal war, of sorts, as false-bravado is overcome by the forces of raging shame on the unguarded road to self-loathing. Guys who hide inside their own arrogance like this are probably too preoccupied making secret pacts with an influential peddler like Lucifer to be civil; and lends to speculation the possible acceptance of illicit birdies in exchange for willful shadiness or a dark deed along the lines of a no-bid Halliburton contract. This manufactured swagger, however, is betrayed by their all too furtive glances - as if they anticipate a lightning bolt from the fingertip of God at any moment. “Dreaded others” lurk like bogeymen as their demise becomes the very manifestation of a self-fulfilling prophecy for which they have no real defense. Whatever - their comeuppance awaits – and when it hits, they find God quickly and swear, “never again” instead of a the usual blue streak. I laugh at the thought of them paying greens fees just to get into hell.
(Take that! But, truth be told, there are some odd ducks that are nothing more than crabby jerks who putt well - strange as that might seem.)
Just as revolting are those who make back to back birdies and are overcome with a flowing love that fills their hearts and spills onto everyone else’s micro-fiber. There is no love quite like “birdie love,” for it is the one love that comes closest to conquering all - the issues with those mentioned above notwithstanding. I’ve seen dark-dealing, kitten-kicking, cock-fight-betting, disrespected back-up wide receiver types all of a sudden start dispensing grace like a TV evangelist while offering to buy a round of Gatorades for the entire group after two straight birdies. And, after three birdies, there are golfers who would not hesitate to pluck the belly-button lint from the dankness of his caddie’s major innie.
(This is the “birdie buzz” – aphrodisiac version: a weapons-grade discharge of love for all mankind.)
I’ve even seen large, sweaty men, put
their arm around other large sweaty men for a moment while waiting on the
next tee after back to back birdies. Also, the big, infatuated man in
mid-birdie buzz will sometimes laugh shamelessly about unfunny things
while the other large, sweaty man fumes over a round gone mad, as well as
the phony laugh-track coming from a large sweaty man who wants to touch
him.
I believe that in my lifetime, I will see a sweaty fuming man punch a touchy-feely birdie machine in the face. And the fuming man - could be a teacher or policeman - will then strut around like a disrespected back-up wide receiver in the end zone as the slimy, birdie making televangelist lay motionless on the tee box. But no one ever cries for the Birdie-man, he feels no pain, for it is a fact that birdies literally crap endorphins upon the brain.
(This is the “birdie buzz” – opiate version: no pain, no worries, no anger - just the joy of… being awake.)
Most golfers, however, take a tact that’s much more matter of fact. In fact, many put on an act of being matter of fact when in the act of back to back birdies.
I have seen variations of all the above when observing those in the act of back to back birdies. But the greater truth is that most people I play with, in competition or socially, are good people who know how to behave in whatever circumstance they find themselves. There are a wide range of acceptable reactions, from subtly distinctive to tastefully effusive. And this is where most everyone falls. All it really comes down to is nuance, authenticity, and timing. It is the art learning to be happy in public.
I set out to ask some players about their feelings and observations after back to back birdies. But the first guy I asked just looked at me like I was throwing a pop quiz on how a perfectly prepared steak tastes. “Uh…good?”
So I threw out some analogies. “Would you
consider it like….
a beautiful surprise - something like, oh say… a
nocturnal emission?"
“I don’t get it….I hate waiting in line at those testing stations,” the guy replied.
“Oookay,” Then, since birdies are sometimes a huge relief , like after a bad front nine. I asked, “How about…like finding your car keys after you thought you’d lost your only set?”
“Does this have to be about my car? I thought we were talking about birdies, you know, golf.”
“Just forget it,” I said.
It was then I decided, that for this column, I would point out how people feel, why they act the way they do, and what it all means. I hope I have done this. So, here we go.
He who would cut a no-bid deal with Halliburton would likely be a Republican, but, maybe a Democrat since both the past two administrations have ties to them. He who would kick a kitten or bet on cocks would not vote to extend funding for PETA may suggest a Republican by his vote, but would likely be an independent as are most psychos. The TV Evangelist votes Republican, but the free Gatorades point towards a Democrat. Tough call. The sweaty guy touching a sweaty guy is likely to be a Democrat, but the guy who punched him may be a Republican homophobe. I have found their party.
