Thanks, Danny

A year ago, my oldest son, Danny, a techie lad with a human touch, helped me set up my very own blog, The Write Way. After twelve months and 88 blogs to date, I now reflect back on how much fun I've had reseaching topics and writing the blog. I thank him for his help, for without it, this blog idea would still be in the can.

What exactly is a blog? I've heard it said from some of the prigs on the sidelines, "that writing a blog is a time filler for the retired or the underemployed." That may be true for some but not for all. I tend to think of it as a creative outlet for a singular voice of which we all have. We all have a need for self-expression. Some people write. Some people talk. Some people paint. Some people compose. Some people do. Some people blog. But whatever a blog is, it is unmistakeably one's own. Is it petty? Sure. Is it self-indulgent? Of course. But that's all good. In my case, I won't delude myself that it is by any measure Hemingway-esque, rather, it's The Write Way-esque.

Simply, it's a joy to write my blog. What's most enjoyable for me has been re-connecting with many of you via the blog. Friends and relatives that I haven't heard from in years are now reading my blog because something in it, bad or good, resonated with him/her. And that is what is so much fun for me. It connects me with all of you on some different level throughout the year.

So after 88 blogs, what did I write about over these past 12 months? Of the 88 blogs, the golf world accounted for 32 blog entries, the most by any category. Followed by family, sports, politics, business, human events, travel and folly.

Golf dominated the blog because it is so familiar to me. But in the course of writing about golf, I discovered that golf is so much more interesting than just the game itself. The forever curious world of golf not only on the course, but more importantly, off the course, is doubly pleasurable for me. I suspect you'll read more golf blogs in the months to come peppered with occasional rants against injustice, corruption, diminishment and moral debasement offset by blogs on hope, heart and heroes.

So as I wrap up this year of blogging, I thank you for reading the blog. It has been my joy. More golf, family, sports, politics, business topics are on the way...there are so many stories out there yet to be stamped by The Write Way.

Cheers and may 2011 be healthy, safe and prosperous for you and yours.

Holy Cow! He's outta here...

Here's a story that rings true of the Christmas season. It is a unique story of a baseball player...a very good professional baseball player with the Oakland A's organization. His name is Grant Desme.

Earlier this year, Grant Desme, walked away from a lucrative career in professional baseball to take up his cross for Jesus Christ. He is now studying and preparing for a new career at a Catholic seminary in Orange County, California.

Predictably, his decision to leave the seduction of wealth and fame for poverty and selflessness was head scratching to most. Why would one forsake it all for something that appeared to be so less?

In looking at the 2010 Baseball America Prospect Handbook that lists all the top minor league players, Grant Desme was ranked #8 in a talent rich Oakland A's farm system. The 24 year old 6'-2" outfielder with a strong arm and an even stronger bat was projected to be in the heart of the A's lineup in a couple of years. He was on a track for baseball stardom on a strong young team. But life got in the way. Jesus had other plans for Grant.

One day, after years of quiet prayer in trying to resolve his inner conflict of serving managers and owners versus serving the one true Lord, Grant walked into GM Billy Bean's office and told Billy, he was leaving baseball for the priesthood. A stunned but cerebral Beane said almost nothing until he said, "You cannot serve both. God speed to you, Grant."

His decision was sports scribes and bloggers fodder for the better part of that week in January. The why question was the first question asked repeatedly of Grant. Why leave baseball with so much talent and so much upside? With grace and purpose, he clearly and simply said, "Baseball is a good thing but I felt God was calling me to more. I love the game...truly I do. God gave me great ability to play the game I have always loved. But I'm going to aspire to higher things. Baseball is just a game." He smiled peacefully as he spoke.

During this past year, I have thought of Grant alot. His conflict. His decision. His faith. His future. And in thinking of him, I always arrive back to where I started, with Jesus asking me "to come, follow Me."

May you all have a Merry Christmas.

The Euros are coming...the Euros are coming

Caution: For Golf Fans Only. Pictured above is Tiger Woods and Lee Westwood. Two professional golfers about as different as Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, Larry and Moe, and Bush and Obama. Guess who is number one in the world of professional golf? Not the one with the smiling brandishing chicklets. The current #1 in the world is Englishman, Lee Westwood. The one in blue fending off the glare of the chicklets. 2010 was Tiger Woods' and most of the US players "annus horribilis." On the other hand, 2010 for the Lee Westwood and the European Golf tribe was "annus mirabilis." Horrible year for the Americans. Year of wonders for the Euros. Can you imagine teeing off in 2011 and being introduced by the chirpy voice of Ivor Robson of the UK, "on the tee from Great Britain the #1 player in the world, Lee Westwood." Gulp. Westwood thinks for a moment, I'm the best player on the planet. And not only that, I'm better than Tiger Woods who grossly owned #1 position for 5 plus years, won 71 PGA events, 14 Majors, winless in 2010 yet still made $90mil on and off the course and has more girlfriends than George Clooney and I'm #1. Not bad for a bloke who has never won a Major, has bad teeth and a has swing only a West Texas driving range pro would like. I hope I hit the fairway. Hit away, please. It's the first year since 1994 (held then by the voluble Nick Faldo) that a Euro claimed the #1 Golfer in the World status. The British golf press appears to be in "gobsmacked" astonishment over Westwood's feat. True to form, the British scribes assign blame for Tiger's self-inflicted golf demise to "pranging his car against a fire hydrant in the middle of the night" thus rearranging his life, than simply, praising Lee for playing exceptional golf for the last year in claiming #1. Throw a guy a bone. Lee had 12 Top Ten finishes around the globe that included two victories and three top 3 finishes in The Masters, the US Open and The Open. He missed the PGA with a wrist injury. Notwithstanding Lee's success, 2010 also trumpeted the arrival of a mature band of brothers from Europe, most notably Graeme McDowell, who can flat out play against anybody...anywhere in the world. Don't believe me? Look at the current World Golf Ranking (11/28). In the top 11 players in the world, 7 are Euros. Westwood, Kaymar, Casey, Donald, McDowell, McIlroy and Poulter. In the top 30, 17 are Euros. In the top 50, 21 are Euros. The Euros are young, sanguine and fearless. Conversely, in the top 10, 4 are Americans. Woods, Phil, Stricker and Furyk. In the top 30, 11 are Americans. The Americans (less Ricky Fowler) appear old, choleric and unsure. Obviously, there is a movement going on here. Is this a trend or an aberration? I don't know. I'm not signaling a tectonic shift in power from them to us or abdicating anything to the fellas across the pond yet. As Englishman Paul Casey soberly stated when asked about the European dominance in golf in 2010, "Sure, we were good in 2010 but one year doesn't mean a whole lot." I'm from Missouri, show me one more time. Then I'll believe. Arguably, 2010 in the world of golf was the best non-American year in the history of professional golf. It was dominated by the Euros. The Americans were defeated at all the major tournaments including the Ryder Cup, less the Masters. Whatever happens in 2011 will be great drama on both tours for a golf fan like me. But as it looks now, I'll be following the Race to Dubai alot closer than the Fedex Cup in 2011 until I see some magic from the Americans. Suddenly, the talent rich World Tour with stops in Hong Kong, Valderamma, St. Andrews is seemingly more appealing to me than the US Tour with stops in LaQuinta, Charlotte and Memphis. And behind the curtains of this real life drama rests Chubby Chandler, agent to the current #1 player in the world, gleefully rubbing his fat big hands. Feasting at the prospects.

OHIO FOOTBALL "The Cradle of Coaches"

Ohio. The Buckeye State. My family and I spent 5 winters there...in Cleveland. Made us strong, pale, fat, patient and football fans for life. You see, football in Ohio is the holy grail for all Ohioans, natives and transplants alike. It's a transformative experience for all who live or have lived there.

I'm not referring to the National Football League's Cleveland Browns or the Cincinnati Bengals, but, more importantly, grade school, high school and, most notably, college football. Ohio parents hook up their kids to a football IV while still in diapers and they become forever hooked. Don't believe me, check out the Dawg Pound at Browns games or the Horseshoe in Columbus on game day.

We thought we knew football. We didn't know jack about the game until we went to Cleveland. Once you're in Ohio, you become inculcated into the mania of football. You have no other option or distraction. Quite frankly, there isn't that much else to do. Sorry Cleveland friends. Football fills the stage of life and that's ok. Lake Erie is not much fun in November.

