One thing that is consistent for me, but the Achilles heel to my brother Corey is putting. It saves me strokes and costs him matches. The way he hits the ball, he should beat me often, but 3, 4 and even 5-putts won’t get it done. Back when I was in college, a Jack Nicklaus classic, Golf My Way, provided a putting tip that has benefited me year after year. It’s very simple:

1. “Read” the line from behind the ball.
2. Draw an imaginary line from the ball to the hole while you’re above the ball.
3. Putt the ball to get it started rolling on that imaginary line.

http://www.worldwidegolfinstruction.com

Obviously, the pace of the ball is also key, but that “touch” comes from practice and getting a “feel” for the greens you’re playing. Anyway, thanks Jack.

Taking a half-vacation day Friday, the drive to the Tewksbury Country Club was leisurely and traffic-free. It was in the low sixties with a 10 to 15 mph wind when we teed off around 2:00. The inaugural drive of the 2005 season was high, straight and true. A real anomaly. In past seasons I’d be combing the right side woods looking for my wayward slice and maybe scoring another errant ball or two. It felt weird and wonderful walking straight down the fairway on #1. Now for me, the first outing of the season is no more inconsistent than one, say, in July, but this one started well.

After building a commanding lead early, my younger brother, Corey began to chip away. On the 9th and final hole, a water protected, short par 3, I dropped two in the drink and as the second splashed down a foot from dry land, he quipped with a wink, “you can probably play that one.” I began the long walk toward the point where #2 landed. On foot by the water’s edge, I spotted a 2-foot turtle swimming. We marveled at its size and grace. A couple minutes later while looking for my lost orb, I heard, “Hey, that turtle is right behind you.” Well, I jumped and quickly looked behind me to nothing but hearty laughter. This from someone who claims to play a “gentleman’s game.” In the end, the scorecard had me prevailing by one stroke, although Corey insists the match is “under review” with the “tournament committee.”

The 19th hole included a continued discussion of rules and etiquette, a couple cold beverages, lunch and a “blue moon” moment. As baby bro reminded me of the two “man made hazards” he pointed out for me, a lovely woman sat at the bar a couple seats down. Corey kept talking, but my focus had shifted. I heard her say she was there for a wedding and did not have a date. The female bartender suggested, “Maybe you’ll meet someone at the wedding.” I then abruptly added, “or maybe you’ll meet someone right here.” In my past 30 or so “dating years,” I never would have done that for fear of rejection. Actually, it’s amazing I ever had any dates given my timidity at such moments. We chatted for a few minutes and I got her phone number before having to leave to see a rocking Green Day show with my brother, the gentleman. Yep. A good day.

…I’m also really into Cubism.

On my first trip overseas, to London in March of 2001, art became important to me. The ten day excursion was to celebrate the wedding of my brother Kevin and his wife, Noreen. My sister-in-law was raised in London, attended school there, and is “wicked smaht.” One gray day in Trafalgar Square, the three of us were headed up the rain swept stairs to the National Gallery. Between raindrops, Noreen slipped the question, “Who’s your favorite artist?” She got dead air for a response. I was perplexed. I didn’t have a favorite artist! I felt so inadequate. After all, I had the Sox, the Pats, the Stones and Salma Hayek, but I didn’t have a favorite artist… Sensing my utter despair at having whiffed on the inquiry, Noreen quickly began telling me of her favorite, Salvador Dali. I had heard of Dali, but knew little of him or Surrealism.

As we entered the vast museum, I was lost in thought about my mission: find a favorite artist. Britain’s National Gallery is a perfect option for such a quest. It’s one of the finest collections of art in the world. All the big boys (and girls) are there, including Van Gogh, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian and Claude Monet. A few works really stood out. One, The Ambassadors, by Hans Holbein the Younger, at first appears to be a typical time period rendering of aristocrats. However, on closer inspection, a touch of Surrealism is evident, an amazing inclusion for a painting created in 1533!

The Entombment (1500) is an unfinished work of art by Michelangelo. I contemplated this one for awhile, paying finicky attention to the unfinished areas. I struggled to understand the thought process and technique of the artist as he constructed the image. I think it was time well spent, but can genius be understood?