(And that’s the way it is. It’s all quite logical.)
So add me to the list of columnists who can divine anything from anything. I too, am now a pundit. And I am always right, except when I’m not. Let’s just say my views are little more accurate than the recent election exit poll, but just as meaningless, unless you made it to this sentence.
The Hainer is a freelance know-it-all and welcomes your emails at this address -TheHainer@golftalkwisconsin.com
By John Haines
It has often been said, “you are what you eat.” I’ve also heard, “how you eat, so shall you compete.” This brings up a golf-specific concern of mine, “can a snack, make you hack?” Other than my well known addiction to Advil Liquid-gels, (for howling elbow/moaning shoulder) I fear I’ve become dependent on various on-course snacks over the past several years. And this year, something I thought could be beautiful, turned out anything but.
First, some back-story. Years ago there was a guy who used to eat bananas during his rounds of golf. Not for nutrition, nor for convenience - he did it as aroma-therapy. He said that the vapors from the inevitable baby burps that bubbled up from his digestive apparatus created a subtle banana breath that was ever so soothing. Organic incense, if you will. His words - “Essence of banana - it keeps me even.”
Then there’s the guy who feels that Teriyaki Steak Bites from the Jack Link Co is the ideal beef treat. He is on record claiming it is “the quintessential meat snack of the modern era.” He kept a package in his golf bag at all times. At least back then he did.
Most of us know that even everyday beef jerky can have its moments. A standard batch will offer reliable low-carb gratification when the slightly gargoyled strips of dried meat splinter easily with the grain, providing just enough spicy satisfaction to buy it again. Even a tough, hemp-like piece can have a little flavor extracted when persistent tongue pressure is combined with some determined mouth-vac dehydration. Some would call this work - I call it interactive.
But with the development of Steak Bites - praise Jesus - well, this was the way many of us dreamed it could be. Sweet and spicy, they are tender and ready - yet with the broad-shouldered machismo of Angus beef, all in smartly unitized nuggets. This guy says that the high sodium content of room-temperature meat takes the place of the once popular athletic supplement called salt tablets - except it’s made from tasty steak! And, they come in a re-sealable package that is perfect for the golf course.
You may have noticed I am on board with Jerky Boy. Very much so. In fact, I am Jerky Boy. Truth be told, I am the burping Banana Man as well. No use hiding behind poetic license to tout my belief in, and commitment to, on-course comfort food. Often times these items are referred to as – snacks.
But make no mistake; these snacks can make a difference through the course of a round of golf, even a whole season. When a golfer’s energy sags, or his pie-hole just aches for a shake-up, something has to be done. Man can’t live on birdies alone- and bogies just leave a bad taste in the mouth. Even retro-fave, the ol’ granola bar, can turn the tide for the better, especially if it’s one of those with something like Heath Bar or Butterfinger pieces mixed in. (For me, in the ‘melt-in-your-mouth’ genre, Heath hath no equal.)
This summer I came upon a new, on-course comfort food savior. I never thought it would come to this, but, shockingly, it is – DRIED MANGO – “the apple of the tropics.”
These pieces of dried mango simply stepped up to the palate and went deep, touching most all my taste-bud’s sensory pleasure centers. This had been previously accomplished only by a few legends in the portable snack food community (Mike and Ikes, Swedish Fish, Honey-Roasted Cashews, assorted meat snacks, and, if chilled, some types of seedless grapes, among other venerable performers of course.)
The dried mango sounded unappealing to me at first. I thought it was some sort of fat apricot or something. Paul Zarek brought a bag back this spring from Hawaii and pulled them out on the 13th hole one day. He offered some to Tom Halla and me. Tom – he would eat a bunker rake if he could first hose it down with Ketchup, or any other lubricating sauce. He’ll try anything.