Football in Ohio is THE enduring faith of the faithful by which everything else is measured. In the fall, Friday nights are reserved for the high school games. Saturdays mornings kick-off the grade school games while the afternoons are spent in Columbus, Cincinnati, Kent, Toledo, Youngstown, Alliance, Springfield, Bowling Green, Oxford or wherever watching and rooting for the home college teams. Sunday afternoons are reserved for the Browns and the Bengals of the NFL. By Monday morning, win or lose,, you'd think you'd be "footballed out." No chance. No relief. Another week...another game...another refill of football IV pleasure, please.

One weekend, we saw a grade school game on Saturday morning at John Carroll University. That evening, we traveled down to the Rubber Bowl in Akron and saw a high school game between St. Ignatius and Canton-McKinley played a savage game in front of 25,000 screaming fans. And on Sunday, we saw the Browns lose dispiritedly to the Pittsburgh Steelers in the old Cleveland Stadium. The entire weekend's weather was "football weather." Gray. Damp. Cold. Ohioans love that. "Football should be played outdoors and in foul weather" is a buckeye chant. When it comes to football, two football hotbeds, Texas and Florida, have nothing on Ohio.

Because football in Ohio has such historical roots and is such a big deal, it should come as no suprise that Ohio has produced some of the greatest coaches and players in the history of the game. As far as coaches are concerned, here's a list of coaches both past and present who were either born in Ohio, went to school in Ohio or coached in Ohio... check this list out:

Past
Woody Hayes
Bo Shembechler
Paul Brown
Ara Parseghian
Lou Holtz
Earl Bruce
Don Shula
Chuck Noll
Urban Meyer
John Gruden
Chuck Kyle, St, Ignatius

Present
Jim Tressel, The Ohio State University
Les Miles, LSU
Bob Stoops, Oklahoma
Mike Stoops, Arizona
Bo Pellini, Nebraska
Gary Pinkel, Missouri
Jim Harbaugh, Stanford
Ron Zook, Illinois
Nick Saban, Alabama

These are huge names in the history of football and Ohio lays claim to all of them. Remember, this is a state with less than 4% of the US population but 15% of college football's major conference head coaches were born there...the most of any state by far.

So as you get comfy in front of the tube for the upcoming bowl season, you'll see Ohio's influence everywhere. There's Tressel in the sweater vest pacing the sidelines in the Sugar Bowl. Miles will be weaving his crazy witch doctor magic on the Cotton Bowl carpet. Stoops will be chewing out his players at the Fiesta Bowl. And, Jim Harbaugh will be glaring at some official(s) at the Orange Bowl. Remember this, they all have buckeye roots and that in and of itself is pretty astounding...yet predictable...they are Ohio folks. Football is in their DNA.

Finally, for those who may not know, guess where the Football Hall of Fame is? O-H-I-0. Canton.

Go Buckeyes beat the Razorbacks on January 4.

Erin Go Broke! Oh, Brother!!

INTRODUCTION.
Well chalk up another letter and bonafide economic casualty in the The Five Little "P-I-I-G-S" acronym for troubled sovereign debt-laden countries in the European Union. One of the "I's" is now offensively labeled for my beloved, Ireland. The other squealing piglets are: Portugal, Italy, Greece and Spain.

THE REST OF THE SAD STORY.
Ireland is broke. Their banks are bankrupt. On Tuesday, the Bank of Ireland ATM and on-line systems failed. The EU is ready to bail out the Irish with 100 BILLION EUROS to recapitalize their banks. Very sad. But don't blame the potatoes this time. Blame the potato-heads. Those who ran the Irish government and the economy into the River Liffey with their reckless "Celtic-tiger" policies of spend now and pay later schemes are to blame. And who suffers? Not the feeble politicians or the corrupt bankers but as always the taxpayers...the little people...that's who! Outrageous injustice strikes again.

For the last 25 years of poor governance and sloppy bookkeeping, there are many individuals to blame for the sorry Irish woes of today. But, in the world of what have you done for me lately, the two relevant poster children of bad politics pictured above represent Ireland's embarassing failure of today.

One's the current Prime Minister of Ireland, Brian Cowen. The other is the currrent Minister of Finance of Ireland, Brian Lenihan. Over the two plus years in office, they have demonstrated one thing in common: incompetence. Both compounded the generational governmental excesses by their joint furtive denials of the pending apocalyptic Irish financial collapse. The earmarks were evident. Numbers were alarming. Yet, they were ignored. The leaders could have done something before "hitting the iceberg." They didn't. Another pint please and full steam ahead.

On Lenihan, The Financial Times signals him out to be, "the worst financial minister in Europe." That's a damning statement in the competitive context of the other feckless financial ministers in the EU. On Cowen, The Guardian lays the hardwood on him, writing, "...Cowen is not blessed with good looks or great communication skills...his handling of the current financial and political chaos has been nothing short of a PR disaster."

Incredibly, these two career politicos represent a growing number of elected leaders in the world that have no business governing anything...less a country. How these foolish guys and gals become leaders in any country remains one of the throbbing mysteries of life to me. And it happens all around the globe...all the time. But we only have ourselves to blame, don't we? We elect these disingenuous and narcissistic scroundrels...time after time.

In Ireland, the deficit and debt problems have been mounting for years. The deficit for 2010 is the largest deficit in the EU at 19 BILLION Euros. A trivial number for us Americans whose deficit for 2010 is $1.4 TRILLION. (To put Ireland's deficit number in the proper context, Ireland's population is 1.5% the size of the USA.) The debt in Ireland exceeds 90 BILLION EUROS. In the USA, our mountainous debt climbs by the second, now at $13.8 TRILLION.

So what happens now on the Emerald Isle? Cowen wants out. He says Ireland needs a new government and fast. The bookies on Grafton Street are laying odds 11/4 that Lenihan resigns by New Years Eve. And the Irish Parliament votes next Wednesday on whether to accept the terms from the EU and the new banker of the EU, Germany. All the while, the vultures circle high above the Ring of Kerry.

Simply, the Irish have no choice but to grab the lifeline and change their carefree ways. In the deal with the EU, they have four years to turn it around. What happens if they don't? Austerity will turn to anarchy...that's what.

EPILOGUE.
Could the grim Irish problem happen here? You betcha. If we don't wake up now and address the gravity of our debt mess we will be the sixth P-I-I-G-S-usa. And guess who will be offering the lifeline to us, our kids and our grandkids at a grave cost? The big bad wolf that's who. "C-H-I-N-A". And they aren't too lovable...just ask (sorry, not allowed) the imprisoned government subversive 2010 Nobel Peace Prize winner, Liu Xiaobo.

Happy Thanksgiving to All!!!

Family.

Faith.

Friends.

Finance.

Freedom.

The five F's for which I'm thankful.

Along with the four H's.

Health.

Home.

Heart.

Hair.

Followed by the three G's.

God.

Golf.

Games.

Supported by the two L's.

Love.

Landscape.

Ended by the one plus M.

Mother (and Marian).

Embrace your life in whatever form...everyday.

Be thankful.

Nunsense

In some dank dark cave reclines Osama Bin Laden and Al Zawahiri feet up on a rpg rocket launcher smiling at the latest ludicrous TSA images from USA airports around the country. You've seen them. Little kids, grandmothers, salesmen, the elderly, wheelchair bound and now this...a nun being frisked by an agent. Maybe I'm wrong but I don't recall any recent episodes at airports involving nuns and explosives. I guess in this case, Sister Holy Water's rosary beads set off the alarm. Good grief. Everybody's "junk" is on the line in those lines.

As far as I know, all known terrorist activities brought upon this country while in this country since 9/11, have been perpetrated by "olive-skinned" folks. They are hell bent on killing us....anytime...anywhere. We all think and know this but it's not "pc" to act upon it or say anything about it. (Ask Juan Williams about this reality.) So hell with decorum when our safety and well being is at risk...here's my simple solution to the TSA madness at airports: screen everybody as is required but reserve full body scans or searches on those "swarthy" individuals who fit the profile. And Homeland Security and CIA have profiles whether they publicly admit it or not. So cut the crap TSA, quit wasting our time and target those whom you know are the bad guys.

I know the ACLU and the Justice Department won't like the targeted search approach but we're at war. I know I'll be vilified by some you reading this. Extraordinary times calls for extraordinary measures. But is a full body search on a robed nun an extraordinary measure that is needed now? I don't think so. I doubt she is hiding John Rambo under the layers.

If this folly grows in other sectors of our society, the diminishment of this great country will continue unabated. And isn't that what Osama and his band of psychopaths want?