The Boulevard Montmartre at Night (1897) by Camille Pissarro pulled me into Impressionism, as did an A&E; documentary titled, The Impressionists – The Other French Revolution that I caught later that summer on a hot, sleepless night. I found it ironic to learn the group in fact got their name when a critic panned their work as, “nothing but impressions…”

Later in the year on August 31, I took a vacation day for a leisurely drive West to the Clark Art Institute in Williamstown, MA, to see Impression: Painting Quickly in France, 1860-1890. It was a gorgeous ride on a bright, late summer day, a little over a week before the world distorted. The show included some of the best known artists of the group, and I took the time to analyze every brushstroke of several pieces. Then I saw it again.

The Boulevard Montmartre at Night

On loan from the National Gallery, the colors and life of Paris at night exploded off the page and drew me in. My visit was duly extended and much to my delight, the print was being sold as one of three to mark the show. It was the first art print I ever purchased and hangs in my dining room.

A favorite artist remains elusive, but an appreciation of art does not.

“Although initially terrified by the threat, Henry found the actual reading of the Riot Act to be rather unmoving.”

The Big Fly The round tripper. The four bagger. “Back, back, back, back, back… Gone!” “Way back. Waaaaaayyyy Back.” Touch ‘em all, baby. In baseball, the home run is it. Sure, triples are cool, but guys don’t shoot steroids in their ass to hit triples. Mickey Mantle once said, “Somebody once asked me if I ever went up to the plate trying to hit a home run. I said, ‘Sure, every time.’” That was my philosophy when I went to the plate. I was up there to crush the baseball.

On one memorable occasion, I got every bit of a 90-something MPH fastball thrown by Steve DiCarlo, then a pitcher for the Hosmer Chiefs in the Intercity League. I was 19 and still hoping to realize the dream of playing pro ball. I had faced this kid 7 times previously and had struck out every time. This was a playoff game. Our batboy, Bobby DeMarco suggested I try a lighter bat. I scoffed at the idea, but when it was time, I dropped the 34 and walked to the plate with a 33 ounce model. It felt light and I could really snap it around, hearing the wind on my practice swings. The first pitch was a fastball. I saw it well and swung as hard as I could. It felt solid and I ran hard toward first base. I heard someone on the bench laughing and then heard, “slow down.” When I looked up, I saw the ball still rising high above the tree line out in left field. I hope I never forget that image. Next at bat, I swung and missed the first pitch. I asked the catcher, Bobby DeFelice, if it was a strike. He said, “no, it was up in your eyes, but it’s the same pitch you hit to Saugus.” After the game, our manager, Les DeMarco said it was the longest ball he had ever seen hit. Ever. Les was a guy who played college ball and pitched in the minors. It’s a great memory.

Yep, there’s just nothing like the sight of a majestic, soaring clout out of the park like the one hit Tuesday by Manny Ramirez.

Manny “explodes through the zone…”

…and the crowd rises in unison to marvel at the result.

Both baseball writers and players love the bomb, and they jumped on this one. Ian Browne, wrote on MLB.com that Manny “obliterated” a breaking ball “for a titanic solo blast that traveled well over the Monster seats and perhaps beyond Lansdowne Street.” He dubbed it a “tape-measure shot.” The Boston Globe’s Chris Snow wrote Manny’s shot was the games “defining moment,” even though the Sox fell 4-3. “A tape measure shot if there ever was one.” “Farthest ball I’ve ever seen a human being hit,” said the Red Sox’ Kevin Millar. “It was like the movie `The Natural.'”

For those of you familiar with Fenway Park, the blast cleared one of the left-field light towers. The Boston Globe reported, “It was estimated at 501 feet out of deference to Ted Williams’s 502-foot shot in 1946 that landed 37 rows up in the bleachers.” Was it really 501 feet? John Pastier, writing for Slate wonders if “men always exaggerate the length of their long balls,” in The Myth of the 500-Foot Home Run.

I know it’s early, but it’s never too early to enjoy an eruption of Mt. Steinbrenner.