Me? I was frightened. These dried mango pieces looked too much like goldfish and I’m not much for seafood. And what if these mangos made a fleshy, veiny, shrimp kind of sound in my head, when I chewed? Urrggh! I could throw up. But I was out in the middle of Washington County Golf Course with nothing to eat but an old Slimfast bar. How old, I did not know, but the wrapper had yellowed and could have been from two bag transfers ago. I wrestled with the temptation.
But in an act of unbridled bravery, I
placed a small piece of dried Mango in my mouth. The dusting of its fine
sugar coating made for a very friendly intro - and it just got better
after that. No texture inconsistencies, no funny smell. As we did this,
Tom and I looked at each other and no words needed to be said. It was as
if we instantly knew we now had a responsibility to tell others of this
good news. And, as disciples, we would.
I asked Paul where I could buy some. I was not optimistic; after all, he had found them in Hawaii, an exotic island. He said, “There’s a Sam’s Club on the island, got ‘em there.” So, soon after that day, I went to my local Sam’s Club, renewed my membership, and plucked a 5 lb. bag from the mountain of pallets that made up the dried mango wall. (Apparently the dried mango bandwagon is a double-decker.) I started to leave the aisle to go check out the jerky tower, but then I stopped, turned around, and grabbed another 5 lb bag - for others - as I knew this is what I had been called to do.
For weeks then, I shared my sugar-coated dried mangos with everyone. Some, like those I was paired with in Janesville at the Ray Fischer tournament, hell, they popped the mango pieces in their mouths like stadium peanuts. No fear at all. Blind faith or long-time believers? I never could tell, but a new life settled upon us, and the joie de vivre was contagious.
Others, like a few in the Governors Cup, were reticent. This is understandable as they are older golfers and need to read every label before they decide it won’t set off some sort of glucose reaction, or maybe finish them off for good. But they too, fell under the mango spell.
I gave some to Marquette’s Steve Sass at the State amateur - and it was rewarding to see him unable to suppress the inner welling of his joy as he absorbed the permeating flavor like a believer does a blessing. I admit; it was emotional.
The boys at The Bog pretty much laughed at my consistent dried mango offers to them. I don’t know, maybe they don’t go well with beer. All it takes is one though, and when I’d finally get one of them to try a piece, they became lip-locked kittens on their mama’s teat.
I’ll never forget Tommy Welton - once he
eventually indulged after so much resistance - he looked at me with a
crooked smile, took a drag off his cigarette and declared, “these here
mangos… they’re the porn of fruit.” That was the moment I first starting
feeling a little like Eve in the Garden.
The whole dried mango experience turned out to be mind-blowing, and it began to raise some difficult questions. Questions that, deep down, I knew I’d be facing.
Did the powerful flavor of the dried mango adversely affect my golf game this summer? It is no secret; I did not have a very good year at all. Is it possible that I simply no longer needed a good round to feel good anymore? Did the focus and determination I once possessed in competition become less meaningful if my failings were quickly exonerated through the rapture of the mango?
I wondered, had I become like Elvis in his heavy-set years? Sloppy shows, forgotten lyrics, the jowls? He didn’t care, as long as there were fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches waiting for him later - along with his pills of course. Same with me; sloppy play, forgotten swing thoughts, and… the jowls. I didn’t care as long as there were dried mangos, and of course my Liquid-Gels, waiting for me. Waiting to mask my pain. My God! I had become just like the King -in his most embarrassing years!
The fact is, I practice diligently, work out regularly, and care deeply. And still I’ve floundered. I very much want to play better again, but it’s not happening. Over the summer, on these pages, I have pointed to injuries, spouses, a laughing barn, and have in fact, written an entire column on the art of the excuse. Plenty of explanations, so few answers.
All these things have gnawed at me, and so does this even deeper thought: If mangos look like goldfish, and since goldfish have memories that averages 3 seconds, and I’m popping them like peanuts, and, “you are what you eat”…hmmm….maybe that’s why I sometimes forgot my swing-thought(s) in mid-waggle. Perhaps it’s why by the time I stood up to my putt, I’d forgotten what grip I was using that round, or the line. Left hand low? Left to right? Firm it, die it? I usually decided, ‘Oh well, maybe I’ll make a bad stroke on a misread putt and it’ll all work out’. Wow.