Heroine for Democracy

Aung San Suu Kyi, Democracy Champion

The Oppressed Burmese People

Than Shwe, The Dictator

So small. So meek. So powerful. Amidst the 40 year cruelty of a combination military junta and China playing eminence grise in her beloved country, Burma aka Myanmar, Nobel Laurete Aung San Suu Kyi (pictured above) stands up bravely and stubbornly for her brutalized people.

For 15 of the past 21 years, this frail charismatic woman, has been under "house arrest" for trumped up charges of subversive political activism by Senior General Than Shwe (pictured above) and his "look-a-like think-a-like" thugs. Away from her people, her constituency and her family, Aung has remained steadfast in her vision of a democratic and open Burma. Sadly for the Burmese people and Aung, the generals don't agree. They continue to starve, imprison, torture and murder their own people for the slightest offense.

She doesn't have hope anymore after all these years. Who can blame her. She calls hope a frivolous indulgence. However, in light of that, Aung seemingly subscribes to the mantra recited by Buddha, "be patient" as time unfolds...for this too shall pass.

Aung's hope may be gone but she perseveres for a Burma freed from the cold hand of the police who rule by the hammer this once prosperous and gentle country and have driven it into stony darkness. The ruling military junta enrich themselves with exports to China and the world's second largest production of opium at the expense of 48,000,000 slaves. How can a ruler be so cruel to his own people? As a Burmese writer said of Than Shwe, "a king does not bother how his slaves are doing. Their death and hardship is not his concern."

Just last Saturday, Aung was freed from "house arrest" in Yangon by her illegitimate captors. Why? Who knows? It's been reported that The National League for Democracy which is led by Aung was thrown a bone by the ruling Generals in order to improve worldwide perception of the kingdom after another sham election was staged. That didn't work very well if that indeed was their objective. Aung came out of the shadows swinging and defiant as ever. Aung "pledges no pullback" was headlines in today's Wall Street Journal.

Upon leaving her "house arrest" headquarters, Aung was asked, "do you fear landing back in house arrest?" She answered without hesitation, "I don't worry about it. I'll do as much as I can while I am free." The saffron-robed monks chanted. The people cried and cheered. The Generals huddled.

Aung struggles and the struggles of Burma remind me somewhat of what happened in South Africa and Nelson Mandela years ago. Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years for being an anti-apartheid activist against the oppressive Afrikaner National Party. Eventually, he persevered, became President and led his newly-formed country. He and his people were patient too. As he said, "in our country, you must go to jail first to become President."

I suspect as time unfolds, Burma will have its day of rebirth. At some point, China will turn off the spigot to Burma after they don't need them anymore, America's insouciance to Burma will abate, the generals will seek asylum, the military rank and file will flee into the jungles and the people will smile again.

And Aung San Suu Kyi, Buddha willing, will be at home...at peace...free.

Hubris Exposes Another Scoundrel

Rep. Charlie B. Rangel (D.,NY) was censored today by the House of Representatives Ethics Committee, a committee consisting of 10 House members, 5 Republicans and 5 Democrats. The recommendation of censure vote was 9-1.

He was found guilty of 11 of 13 ethical misconduct violations ranging from tax evasion, improper fundraising and failure to report income. As stated by Chairwoman, Rep. Zoe Lofgren (D.,Ca), there was "clear and convincing evidence" to support 11 counts of malfeasance. The formal vote of censure by the entire House will be conducted after Thanksgiving. If the majority of the House vote for censure, Charlie will be the first member of the House to be censored in 27 years. In 1983, two House members Crane (R.,Il) and Studds (D.,Ma)...I'm not making this name up...were censored by the full House for the congressional page sex scandal.

What does censure mean? Simply, the House Committee issues a formal reprimand to an individual, Charlie, by an authoritative body, The House of Representatives. Censure is one step away from total expulsion from the House. The last time a House member was expelled was 2006, Ney of (R.,Oh) in connection with the Jack Abramoff scandal.

For the last 40 years, the octogenarian Charlie represented the good folks in Harlem. They were his own. His roots were there. He fought hard and true for them with apparent class and dignity. So what happened along the way that resulted in Charlie's skullduggery and resultant public humiliation? Hubris or arrogance is what happened. He got greedy, sloppy and then got caught. In doing so, Charlie befouled his office and the public trust.

Some of these folks in power, Charlie included, feel entitled, exempt from the rule of law. Happens all the time to public and not so public figures. Next up on the Ethics Committee hot seat is Maxine Waters (D.,Ca.) for alleged wrongdoing involving a bank and her husband. The pipeline of creepy slimeballs is seemingly always full.

Thinking of poor Charlie reminds me of the "Queen of Mean", another New Yorker, Leona Helmsly, who infamously said of paying taxes, "that's for little people." As Rep. Michael McCall (R.,Tx) stated to the Committee and to a pathetic looking Charlie, "...the failure to pay taxes for 17 years...what is that?"

There is some good news for Charlie. He keeps his job in Congress until he retires or is not re-elected and he wasn't expelled from office. The bad news is, "Charlie, line one is holding for you, it's the IRS." OMG.

Sad, another good man ruined by his own hand. Threw it all away. And for what? a few extra thousands of dollars.

Manny

It was a first for me. I bought the Manny Pacquiao v Antonio Margarito fight on HBO pay per view last Saturday night. I love boxing but I had never bought the fights on HBO until this one. It was best $60.00 I've spent on sports entertainment in recent memory. Why did I pop for the fight? Simply, Manny Pacquiao is the greatest boxer I have ever seen and that includes Ali, Sugar Ray, Oscar, Marvin and all the others. He is magic in the ring and at 5'-6" and 147 pounds, he is as loveable as a golden retriever outside the ring and as fierce in the ring as a pit bull. I did not want to miss this moment. I and millions around the globe got our money's worth.

Manny grew up street poor in the Philippines. His way out of the streets was boxing. A similar road taken for many impoverished kids looking for an exit, including his opponent that night, Antonio Margarito, a poor kid out of the favelas of Tijuana. What both shared equally was poverty, a talent for boxing and a devout Roman Catholic faith.

Manny started boxing at 16 years of age as a 100lb light flyweight. He won. Over the next 15 years, he moved up 7 classes in weight and won those divisions as well. On Saturday night he won an unprecedented 8th weight division, the Super Welterweight, against the biggest and heaviest opponent of his professional career.

His opponent Margarito, a proud and strong Mexican, towered over Manny by 7 inches and 17 pounds. At the start of the fight, it looked like a little kid, Manny, fighting, his much bigger father, Antonio. However, within the middle of the first round, it was apparent that Antonio was in for an ass whippin', Pacman style. As Antonio lumbered clumsily around the center of the ring, Manny was bobbing, weaving, circling and throwing warp speed combinations at a defenseless head. Watching Manny throw punches from both sides is like watching a hummingbird flap its wings. Both are very, very fast.

This went on for the entire scheduled 12 rounds. By round six, Antonio's face began to change and not for the better. Manny's face was untouched. By the 11th round, Antonio's face became so disfigured that Manny implored the referee, Laurence Cole, to stop the fight. Cole permitted the fight to continue. In the 12th round, Manny enforced his own slaughter rule and backed off. He humanely started to "pull his punches" and began to "carry" his opponent. Manny later said, "boxing is not for killing." Antonio later said, "There was no way I was going to quit. I'm a Mexican and we fight until the end." Sadly for both fighters, the fight went the full gruesome distance.

Manny won a unanimous decision. It was not even close. Manny threw 733 power punches and landed 411 mostly at Antonio's dome. These were not glancing blows but full leather shots. An unheard of 61% of his punches landed. A staggering percentage. Antonio suffered greatly at the hands of a smaller yet superior skilled boxer and by an unwise corner. Freddie Roach, Manny's trainer, said of his opponent's corner, "Antonio's corner is the worst. His trainor probably ruined his career by not stopping the fight." What a prescient comment. Tomorrow, Antonio undergoes surgery for a fractured orbital bone around his right eye. That does not sound good if you're a professional boxer.

After the bout with victory validated, Manny knelt in his corner and prayed in his own slice of silence. In fact, throughout the fight both fighters made the sign of the cross abundantly. Obviously both invoking divine intervention for what lay ahead. Obviously both returning to their humble fundamental beliefs.

While the almost blinded Margarito was being helped to the locker room, Manny was besieged by the adoring pushy media in the center of the ring. Manny, victorious for the night, humbly said, "He hurt me. I'm so lucky tonite. I thank God for giving me strength. I'm happy I made the people happy. I fight for the fans."