“Enough is enough. I am bitterly disappointed, as I am sure all Yankee fans are, by the lack of performance by our team. It is unbelievable to me that the highest paid team in baseball would start the season in such a deep funk. They are not playing like true Yankees. They have the talent to win and they are not winning. I expect Joe Torre, his complete coaching staff and the team to turn this around.”

George Steinbrenner, on his $200,000,000.00-plus investment.

At the start of a short business trip this week, my friend Barb told Paul (my boss) and I how “fun” it was to travel with her. I had no idea…The fun included:

• a 4 ½ hour delay going to Chicago
• a 4 hour delay coming home, including a plane change due to electrical problems
• a Ford Explorer tailgate being closed on my head
• witnessing Gary Sheffield assaulting a homeless child in a wheelchair at Fenway Park (OK, I made that part up. The fan was at fault and Mr. Sheffield showed incredible restraint by not bitch-slapping the clown.)
• getting lost trying to find our office in Schaumburg
• 2 airport bagels
• 2 bloody mary mixes
• 2 bags of carbs

If not for Barb calling our corporate travel office 37 times during the ordeal, we might still be there.

I’ll admit, we did have some fun. We always joke and laugh with the people we work with, and the team in our Chicago office is filled with good ones. We enjoyed a nice meal at Maggiano’s and then chatted over a beer while watching the love-fest at Fenway. Aside from the welding we enjoyed, one moment stood out for me. Lost, and at the top of a highway exit we stopped at a red light while waiting to navigate the overpass so we could reverse directions. At the light, there was a lone Canadian goose standing and looking around, something like this:

I wondered what the goose must be thinking:
“Hey, nice Explorer, pal.”
“Maybe it was a left at the Taco Bell?”
“The wife is gonna be very upset.”
“I always get lost trying to find this exit.”
“I still can’t believe I didn’t score Springsteen tickets.”
“Damn, my arms are tired!”

One final note on the fun. Upon exiting Logan Airport Friday near midnight, I discovered my primary route home, the Massachusetts Turnpike, was closed.

Yesterday the Red Sox received their 2004 championship rings and raised the banner noting it. Joe Torre’s Yankees, most of them anyway, took it all in from the visitor’s dugout. It was a gesture of respect and appreciation not unexpected from a group led by Mr. Torre.

“I’d never watched one. I was a little jealous, but they deserve it,” said Yankees captain Derek Jeter. “You respect what they accomplished. You know how hard it is to do.”

Also showing class and humor, Mariano Rivera flashed a big smile and waved when introduced, as the Fenway faithful gave him a long, loud cheer, contrasting the boos he received from Yankee fans last week.

“I didn’t know they loved me so much,” said the future resident of Cooperstown.

One recent morning I awoke to a dreadfully disturbing image that has me thinking about the bridges we cross as we walk through our life toward the future. My son Kyle and I were on an immense, soaring bridge, high above a body of water. For some reason, a complete section in front of us was missing like those in the SF-Oakland Bay Bridge after the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. “The Broken Bridge” has been the subject of paintings, including one by the Dali.

In my surreal dream, it looked something like this:

I didn’t know why, but we had to get across the gap to the other side and all we had was a wooden plank, like a 2” x 10”. Kyle was terrified, but I convinced him to cross after I put the plank across the span. He fell. I woke up.

In the days that followed, it stayed with me and revealed its meaning. The bridge with the break represented the path to Kyle’s future after I’m gone. Some people have burned the bridges to their future. Others have damaged theirs with bad decisions that make for a perilous, but still achievable crossing.

Others still, have glinting new bridges in front of them. All they have to do is walk across.

Through no fault of his own, Kyle has some more building to do before he can cross his bridge to a bright future. It’s my job to help Kyle build passage over his obstacles. I read to Kyle and we do phonics games on the PC. He already recognizes many of the words representing the things he loves: Harry Potter, Titanic, Jaws, Hook… We have a goal that Kyle will read me J.K. Rowling’s 7th Harry Potter book. I figure we have a little over two years to get there. We will. Before I leave this world, I’ll see my son standing on the other side of his bridge, smiling.