This was not good. And so my path became clear and I must now take the first steps.
The answer is obvious – I must change my on-course snacking profile.
It is sad that it took me so long to come to this conclusion; but the responsibility for on-course snack choices is mine and mine alone. I can say this and try that, but sometimes it is only through the hard lessons of failure and pain that we are finally driven to get where we need to go.
This is the place where I must live now, with discipline, for the greater good. It will not be easy I know. Nothing worth anything ever is. But, I have learned much.
And so I am announcing here, that I am giving up dried mangos. Forever. I can’t, ever again, have even one. I’ve played the head games with myself, and it’s just not the way I’m wired; thinking I can have a few casual mango pieces with the boys at The Bog and then expect to play well. I was only kidding myself and I knew it.
I had come to think I was the type of guy who could handle it. Sure, I still have my job, my family, and a little money left, but I was nothing more than a functional mango user, hiding behind its potent flavor and deluding myself that everything was fine. That I could quit anytime I wanted. Perhaps I even meant to quit – but forgot.
But it’s over now. And as they say, anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Now, I will apply this strength towards making tough choices –like next years go-to on-course snack. Also, I will seek out other dried tropical fruit abusers, tell my story, and simply listen to theirs if it will help them. But the best way, without a doubt, would be a return to form on the golf course next year. To win again, or at least contend, and to do it mango-free.
Quite possibly, this means a return those glory years when Beef Jerky was always at my side. But, can you ever really go back? Isn’t that just wistful nostalgia? I’ll wait and see. I must tell you though; I’m excited by the progress being made these days in Fruit Roll-Ups. They don’t get as sticky as they used to. I’ll let you know.
Disclaimer: John would like people to know that the pictorial representations of him in this article are not true-to-life; but are rather dramatizations of his experience with dried mangoes, and are the result of photo manipulations by the site designer (me). - Holly
By John Haines
The best golf lessons of my life were from watching Benji build castles at a place called Sandy Beach.
For six years straight in the mid and late 1960’s, our family headed 50 minutes west to spend a week or ten days at a reasonably priced resort with clean cottages on a small lake. We stayed close so my two brothers and I could head back into town every other night and play our little league games. Just loaded the whole fam damily into the Catalina wagon and off we went to ply our diamond might for all that was good and fair. We’d be back at the lake eating Jiffy Pop and reveling in our conquests by 9:30. Miss a game? Never. My folks didn’t believe in breaching one’s commitment to a team. And, frankly, it wouldn’t have been fair to some kid who may have biked across town just to see me or my brothers play ball.
We limited our time in the lake to avoid becoming, as my dad would say, “sapped” for our games. Therefore, on game days we spent a lot of time just goofing around on the sand near the water. The actual name of this sandy beach was in fact, Sandy Beach. Why not? It was that. Perhaps it was a preponderance of pebbles that prompted the naming of Pebble Beach. I don’t know.
Anyway, one day there appeared a kid about ten or eleven, same as me, who was digging around in the sand on Sandy Beach. My brothers didn’t have a game that night, so, knowing I did, they amused themselves with loud splashing and fake laughter to flaunt the water fun I would have to forgo that day. Let them get chiggers.
So I asked the little sand urchin - said his name was Benji - if he wanted to toss the Frisbee. He was hesitant, proved to be a spaz, and went down hard when he caught one of my blazing spinners in the face. The Frisbee blew up both his lips, darkening the gaps of his big teeth with blood. Wham-O indeed.
After the kid’s mom cleaned him up and yelled at both of us, he went off to a corner of the beach by himself and continued digging around in the sand. I looked at the kid and thanked God for making me a shortstop instead of a spaz.