So they asked, "what are you going to do next Manny?" Manny, the smiling Congressman (recently elected to public office in his Filipino district), said, "I'm going to be a public servant to help the people of the Philippines." "And what about next bout?" Manny, the dimpled boxer, said, "I will talk it over with my promoter and see who's next."

And at Floyd Mayweather Jr.'s house, Floyd turned off HBO after round 7. He had seen enough. He got his money's worth too! "If Manny's promoter calls, tell him I'm retired." He wants to preserve his pretty face. Good move.

Massacre

Is there no place on earth safe from these radical-islamist killers?

The above oxymoronic image of the meek Our Lady Of Deliverance punctuated with bullet holes and broken plaster in the same named Catholic church in Baghdad is a brutal reminder of how dangerous the world is and how your life can change in an instant.

Two weeks ago, a psychopathic band of al-Qaeda crazies stormed this church in Baghdad on a Sunday morning brandishing automatic weapons. Hell bent on wreaking mayhem. Armed to kill. There were 120 Catholics inside that church attending services the moment of the raid and soon became hostages and then tragically, 52 parishioners were executed. As the bloodbath unfolded, the Catholics inside the church wept and called out for Christ and Mary to save them. "While they were praying for help, some their last prayers, their attackers were calling out Allaha Akbar! Allah is great! as they made a place of worship a killing field."

After the carnage and a wild retaliatory assault by government security forces, the inside of a once beautiful and peaceful church was transformed into an apocalyptic "helter-skelter" crime scene. Bodies lay dead or dying. Blood pooled and flesh splattered on floors and walls. Large bullet hole punctures were everywhere. Bullet casings littered the floor. Breakage. Broken glass. Choking smoke. And the fetid smell of war overwhelmed the senses. All this inside a church!

Crippling fear begat unspeakable sadness followed by unbridled rage overwhelmed the sensibilities of the good in our world. While the bad in the world rejoiced and lay claim to their latest atrocity against humanity.

When will this evil end? Without hope, never. But with strength, hope, perseverance, faith and love we will be saved from this pestilence.

A follow-up...the very next Sunday at Our Lady of Deliverance Church in Baghdad the altered community celebrated Mass. With newly deceased parishioners blood soaked into the walls from the massacre a week earlier, Catholics came together to worship. Against all odds these brave believers of good, went to mass to pray...to ask for forgiveness...to question why...to offer thanksgiving...to love as Jesus loves us. As a parish priest in Monterey wrote, "...those Baghdad Catholics knew how dangerous going to Mass could be, and I cannot help thinking of our beloved brothers and sisters here who forego coming to the Eucharist for the most trivial of reasons."

Geaux Tigers! SEC Football Rules!!

Guess who won this game last Saturday night at Death Valley in Baton Rouge? The hatted one who is smirking and eats the playing field grass during the game that's who. If looks could kill, right?

Les Miles, the one on the right, "Coach Embattled?", of 8-1 #5 in the country LSU Tigers is giving the stare down to the disgusted and vanquished self proclaimed great one of Alabama, Coach Nick Saban, at games end. Just two Ohio kids kicking each other ass for four hair-raising quarters in front of 90,000 moonshined screaming cajuns including me and my Walter homies. Les and the Tigers won. Nick and the Crimson Tide lost. That's life. So great. You see, I'm a closet cajun...my great grandpappy on my mother's side was a Hebert. :~} Thank God the Tigers won that game or those cajuns would have torched the stadium like Ole Tecummy Sherman's march to the sea through Atlanta.

You may ask yourself why is Coach Miles "embattled" or under duress with an 8-1 record, second only to unbeaten #2 in the country Auburn in the toughest football conference on the planet. The demanding faithful say his clock management is about as skilled as Gomer Pyle stringing a noun with a verb. Frankly, "f" the clock management condemnation, that's like saying Angelina Jolie doesn't look good today because she has a pimple on her neck. Get a bandaid. And all is good. Same with Les. His style may be unorthodox, frenetic and clueless at times but the guy wins football games against real opponents, no Utah States down here in one of the most demanding arenas in college football.

And isn't winning football games what it's all about. For crissakes cajuns, Les has a .784 winning record, one national championship in 2007, and four bowl wins in 6 seasons. What more can this guy do for the Bayou State to gain the fans love, discover a cure for cancer? And a misshapen guy with bad teeth behind me in the stands unsolicitedly said that Les is heading to Colorado next season because he can't coach and John Gruden will be the next Coach for LSU...blah...blah...blah. Sitting next to him quietly was his suffering in silence wife, probably thinking I wish this jackass husband of mine would go anywhere but home with me.

So the game and the finish on the field was magical. Our team won. Les munched on another handful of grass. Saban and the Tide quickly vanished from the field. After the game, the fans resumed partying in the largest and wettest weekend tailgate community in the world. Upon leaving the stadium, the guy behind me in the stands was right behind me again muttering "Miles was lucky." I looked at his forlorn wife and she mouthed to me "please, take me home." No thanks. I had a responsiblity to revisit Calvin and his crew back at the party central motor home for act two of LSU maniacal celebration.

As General MacArthur told people of the Philippines in 1942, "I shall return." Indeed , I will return to LSU and other SEC sites. For life in the deep south is just too much fun to pass up...especially their football. By the way, their women aren't bad lookin' either. Too bad I'm happily married!!! Oh well.

Put this on your bucket list.

REPUDIATION

I love the "r" words on election day. Repudiation. Referendum. Rebuke. Revenge. Rebirth. You'll hear the pundits spitting them all out the next few days. All mean the same thing, a tectonic change demanded by the majority of the electorate or as they say in street vernacular, "throw the bums out."

Most elections are exactly that, a repudiation, meaning, "a rejection of the incumbent as having no authority or binding force, to cast off, to disown. To reject with disapproval and condemnation." In other words, it's our time to get rid of the do nothings, fast talking empty frauds and replace them with "can-do" fresh innovative leaders who will hopefully get this country moving again for all of us.

The midterm election of 2010 will surely be remembered as the repudiation of President Obama's overreaching, ineffective and damaging policies for the last two years. And any politician who embraced such folly and is up for election today in a sober district (ie. not Berkeley, Boulder or Boston) will probably be punished today at the polls.

And if the winning party today doesn't do anything substantive for the people, their party will be repudiated in 2 years. As it should be...

God Bless America.

Day of the Dead

This was a very unsettling mural on a building in residential southwest Chicago, Pilsen area, that my Irish eyes set upon recently. An awakened mummy trying to escape from the clutches and restraints of death. Freaky. Ghoulish. Very Halloweenish. What does it all mean, Basil?

Simply, the astounding artwork represents the Mexican festival of the year, Day(s) of the Dead or Dia de los Muertos, celebrated every November 1,2 coinciding with the Catholic liturgical calender of All Saints Day and All Souls Day respectively. However, isn't it a bit strange to be on a two day bender celebrating those that are dead. Hmmm, come to think of it, it's not such bad idea.

Seriously though, throughout the Hispanic world this festival is serious business with skull shaped candies, marzipan death figures and papier mache skeletons and skulls, all in honor of their beloved dead. "To the indigenous peoples of Mexico, the annual festival of the Day of the Dead, is an awakening of the dead who return each year to visit their living relatives- to eat, drink and be merry. Just like they did when they were alive." The candies, figurines, skeletons and even papa's favorite tequila or mezcal is put out on an "altar" or "shrine" of sorts for their annual return home.

Down the street from this sidewalk mural is the world reknown National Museum of Mexican Art. It just so happened that the museum was honoring this same festival. Within the gallery were "altars" of varying sizes, styles and messages for believers welcoming home their honored dead. It was truly fascinating. I saw one altar that displayed old grandpa's favorite Jack Tatum #36 silver and black jersey from the Oakland Raiders in the '70s. Even in the afterlife, Raider Nation rules.

So Basil, after being newly inculcated into the Day of the Dead world, I think I know what's going here. The Mexican spirit of living is so intense that they don't take anything lying down-even death. Death is part of life...so party on.

Cristo Rey High School in Chicago, Pilsen Area

Maybe you saw the piece on the CBS Sunday evening television staple, 60 Minutes, on the Cristo Rey High School Network. If you haven't, you need to cue up Cristo Rey on You Tube. And after seeing that piece and reading this blog and if you care at all about the education of our youth, you may feel the need to contact your Senator, your Congressman and Arne Duncan Secretary of Education and inform them about Cristo Rey's enlightened and revolutionary education program.

As you may know or will soon find out, the good folks at Cristo Rey know what they are doing in educating our young people over its fruitful 14 year history. Conversely, our government is seemingly feckless on how best to educate our youngsters as evidenced by its feeble history spanning generations. Want proof? Check out the latest stats on the US Public Schools by the Numbers as printed in the Wall Street Journal October 30, 2010:

1. 7,000 students drop out of high school every school day, for a total of 1.3 million students a year.
2. 12% of US public high schools produce nearly half of the nation's dropouts and 58% of black dropouts.
3. 50% of incoming ninth graders in urban high poverty schools read three or more years below grade level.
4. 39% of high school students reported spending one hour or less a week reading or studying in class in 2009.
5. 23% of new American teachers come from the top third of their graduating class.
6. 14% of new American teachers in high poverty schools come from the top third of their college class.
7. 100% of teachers in Singapore, South Korea and Finland come from the top third of their college class.

Sources: Alliance for Excellent Education, McKinsey & Co.

As the above alarming facts reveal, the American public school eduction is an unmitigated and unrelenting failure. President Obama bellowed for change two years ago. For education, nothing has changed. It's still a train wreck. Well, it's time for an apocalyptic change for our schools. Since government is hamstrung by powerful teacher unions and corrupt officials, let the private sector invoke the change. Enter Cristo Rey.

The founders of Cristo Rey discovered these same troubling facts and acted upon them years ago. Their program in educating impoverished youth is in effect every school day at the Cristo Rey High Schools around the country. It's not easy but the leaders at Cristo Rey and the students they educate are succeeding.

At the Chicago Cristo Rey High School in the Hispanic neighborhood of Pilsen, the flagship school of the network, 538 young male and female Hispanic students march into school on-time and in uniforms all adhering to a strict set of rules of conduct and behaviour.

By design, Cristo Rey does not take the academic wonks of the neighborhood. They come from the middle of the pack. These hungry students come from families that average $34,000 annual income. (According to the Dept. of Health and Human Services, the poverty level for a family of 5 has a mean household income of $26,000.) The costs to educate one student at Cristo Rey is around $10,000/year. Well then, these obvious discordant numbers don't jive...they don't compute. How does this work? Let me briefly explain.

The Jesuits who run the Cristo Rey network came up with a novel approach. The students go to class four days a week and work one day a week. They work? Where? In Chicago, Cristo Rey made alliances with companies and corporations (ie., Ernst and Young, Black and Decker, R.R Donnelley, JP Morgan Chase and many others) that employs all 538 students for one day a week. These jobs are real working jobs. Not glamour jobs. They are entry level jobs. Mailroom. Receptionist. Messenger. The students are paid for their services. But the pay the student earns is not theirs, it is returned to the school as part of the tuition costs. The balance of the tuition costs come from grants and on average $2900 from the families own pockets. Cristo Rey felt that the program will work only if the families are invested financially and have some "skin in the game." Attendance does not seem to be problem at Cristo Rey. The families are committed and in turn the students to the Cristo Rey method.

To date, Cristo Rey Chicago proudly proclaims a 70% graduation rate. The students also learn the value of work and rigorous educational training. Granted Cristo Rey is not for everybody. 100% of the graduating senior class was accepted last year to college. Remarkable. Cristo Rey gave these students a platform to succeed and they seized upon it.

So, the bad news is our public school system remains broken with little hope. The good news is the alternative Cristo Rey network prospers amidst great daily challenges providing hope and dreams realized to the least amongst us. Thank God for Cristo Rey and for those getting paid, and, more importantly, for those doing two years of volunteer service to do God's work.

Only in America could this happen. God bless this country.

(Postscript: The picture above is of our son, Jack, in his classroom doing God's work as the Physics teacher, cross country coach and part time bus driver at Cristo Rey High School in Chicago.) Stay warm, my friend.

Shoreacres

Shoreacres. Lake Bluff, Illinois. Golf Course Architect: Seth Raynor. Est. 1916. Hole #15. Par 5. 478 Yards. Dogleg left with ravine left edge of fairway and crossing at second turn point.

Every once in awhile I come across a hidden gem, for me, in the world of golf. Shoreacres, quietly in the top 100 in the United States, is one such course. Located about a 90 minute train ride from Chicago's Ogilvie Station headed north along Lake Michigan to the Norman Rockwellish town of Lake Bluff.

Recently, on a gorgeous autumnal October morning, I made the trip north to see this little jewel. The course architect, Seth Raynor, is one with whom I am familiar. Knowing his body of work, I knew the trip would be worth the effort. I was not disappointed.

I grew up next to a Seth Raynor course in St. Louis, Missouri and have been fortunate to either have played or toured several of his fine courses: Camargo in Cincinnati, the old Dunes Course at Monterey Peninsula CC, Fox Chapel in Pittsburgh to name a few. Additionally, I saw his handiwork at courses on which he collaborated with the self-proclaimed father of Golf Course Architecture in the United States, CB Macdonald. Those old courses remain notable worldwide: National Golf Links, Fishers Island, Mid Ocean, Yale University and Shinnecock Hills redesign. High quality enduring projects all.

Seth Raynor graduated with a Civil Engineering at Princeton in 1898. With degree in hand, he established himself as a skilled and well respected local surveyor on Long Island...he had zero interest in golf.

As life evolved, golf serendipitously came to him in the form of CB Macdonald. As golf began to grow inn the USA, dreamers and visionaries like Macdonald needed skilled people to help make his dreams become reality. Macdonald hired Raynor who provided the intellectual muscle to make his vision work in the real world.

After years of working with the combative and egocentric Macdonald, Raynor went out on his own. After several successful solo projects as mentioned above, Seth Raynor was commissioned by Samuel FB Morse to route three courses for Del Monte Properties in the Pebble Beach forest. Two of the courses were for the Monterey Peninsula CC and other was for Cypress Point Golf Club. Unfortunuately for Raynor, he died suddenly from pneumonia at age 52 in 1926 and was replaced at inimitable Cypress Point by Alastair Mackenzie. In the world of "ifs and could haves", arguably, if Raynor lived Mackenzie would not have had the subsequent designs of Augusta National, Royal Melbourne, Crystal Downs and many others. Such was the cachet of the Cypress Point project for the designer of record.

In any event, Raynor's short career was rich as defined by his splendid work. Shoreacres remains one of Raynor's lasting legacies. For the true golfer, it is a joy to walk and play. Shoreacres topography belies its surroundings. Flatness and dullness prevails in most of Illinois. Yet, Shoreacres land was exceptionally created for golf. The topo rolls, heaves, dips, climbs and meanders as if one is on a nature hike in the woods. Across the 18 holes, I suspect, the elevation differential between high and low is no more than 50 feet but it feels like more. The fairways, the greensites and the bunker sites are all suited perfectly for what the land allowed. The subtlety of the contours and landforms that may have been marginally touched by man seems indistinguishable from the natural. The abundant treescape add a certain sense of enclosure on each hole which heightens the drama. And the ever-present serpentine and forboding ravine which effects 11 of the 18 holes was used brilliantly by Raynor in adding strategic and aesthetic value to the holes.

Raynor also introduced some folly into his courses. As an example, his #6 green at Shoreacres, an adjustable straightaway par 3 from 150-210 yards, has a two tiered green with a cross sectional valley that measures well over 20,000sf total. A putt over 200' is possible on that green. Now that's a folly!

The old traditional golf courses are wonderful creations. Shoreacres is 6305 yards from the tips. Short by modern standards but who cares about modern standards when you are in the presence of artistic genius. Thank you Seth Raynor for creating such terrific courses for our enjoyment.

Chubby

You may know of this man, Chubby Chandler, super agent to alot of European Tour Golf Professionals. If you don't, let me tell you what I know about him.

First of all, you gotta love someone who introduces himself as "Chubby" because he is. He's fat all around...like a bowling ball. He doesn't have a problem with it and it certainly hasn't held him back. In fact, his obvious chubbiness, baldness and ebullient comforting personality makes him irrespressible to all. Makes him nicely human...a mirror of his similarly flawed public. He just has a certain je ne sais quoi about him. You just wanna be around somebody like Chubby.

Chubby came from nothing. Breeding none. Advantages none. Education some. Worked hard every step of the way. Had athletic ability. Check out those snowshoe hands in the picture above. He played on the European Tour for 15 years. The Tour provided a modicum of success for him. Survivor he was. Prosperity not really.

After he left the Tour as a player several years ago, he opened an agency in his apartment representing professional golfers and other athletes. To fast forward, Chubby now represents some of the finest players in the world: Ernie Els, Rory McIlroy, Lee Westwood, to name a few.