I went back to the cottage, rummaged for something Hostess, read part of a Hardy Boys caper, and returned to the beach where most everyone had left for the day. In the time I was away, Benji the spaz boy had crafted a sandcastle so spectacular I was stunned into disbelief. I had no idea something like this was even possible. It reminded me that human potential was not limited to Mickey Mantle’s 565 foot tape-measure shot that scientists said would’ve gone 620 feet if it hadn’t hit something. It was like when I saw a guy spinning a bunch of dinner plates at the end of a long stick balanced on his head while taking bites from apples as he juggled them on the Ed Sullivan show. Who knew?
“Benji, how’d you do that?”
“I just like doing it” he said quietly.
Two boys with long stringy hair came over to us. They were a couple years older and looked like brothers. Benji was on his knees and continued dipping his hands into a pail of water working it into the sand, setting his creation with the weight the moisture added. It was the finishing touches. I said “Isn’t this amazing?”
“No!” said the one. Then he stomped down with his foot and destroyed part of the sandcastle.
Then the other kid shrieked in what I suppose was an attempt at a fierce battle cry, but came across like kid stepping on a tack. Then he kicked wildly with his bare feet at what was left of Benji’s castle until it was just, once again, beach. Wet beach.
“You jerks!” I screamed as they went off laughing. Benji was still on his knees. I was afraid he might never recover from something like this. Hell, he had just come off a near death experience with a Frisbee. “Benji, I’m sorry, I’ll make them pay.” I wasn’t sure how, but I’d think of something. I was shaking with hate.
He looked up at me, squinting, “Oh well,” he said. “I was just about finished with it anyway.” I watched Benji closely, and despite the coagulating blood on his splattered lips, he really seemed okay with how his life was going. “I know who they are. They’re really bad boys. Their mom just lets them do what they want.”
“They’re assholes,” I hissed. Benji’s expression suggested he was embarrassed by my use of such language and reiterated that they were “bad boys.” We compromised as kids do. We would call them “badholes.”
That night, the anger stayed with me through my little league game and I was only so-so on the field. The anger consumed me. I despised the badholes for of what they did - they just sauntered over and ruined something beautiful – after so much had been put into it. However, what really got me was the fact that the badholes had absolutely no fear of me. Practically speaking, why should they? Two of them, both much bigger, against me and spaz boy?
Still, me being me and all, well, how could they think they could get away with it? Were they that stupid?
The next day I did not have a little league game and therefore had unlimited lake access - but the water didn’t interest me much anymore. I met Benji early, before the beach became crowded, and we started to create a new sandcastle.
Benji had quite the system. He dug a hole for the foundation and then, with remarkable patience created building blocks from sand using a plastic pail. He’d mix a little water with the sand, put it in the pail, set it precisely where he wanted, turn it over smoothly and then slowly pull the pail up until just the right moment when he’d snap the pail upward with a flick of his wrists. He’d hold the pail above the new block for a moment and make a quick inspection. This ensured a consistent shape for every block. Every time, always smooth. Slow, fast, hold, inspect. Slow, fast, hold, inspect. One block at a time he made his way, satisfied with his work and enjoying it.
Next he began to make windows and carve details into the emerging castle with flat Popsicle sticks and some sharper candy apple sticks. The snack shack at Sandy Beach was famous for their candy apples.
I mixed some sand and tried to help out. “Hey Benji, I’m makin’ some boulders.”
“Boulders?” Benji looked confused. “What do we need boulders for?’
“Uh….just in case,” I said. I was out of my element.
“In case of what?”
“In case we need to smash something. A castle should have some boulders for smashing the bad guys. You know, the enemy. Gotta have some boulders.”
“Well, alright, they can be cannon balls, but make them rounder, those look like sick meatballs. Maybe make a couple bigger ones for the catapult.”
“What catapult?” I asked, looking at Benji.
“The one we’ll make from these Popsicle sticks when I’m through with them,” said Benji. He ran his tongue over the lip wounds I had given him. Fully engaged, his eyes remained locked on his magnificent castle as he planned the next step.
Every time I thought we were finished, Benji would add some new feature to the castle. He even built a ramp leading to the top of the castle so we could roll my boulders down it. Yeah, in case the enemy attacked, we could roll some boulders on top of them and smash their guts out. Take that! You just gotta have some boulders.