This past July at The Open in St Andrews, Chubby rented the iconic Jigger Inn, a famous pub attached to the Old Course Hotel alongside #17 Road Hole. Chubby rented it for the entire week. Probably cost him upwards of 150,000pounds.

Throughout the week, Chubby wined and dined his guests and clients at the Jigger Inn. Business was brisk at the Jigger with Chubby working the room. Everybody wanted in to that venue. Chubby held the guest list. It was the hottest ticket in town.

As luck would have it for Chubby, one of his clients, Louis Oosthuizen from South Africa, won the prestigious Open at St. Andrews. Louis blew the field away by seven strokes. Louis's victory celebration was held at the Jigger Inn...all night long. Chubby presided.

Isn't it an interesting coincidence that the current rise of professional Euro golf dominance across the globe is coupled with the rise of Chubby's influence in that world? His fun approach to life seems to have filtered down to his clients. His clients play with a certain joie de vivre. They win trophies. While their American counterparts play with an IMG-like sterility. They cash checks.

So kudos to a fat man named Chubby who lives life the way it should be lived. As Red said to Andy in Shawshank Redemption, "get busy living or get busy dying." Chubby is very busy living these days.

2010, Year of the Euro

...not in money but in professional golf. 2010 was not kind to the "euro" as in money. Greece, Ireland, Spain, UK all contibuted to its collective malaise and near collapse of their monetary unit. But the "Euro" in golf, short form for European, was off the charts greatness. Go no farther than the recent picture above taken at St. Andrews during the Dunhill Links Championship. The conquering Euros hold three of the most coveted trophies in all of all golfdom: Martin Kaymer, a German, holding The Wannamaker, Colin Montgomerie, a Scotsman, holding The Ryder Cup and Graeme McDowell, a northern Irishman, holding the US Open. As an American, I say, "say it ain't so, Joe." Sorry Joe. So and true it is. And get used to it, Yank.

The Euros have replaced the Americans as the dominant force in professional golf. 2010 signaled a changing of the guard. With Tiger in shambles and his golf homies about as interesting as the NBC Nightly News, the Euros rule with flair, togetherness and a contagious personality.

Sure the Americans had their moments in 2010. Exactly two. Phil winning at Augusta. Emergence of rookie Rickie Fowler. And, hmmmm, what else? Well not much else. Professional golf in the USA all of a sudden is boring...lifeless. While the Euro golf world is the polar opposite. Fun, supremely talented and confident.

Honestly, do you get off watching Stewart Cink and Matt Kuchar? They are about as exciting as two loaves of white bread. Give me Rory, Graeme, Ian, Padraig, Luke, Lee, Miguel, Paul, Molinari brothers, hell, even Monty, any day of the week. They are exciting, full of the dickens and life embracers. The Americans, on the other hand, spend alot of time looking at money lists, private jet schedules and bible verses.

So, as American fans, what shall we do? Appreciate the opposition and hope our guys loosen up and take note of the fact that the Euros play golf as a game not as a business. They have fun. Our guys look like they are going for root canals. Seriously, has Jim Furyk ever smiled on a golf course? Oh yeah, a couple of weeks ago when he won $11.5mil in the absurdly obscene and meaningless Fedex Cup finale, he managed a sly smile. Wow what a memorable millisecond of golf green theatre that was! Not.

Meanwhile back in Scotland, the Euros drank Guinness together out of the three championship cups at the Jigger Inn in between the incessant "ole, ole, ole" chants.

I could hang with those guys, how 'bout you?

It's Go Time in Wales

Gentlemen start your engines...for it all starts this Friday morning in Wales, namely, the 38th running of the biennial Ryder Cup. Pitting Europe's best against America's best professional golfers. And those two smiling chicklets above, although not hitting a shot, will be instrumental in who wins and who loses.

For the team captains, Corey Pavin of the USA (the skinny one above) and Colin Montgomerie of the Euros (the portly one above), the chess match between the two captains has already begun with the final selections of the team and for the first day pairings to be announced on Thursday. By Sunday afternoon, in my humble opinion, the "underdog" USA team will be retaining the venerable Ryder Cup. USA's collective team talent guided by the steady hand and head of their guileful and cerebral Captain Pavin will prevail. Assisting in USA's victory will be none other than Euro Captain Monty, the stroppy Scot, who will end up pipping his own petard.

Pavin is the archetype for all of us little guys in a big man's world. He succeeded at every level of golf with a swing that resembles Giovanni da Bologna's twisting and contorting sculpture Rape of the Sabines. Coupled with his successful unorthodox swing, is Pavin's clear quiet judgement in recognizing the importance of persistence and desistence. And, more iimportantly, when to apply the right amount of each.

Monty, on the other hand, should be playing instead of captaining. He is 29-7 in Ryder Cup matches, a record for the Euros. He is a great player in that team format...which is good. As a Captain, he is a abundant talker...which is bad. As Padraig Harrington, a Ryder Cupper, stated recently, "If Monty puts his bucket of balls beside me on the range, I'll move. Otherwise, I'll get nothing done. Monty's idea of warming up is like 45 minutes of talking and hitting 10 balls." Imagine what Ben Hogan would do with Monty on the range tee?

So, balls fly early Friday morning from Wales. The tea kettle pressure begins to build and finally boils over on Sunday. Which team wilts under this enormous worldwide hot lamp? Which team prospers?

Again, my gut tells me the Americans will prevail. Captain Corey, because he listens, observes, thinks and then acts purposefully, will guide his 12 to the champagne podium on Sunday. While Captain Monty because he talks, and talks and talks then talks some more will irritate his players so much that he will lose them and they the cup.

Sometimes in sports the better talent doesn't win. Will this be one of those times?

Enjoy the show.

Mathematically Eliminated

WARNING: THIS BLOG IS FOR CARDINAL NATION ONLY. ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

"Mathematically eliminated." "Magic Number 0." Depending upon your perspective, those two baseball slogans bring joy or sadness to the "fan"atic. For St. Louis Cardinal Baseball Nation, 2010 is indeed a sad one. For tonite, with six games yet to play, the Redbirds were officially eliminated from the race. They are losers in 2010.

Being a gracious loser, I tip my cap to the Central Division winners, the Cincinnati Redlegs. The oldest team in the National League. They played better baseball, marginally, than the Cardinals and the rest of the hapless teams in that sorry division.

For Cardinal fans, you know the story. After the successful early August showdown with the Reds in Cincy, they left Ohio with a one game lead. What happened in the next six weeks is X-Files material. Losing games to lesser opponents became commonplace. Talent they had. Heart they didn't. Leadership abandoned. And the fans still believed. What a fan base! The truth is out there. However, the beyond loyal Cardinals fans would not accept and admit to the ugly truth on the field.

From my perspective, the 2010 Cardinals quit. There I wrote it. After a recent trip to my hometown to watch Cardinal baseball, I saw a brand of baseball that was more American Legion than MLB. Suddenly, superior starting pitching could not beat sub
.500 teams such as the Cubs, Pirates, Nationals and Houston. Our hitting was feeble. Our defense was porous. Our manager and coaches were hamstrung. Yet the fans still came.

The 3 Million/year fans of Cardinal baseball deserve more. They fill the owners pockets every year with more money than imaginable in a small market. So, I write for them.

This is my 10 point Manifesto on how to "right the ship" of a storied and proud franchise:

1. Ownership. Be strong. Be smart. Raise ceiling to $120M. No more long term deals. Do Items 2-10 below as a start. Don't stop with my list!!!
2. General Manager. MO must go. He does not have the skills. Ludwick for Westbrook?
3. Pujols. Sign him to a deal STL can handle or trade him this winter for a flock of talent. Ownership will not make him baseball's highest paid player. Sadly, I see AP leaving. Without a hometown discount, AP walks. Thanks for the ride Albert. Courting AP will be LeBron II, if he becomes a free agent after 2011.
4. Manager. TLR cannot play the off-season Favre-like drama game anymore. Ownership must push him to make a 30 day decision after the season. He'll get mad and walk. No worries. He's done anyway. Sorry wife, he's coming home. He's all yours. Arf-arf.
5. Coaching staff. Move Oquendo to first, nobody follows his signs at third. Everybody else goes including Duncan. (He'll leave anyway without TLR around). Big Mac = Big Mistake.
6. Coaching Replacements. Bring in ex-Cardinals from the exile imposed by TLR's crew. Ozzie, Ted Simmons, Joe Magrane, Matheny, etc. all make STL home. Fill it out with Orel Hershiser, Will Clark and bring back Hal McCrae. And whenever Eckstein and Edmonds retire, hire them for any available post. Gamers all.
7. Old Players. Pink slips to: Franklin, Boggs, Hawksworth, Ryan, Schumaker, and possible Carp. Tattooed Carp is a white nut case in the mold of Joaquin Andujar.
8. New Players. Try to pry Gordon Beckham from the Chisox, Andre Ethier, Matt Kemp and Jonathan Broxton from the Dodgers. Vultures are hovering over Chavez Ravine.
9. Farm System. Hire someone who knows talent, particularly, someone in the Midwest and South. How does a Mark Buerle and Ryan Howard, to name two studs, escape STL scouts in their own backyard? And, another hire on developing talent. No more Peter Kozmas.
10. Stan the Man. Out of respect, re-do that grotesque statue of "The Man" outside the stadium before he dies. Even Stan's wife hates it. Speaking of Stan's death to be, he should be interred in a yet to be completed Redbird Village beyond center field.