This castle was better than the last.
Like psychopathic savages the badhole brothers came whooping and roaring around the snack shack near the beach. One after the other, they jumped from a small grassy hill above us that abutted the back corner of Sandy Beach. Their bodies didn’t carry quite far enough so they had to roll over a couple of times in order to almost completely demolish our new castle. One of the guys swung his leg around awkwardly and his heel caught. Benji in the face and reopened the cuts on his lips.
I winced at the sight and the hate shaking returned. A few of my boulders remained intact, so I grabbed some and threw them at their faces. But, the boulders were made from nothing more than wet sand and they crumbled in my windup. Not good for smashing anything really. So I just threw handfuls of sand.
It just made them madder – and they threw me on top of the whole mess next to Benji who was doubled over and dripping blood onto the part of the boulder ramp that wasn’t destroyed. Everything else was wreckage. I’ve never forgotten the sound of their laughter as they ran away. Again.
I don’t know if I said anything but I do recall taking some candy apple sticks and repeatedly stabbing the sand which I pretended was the writhing bodies of the two badholes.
Benji surveyed the damage. “We can save the ramp at least,” said Benji. I looked at Benji, bleeding once again, and just shook my head.
“You’re nuts Benji,”
He shrugged. “I just like doing it,” he said.
The cottages were less than 100 yards away and Benji went back to his family’s to get some first aid for his lips, which had gotten really fat as well as bloodier. I guess his mom went crazy. Benji, chuckled when he told me she was blaming “that boney boy with the bald head” for everything.
That would be me. It was the late sixties, high times for the hippie movement and even normal people had Mod Squad mop tops. Not me, I had a crew cut. A huge cultural statement in those times. But I got used to the stares and it made me tougher. I always wondered if the stringy haired badhole brothers attacked on account of hair. But crew cuts were cheap since there was no need to pay a barber; my dad just mowed me and my brothers’ heads with electric clippers that sounded like a gymnasium scoreboard buzzer. Nonetheless, Benji’s luck had gone bad since he met me, so who could really blame his fat ugly mom for blaming me.
Looking back, I can’t recall Benji blaming anyone or anything for what happened in our time together on Sandy Beach. And, he never cried either. Pretty tough for a spaz.
As I was heading back to our cottage, I ran into the rest of my family who were on their way to the beach. I told them what happened with the badholes. My dad said something about wanting to find their dad and smash him. I went and sat in the cottage alone, unable to concentrate on the Hardy Boys, but I did come up with a plan.
After dinner that night I returned to a nearly empty beach. Benji, of course, was back digging in the dirt and sand, once again making the foundation for a new castle. I told him my plan. I had to convince him, but that was my specialty, and he reluctantly came around to my way of thinking.
We gathered up every candy apple stick we could find. The trash basket had dozens. We planted them in the in the dirt, sharp side up. Then we found some small pieces of broken soda bottles and planted them under the sand inside the castle. The pieces were too little to do much damage - but we could dream.
Then I found our WMD. Behind the snack shack, just outside the restrooms was a cracked mirror that had been set outside the door. I remembered noticing the broken mirror last time I peed. I had kaleidoscope face. The badholes probably broke it.
I plucked a narrow hunk of mirror from its frame and showed Benji. It was a full foot long and very sharp. I was exhilarated with the possibilities. Benji was less enthused but there was no stopping me. I packed it in a sand filled Cracker Jack box so it would point straight up like a dagger and hid it next to the boulder rolling ramp of what would become our new, booby-trapped sandcastle.
Once the weapons were in place and I made some more boulders, I got bored with Benji’s - slow, fast, hold, inspect - routine. I ended up going on an early evening boat ride with my family. Then I skipped stones with my brothers along the beach until sunset, mostly so Benji wouldn’t be alone in his work. This time, he outdid himself. The castle was bigger and more detailed than the ones destroyed before it. He used some real stones for the catapult. I’d make Bob Gibson seem nice if I needed them this time.
That night I fantasized about the badhole brothers leaping onto the castle, their flesh getting pierced and punctured and sliced into grotesque flaps. I wanted to see blood spilled on Sandy Beach. They were losers.
The next day, the people on Sandy Beach all marveled at what Benji had done with sand and water and Popsicle sticks. In fact, the local paper was there to take pictures of some barefoot water ski club doing their thing on the lake, but as it turned out, they ended up putting Benji’s castle on page one the next day. Benji didn’t want to be in the picture. Maybe because his lips looked like footballs.
I thought the PR was great -but was disappointed there was no sign of the badhole boys having been shredded and washed out to sea in pieces. But that changed quickly.
The evil demon badholes appeared once again, ghost-like this time, again from behind the snack shack. And they had my 8 year old brother, The Mouse, with them. I knew in an instant that my brother, a fearless little snot, must have shot his mouth off to the two brothers. Now they were prepared to toss him off the hill onto the killer sandcastle.
The badholes were scum, but they had no way of knowing what was hiding in the sand. I took off from across the beach and ran as hard as I could towards the unfolding nightmare.
The Mouse wasn’t scared, but then he couldn’t know what lie in wait either. We told no one. I ran as hard as I ever have as my eyes bounced and jiggled and began to water. The badholes were laughing again. They swung my squirming brother in rhythm. The Mouse fought it. No rhythm anymore but the ‘holes were laughing louder now. Finally they started to heave him towards the lethal sandcastle. Oh man - this was bad. We only wanted to cut the badholes up a little bit. Teach ‘em a lesson. Not kill my brother.
As I dug hard in the loose sand of Sandy Beach, it was clear I would not get there in time to keep my brother from his imminent impaling on the dagger-like mirror shard, our WMD –as well as whatever damage the sharp candy apple sticks might inflict.. Making it all worse, my brother, through all his squirming, had managed to grab the tee shirt collar of one of the badholes. Even as he was being thrown, he made sure he pulled the badhole along for the ride.
Great. Now the full weight of a badhole would crash down on top of my little brother and turn him into Swiss cheese. My legs were heavy and I let loose with a hateful, gurgling scream with every cubic inch of air I had left in my lungs. All around us, heads turned in curiosity toward the back corner of Sandy Beach.
My little bald brother and the badhole crashed into the sandcastle as the onlookers watched in horror. And all they knew was that Benji’s beautiful castle was ruined. Not the possibility of severed limbs and major artery damage. I screamed some high pitched non-words. I could barely breathe.
Benji had soldier-rolled away in time to avoid the flying bodies. He got up quickly and looked at me and shook his head. His face fought off a minor grin. Then he helped the Mouse up as a handful of adults hauled off the badholes. He came over to me quickly, his filthy hands held up palms out - the international signal for ‘no problem mon.’ He explained a few minutes later after I had recovered from my embarrassment.
“I took out the weapons when you went out in the boat,” said Benji. “Good thing too.”
I couldn’t argue. The moment I knew The Mouse was okay remains as my all-time record high on the relief-o-meter. I realized the capture of the badhole infidels by the adults and the public scorn that went with it was punishment enough for them. Well,maybe not enough, but it would have to do. The people on the beach were hard on them. They would be dealt with. I felt a little shame in having fantasized about carving the badholes into New York strips. But, oh well.
I felt weak and sweaty and my scalp tingled as the summer breeze cooled it through the fuzz on my head. I looked at nothing in particular, but I saw the big picture. “Good move, Benji, good move.”
“It just seemed like we were doing something they would do,” said Benji. His football lips made him sound funny. “Right?”
“Right,” I mumbled, humbled. This was not my comfort zone. We walked to the shoreline where I could amaze Benji with my stone skipping skills and get back to my comfort zone. I tried to show Benji how to do it but, hey, once a spaz always a spaz.
In the gloaming, we walked back towards the cottages and when we came to his I said good bye. He would be leaving in the morning. I told him to “take it easy.” He said “You too.”
But somewhere rattling around inside my kid-sized brain was the crude understanding that, while I may have told him to “take it easy,” Benji actually showed me how to take it a little easier. He went