Well there you have it Cardinal fans from the left coast. I may be in Monterey but I bleed cardinal red 365.

Go Cards in 2011.

In Memoriam

"I am the Good Shepherd, and the Good Shepherd lays down his life for his sheep. Greater love than this no man hath than to lay down his life for his friends."

His lifeless body carried away from the fray by the same people he served and loved. Moments before his untimely death on September 11, 2001, Fr. Mychal Judge was ministering to the dying and the injured and administering Last Rites to human beings that died that morning amidst the rubble of evil.

What started out as a beautiful September morning in New York City turned abruptly into unspeakable darkness. Fr. Mychal, Brooklyn's own Franciscan priest and Chaplain to NYC firefighters upon hearing the news that the World Trade Center was in flames, rushed to the scene to lend both hands. He never returned to the firehouse along with 343 other firefighters around NYC.

In that terrible holocaust of the World Trade Center, 2,606 innocent people died from the hands of crazed Islamic fanatics. For some strange inexplicable reason, Fr. Mychal's body was the first body released from Ground Zero. His death certificate had the number one on the top.

In a brilliantly written and delivered eulogy Father Mychal's friend and fellow priest, Father Michael Duffy, Fr. Duffy writes: "And so this morning we come to bury Mike Judge's body but not his spirit. We come to bury his mind but not his dreams. We come to bury his voice but not his message. We come to bury his hands but not his good works. We come to bury his heart but not his love."

You see Mychal's message was one of love and life. Those that took his meaningful life along with the other almost 3,000 victims of terror don't share those values.

Highjacked Flight United 93 crashed headlong into that Shanksville field at 550MPH incinerating all innocents aboard. What was heard before the crash on the voice recorder? "Allaha Akbar." Then silence. Translation: Allah is Great.

As one radical Islamist stated recently, "We love death. The USA loves life. That is the big difference between us." Tony Blair is right on when he writes: "Radical Islam is the world's greatest threat today." Their singular way of expression is unleashing sociopathic mayhem around the world...constantly.

So, today we pray in thanksgiving for the life of Fr. Mychal and those who serve others in and out of the shadows of this world. We also pray for those left behind when their loved ones did not come home on that fateful day. They will never be forgotten.

Fr. Mychal, the shepherd, is gone like so many others before and after him, while the jackals multiply. But as the Gospel proclaims, "evil will not triumph."

May God continue to help us all.

RICKIE RYDER CUPPER

Rickie the Rookie. In eight months on the PGA Tour, the 22 year old has made his mark. Today, with Corey Pavin's captain's selection of Rickie for the 2010 Ryder Cup team, his mark just got a whole lot bigger.

Pavin's pick of Rickie, a non-winner on the Tour but has had several Top Ten finishes in his first year, was puzzling to some critics and observers. Crys of "he's a rookie", "he hasn't won anything" and so forth were factual comments true but they don't know Rickie. Pavin thinks he does. In his press conference this morning from New York City, Pavin said, "I have a gut feeling about Rickie" that transcends victories and age. Is Rickie's selection a risk? Yes. But worth taking.

I saw this kid play at the Pebble Beach Callaway tournament last November and I was absolutely floored by not only his game but by his manner and attitude. Not a punk attitude. But a cool manner...confident yet friendly. A cross between James Dean and Elvis. He has a swagger of "I'm good, I'm going to beat you but let's chill together afterwards." It's not suprising that he is fast becoming one of the more likeable players on tour. Inside the ropes he's a gunslinger who takes no prisoners. Outside the ropes he's a kid who wants to hang out at the mall with his girlfriend sipping cherry cokes.

This past July, my son, Jack, and I ran into Rod, Rickie's Dad, at the British Open at St. Andrews. We talked a bit about the Ryder Cup then while gallery following Rickie. Apparently, Rickie was on Pavin's watch for some time. Rickie's consistent success on the tour this year and his 7-1 record in the amateur Walker Cup matches got Pavin's attention.

In the Memorial Tournament in Dublin, Ohio, Rickie was in the hunt until the final hole. He hit a couple bad shots, took a few too many risks and settled for second place three shots behind winner, Justin Rose. Upon leaving the 18th green disappointed, he spotted host Jack Nicklaus, he of 18 majors, went right up to him to said, "Thank you Mr. Nicklaus for putting on a terrific tournament."

Kid not only shows game but alot of respect for the game and for those who preceded him. I suspect his game and his respect for the game will take another huge leap in October.

He will electrify you in orange or whatever colors he wears.

It's Almost Go Time! 23 Days and Counting...

This smug image of past Ryder Cup Captain, Paul Azinger aka "Zinger", gently buffing the handsome Ryder Cup in his Florida kitchen is sure to inflame the embittered Euros. You see the Euros lost two years ago and they want that Cup back on the other side of the pond come this October. Wishful thinking? Possibly.

The biennial Ryder Cup media madness officially started today with the USA Captain, Corey Pavin's, four remaining captain's picks that rounded out the team to 12. Captain Corey's counterpart, the choleric fussbudget Captain of the Europeans, Colin Montgomerie aka "Monty", chose his remaining picks a couple of weeks ago.

The obvious contrasts of these two teams are compelling. Starting with the Captains. Pavin is cerebral, calm and humble. While Monty is emotional, angry and quite frankly, a tortured soul amidst all his bluster...a golf "Hamlet" if you will.

The personality contrast of the two teams is equally compelling. The Euros are a loose fraternal bunch of partiers (ie.,McDowell after The US Open at Brophy's in Carmel). The Euros 13th man may be the hangover doctor from the Mash unit. CHEERS! While the Americans (less one grievous sinner) appear to be the brethern from the "God Squad". Their 13th man may surely be Joel Osteen. HEAL THEE!

But what both teams share equally is incredible golfing talent. Arguably, the finest players ever assembled in a Ryder Cup. There isn't a piker in the 24 player field.

So the teams have been finalized, the players are renewing their stomach acid prescriptions, the course at Celtic Manor in Wales is ready and the fans can't wait for the various meltdown dramas and stirring victories to unfold. All the while ex-capitan "Zinger" sits in his kitchen admiring his own reflection from the trophy past.

And in Scotland, Captain Monty was heard fuming, "...f*** everything."

More on the Ryder Cup in future blogs...this is only the beginning of astounding theatre. Stay tuned.

In-N-Out Burger

Is it lunchtime yet? Whatever time it is when I pass an In-N-Out Burger on the freeway, I stop to have a #1 "animal style" with extra grilled and raw onions and "animal style" fries to boot(sometimes). It's the best five bucks I ever spend all week regardless of the meteroic spike of the LDLs. My response to seeing that In-N-Out red and yellow logo is Pavlovian...no thinking needed. I see. I want. I stop. I eat. I happy.

Translation for those east of Utah: In-N-Out Burger is a fast food hamburger nirvana that serves the best burgers in the CA/AZ/NV/UT. Fast, good and cheap. Trifecta of sorts. There is nothing like it when your hunger bell rings.

I swear when I say this, after 17 years of patronage I have never had a bad meal at one of these hamburger joints and there are over 200 of them dotted strategically along the Western freeways.

So how do they do it day in and day out at In-N-Out Burger? Harry Snyder, co-founder of In-N-Out Burger now deceased, said it all: "We keep it simple. Do one thing and do it the best you can." In-N-Out's three simple words for success are: Quality, Cleanliness and Service. They deliver the goods everyday by the hands of another critical ingredient for success, their "associates" known in most businesses as employees. These simple concepts started at the first store in 1948 in Baldwin Park, California and has spawned great success across the western landscape. Because of this simple non-Harvard non-fancy management business style, In-N-Out Burger has become a California icon along the roads of the west.

Noted foodie and chef of great repute, Thomas Keller, said, "If you think about cooking, you'll find at In-N-Out Burger or French Laundry, it's about product and execution that's consistent. The quality of a restaurant goes back to the quality of the product and its execution." In-N-Out and the French Laundry in the same sentence...that is indeed tall cotton.

When Keller celebrated the 12th anniversary of his famed Napa Valley French Laundry restaurant, what did he do to celebrate the day with his staff and employees? He had 300 In-N-Out burgers and a small mountain of fries delivered to his restaurant.

To this day, In-N-Out Burger remains a privately held company which is highly unusual in the land of Wendy, Big Mac, Jack and Whopper. With sales somewhere north of $400M per annum, peanuts compared to the big fellas, it is regularly targeted by the IPO private equity folks. The sole heir, Lynsi Synder Martinez, to this point, has rebuffed all overtures.

So next time you're in the neighborhood, stop at an In-N-Out Burger, order your #1 or #2 and observe the manager of the store behind the cash register. He's the one cooking the burgers. Simple indeed but Brilliant!

I'm getting hungry...c ya.

Cabin in the Woods

Another year past,

for 25 years,

a return to
a simple cabin...in the woods...in August.

Worries aside.
Peace revisited.
Calm restored.
All is well.
In gratitude.

No TV. No phones. No on-line service. No mail. No papers.

Electricity, yes. Indoor plumbing, yes. Screens on the windows, yes.

Weather, perfect. BBQ, ready. Neighbors, close but not too...

Just you and yours together. Checking in. Being there.

Days are warm in the mountains.

Nights are cool by the stream.

The wind finds its voice in the pines.

Is this heaven?

No, just a cabin in the woods.

Go fish.

Go Take a Hike...gladly!

For me, there is nothing better than to be on nature's path to somewhere grand. On our annual August pilgrimage to the mountains, day hiking in the Sierras is the stairway to heaven. We see grandeur everyday. Awe and respect for this beauty are our constant companions. Technology is rendered irrelevant.

Our journey usually begins with a simple question, where do we hike today? So many choices...so much beauty to see and photograph. So, with worn out and dog-eared guide in hand, we select either easy, moderate or strenuous hikes depending upon our state of health.

Prep is easy and managed in an hour...daypack, boots, cameras, water, food, sunscreen, hats, 7 prong survivor kit (flint, compass, whistle, matches, mirror, knife and .357 magnum) and an early start. (Just kidding on the .357.)

We travel by car to most trailheads in the Sierras from our cabin base camp at 4000 feet. Park the car, plant our boots on the trail, start moving one foot in front of the other and start hiking...usually up. With heads down and dust a-flyin', we trudge forward and upward. The only sounds we hear are our breaths, the wind and our boots hitting the trail.

I'm sure you've heard all the tiresome poetic metaphors about hiking..."hiking is like life...there are uphill strenuous and painful sections, reckless high flying downhill sections and a whole lot of mindless wandering flat sections in between." But, all these "lifelike" sections of the path does lead one to somewhere else. Someplace new. Someplace refreshingly different. And isn't that the magic of the hike?

After a few hours, we reach our goal for the day. We rest and enjoy the moment. We admire our surroundings. The waterfalls, lakes and streams. The blue sky and white clouds. The wildflowers (yes, even in August). The wildlife. The other intrepid hikers. And after while, we turn around or do a circle route, usually downhill, and return to the beginning.

So with the car in site, we descend with feet aching but with bodies still in tact perhaps bruised and cut but now abundantly filled with a new energy that only nature can provide. So when someone tells you to "go, take a hike", do it. You will have accomplished something that is totally yours. Another memory stored away of what is truly fine.

Now let's get to the pool to cool off....

DJ's "Bunker-brain-gate"

{For the shortened version and time challenged, please omit the indented text}

CAUTION: I like Dustin Johnson, pro golfer, he seems like a very likeable fella in a Gomer Pyle kinda way and he's good for the Tour but the following may not sound like it.

Simply, I want DJ to think better when he's in the hunt. He has filthy talent but a corncob for a brain at times. Speaking of corncobs, he kinda reminds me of Sam Snead. As Ben Hogan said of Snead, "he was the best most powerful swinger I ever saw, and if Sam had half a brain he would have beaten everyone".

{Is that fair to compare Snead with DJ, probably not on alot of different levels. But the facts are the facts. DJ has blown two leads in majors this year on the final day because of not thinking clearly in the heat of the moment. On top of that, his caddy, Bobby Brown, not Whitney's-ex BB, but a former looper from Pebble Beach, hasn't helped DJ's cause. He seems equally brainstrung when the heat rises. If these two remain together and continue to jointly "brainfreeze" simultaneously, they could become golf's version of "Dumb and dumber".}

DJ's and BB's latest joint cerebral crash happened again yesterday on the 72nd hole of the last major of the year, the PGA Championship at Whistling Straits...with them in the lead...again. Remember what happened to this twosome at the US Open at Pebble Beach on Father's Day with them in the lead? They blew it physically and, more importantly, mentally, on the first four holes. What happened this time? Well, you probably know the news by now, so let me give you the "rest of the story" and a small observation from my side of the couch.

{The 72nd hole at WS is a tough par 4, if DJ pars the hole...he probably wins his first major. Not so fast. His drive bends violently right and goes 40 yards offline. Suddenly, his par and win are in jeopardy. He comes upon his wayward ball and finds it on a "sandy surface". Not grass. Not a road. Not a forest. Not a wall. Not in the grandstands. But on sand with an obvious fescue edge to the upside bank. His ball was so far offline that the fans had been standing alongside and inside the "sandy surface." DJ sizes up the next shot to the green, grounds his club behind the ball and whacks the ball towards the green. Misses the green and pitches to within 8 feet for a saving par putt. Misses the putt and settles for a bogey. Par and outright victory are now lost. But sudden death is his bridesmaid...he thinks...until the rules official tells him later that he grounded his club behind the ball before his second shot within a sand bunker or hazard. That is an automatic two stroke penalty. He slips into fifth place. Eraser please. No sudden death.}

Now the question is, was that "sandy surface" a bunker? DJ obviously didn't think so. BB could not be found. They never asked a nearby rules official if the "sandy surface" was a bunker or not. DJ's mantra is: see the ball, hit the ball, walk to the ball, and hit it again, harder. I think and hope that mantra will change now.

With over 1200 Pete Dye bunkers on that property, the tournament rules sheet clearly states that all 1200 bunkers, raked or unraked, are hazards...treat accordingly. No grounding of clubs are permitted and if so, a two stroke penalty will be affixed to the players score. The rules sheet was posted all week in the players locker room and on the first tee for all the players to read. They did this for several reasons, mainly because in 2004 Stuart Appleby incurred a 2 stroke penalty for the same offense and they did not want a redux of that debate. Sadly, DJ and BB did not read the rules. As another young golfer, Nick Watney, so cavalierly stated: "...no one out here reads those rules sheets." I would have loved to see Jack Nicklaus's or Tom Watson's or Johnny Miller's reactions to that ignorant admission.

{Golf is a game of rules. If there were not rules, Uncle Jimmy's foot wedge would be considered another club in his bag.}

I know the rules are arcane and something akin to the IRS tax code but that's why there are rules officials roaming with every group. If the players don't know what to do, they ask the officials, before you do something regrettable, particularly, on the last hole of a major tournament as the leader. In this case, DJ did not ask. DJ hit the ball. DJ lost. It didn't have to be that way.

Moral of the story reminds me of what Ben Hogan said of his famous enduring mystery known as "The Secret" for how to play this maddening game well. Hogan wrote, "it isn't about weakening the left hand grip, or fanning the club open on the backswing, or cupping his left wrist inward at the top of the backswing that are the secrets, the true secret is having the mental toughness, self-control, focus that cannot be photographed." Golf continues to be 90% mental and 10% physical. Just ask DJ.

{I suggest to DJ, BB, and the young gun Nick Watneys on tour to read Curt Sampson's book, Hogan, and maybe they will agree with Steve Jones, the 1996 US Open Champion, when Steve said, "I couldn't have won the US Open without reading this book." I'm sure they can skim it on-line...the new age non-tactile non-stick approach to learning.}

The PGA returns to Whistling Straits in 2015 and a reporter asked Pete Dye, the fabulous yet devilish designer of Whistling Straits, what changes will occur from this confused outcome of the tourney? Without missing a beat and in his own Warren Buffett-style of speech giggled with eyes a-darting and said, "we'll add even more bunkers next time."

For Pete's sake...