Glass Houses

Here comes Tiger. What looked to be a lengthy hiatus turned out to be a 144 day look-repentant-and-get-ready-for-the-Masters blip in the TW continuum. Maybe we should have seen it coming. Maybe you did. I didn't.

Yesterday, Billy Payne, master Masters spokesman, gave a press conference which ended with a strange diatribe about Tiger's transgressions. He lectured philosophically about the great disappointment caused, both for this and future generations.

Why is it we feel like this is the stuff of public discourse? Doesn't it make relevant the sexual behaviour of every member of Augusta National? Shouldn't Mr. Payne have to answer to his own fidelity, now that he has called out the one golfer who brings more attention, and dollars, to his organization than any other? What business is it of his?

I love the Masters as much as anyone. I'll watch it end to end. I'll dream of someday playing a round there as I have since first laying eyes on it. I'll defend the place when critics decry its refusal to admit women. But this arrogance is too much. I stopped going to church when the hypocrisy of church leaders became unavoidably obvious and I certainly don't need Billy Payne to step into the void.

Any married person knows the pitfalls of fooling around. We also know the benefits, no matter how great the temptations, of being a faithful spouse.

I'd like to put one question to Mr. Payne. Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife?

Die Happy by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Pace of Play

Golf on television has never been wildly popular. Finding an audience that thrills to the sight of someone measuring a five-foot putt has always been a thankless challenge. Even Tiger, who single-handedly doubles ratings, can't lift them beyond a cooking show, and when he's absent they instantly plunge right back to the bottom of the pool.

Which is why I ask, can the PGA survive Jim Furyk? 

I'll say it for the record. I like old Jim. I admire the strange swing, the slightly grouchy demeanor, and the grind-it-out workingman's approach to the game. He shows up, goes about his business with a minimum of antics, and regularly finishes at or near the top of the leader board.

But this routine that has him eyeballing a putt from both sides, caddy swapping positions like a dance partner, then standing over the ball as if ready to hit it, then stepping away and repeating the entire choreography, then addressing the ball again and then waiting . . . waiting . . .

Excruciating is not too strong a word. Paint dries with more inherent entertainment value. You can almost hear the network pulling out their dwindling gray hairs, the 60 Minutes clock ticking, as he waves his putter three, four, five times beside the ball, seemingly summoning the courage to actually put it in motion.

Tiger's brief self-imposed exile comes to an end in a mere seven days. The unsavory questions will inevitably flow and the camera will, as it does whenever he is within a mile of a tournament, remain on him whether or not he's in contention. And however painful that strange fascination may be, remember, it could be worse.

And please, Jim, could you pick it up a little?

Die Happy by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Accidental Riches

One of the best things about golf is the accidental discovery of interesting humans. Sure there are occasions when the opening in your group is filled by someone who annoys, but more often you're paired with another stricken golf romantic very much like yourself.

When I first met Michele Sturla I was struck by his thick Italian accent and wonderful sense of style. He introduced himself as "Michael" but I heard in it the anglicized apology and before we'd walked the first fairway I'd extracted his given name, pronounced Mee-kay-lay, accent on the second. I asked him if he'd mind being referred to as such. "No, dot ees fine!"

We've played half a dozen times since, including today. He's in his mid-sixties, jet black hair, lean as a jockey, immensely strong, with a finesse rarely seen on a muni course. He is a picture of golf politesse, owing to his having caddied for a few Italian pros including Constantine Rocca. And man, can he play. He may be the only golfer with whom I play who not only carries a 1-iron but uses it to great effect. After receiving a compliment on a 170-yard left-to-right shot out of the rough that resulted in a birdie, he responds-- "I've been making dat shot seentz I wussa boy . . . "

But my favorite thing about him is his endless gratitude-- for my having called him to play, giving him a yardage, replacing a pin, you name it-- he's thankful. He smiles, cigarette dangling from his lips, and says, "You're too kind."

Really, I'm just grateful. You know how rare style is these days?

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Fool Proof Marketing Strategy

I'm a first time author so I'm learning a lot of new stuff about the publishing world. I always thought the order of events went something like-- book deal, writing, editing, marketing, sales. Turns out that's just not how it's done.

The real order is writing, rewriting, marketing, editing, book deal, sales. Well, maybe book deal and sales.

Okay, I'm new at this so I'm playing along.

Having completed three drafts, I am now embarking on the design of a marketing strategy. I know, I have no experience in the field but somehow this doesn't seem like enough to rule me out. A publishing house, I'm discovering, needs to be told by someone as ignorant as me how they, the acknowledged experts with gobs of experience, might best sell a book.

It's one crazy world I'm telling you.

Remember when full service was the only choice at a gas station? I'm thinking it's something like that.

Seems to me selling a book ought to be pretty much like selling anything else. You gotta catch their eye and offer them what it is they're looking for.

I haven't settled on any one idea yet but I'm thinking "bacon" should be in the title.


Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.
Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Personal Appearance

I am now ready to begin my prepared remarks. As previously announced, I will not be taking any questions.

As I stand here before my handpicked audience, I'd first like to say I am so sorry about the muzzles. But please understand, I couldn't take the chance that the air would be fouled with the sound of anyone else's voice, so beautiful and contrite is mine. And per the agreement you've all signed, please avert your eyes should my doleful gaze fall upon you as I deliver my amazing speech. When I look away, feel free to again stare at my awesome visage. I mean, who could blame you?

I would like to finally give my side of the story regarding the events of November 25, 2009. While it is true that I was admitted to the hospital that evening with a turkey leg in my ass, it is absolutely untrue that said entree was put there intentionally or otherwise by any member of my family. The media has had an absolute field day coming up with scenarios beginning with Thanksgiving dinner and ending with a turkey leg in my ass and I have only this to say. Leave my family alone.

What actually transpired was this. As my eldest son gave the blessing over the perfect feast prepared by my beautiful, faithful, and loving wife, a man appeared at our dining room window. The window was partially open to allow for ventilation. The man, a stranger, was holding a photograph of his ailing daughter, who happens to think I am just about the coolest thing on the planet.

"Please sign this for my stricken girl!' the shoddily dressed intruder said.

I leapt to the side door to satisfy the poor man's request, tripped on the Bible, accidently hit the button that releases the hounds, lost my grip on the turkey leg in question (that I had intended to give the malnourished fellow), tore my trouser bottoms, spun head over heels, and unluckily was impaled on old Tom's gam.

This hereby ends my remarks. I thank you for your attention and remind you that no good deed goes unpunished.

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Unfair Vanity

Some people holler incessantly and can't get noticed, others hide like fugitives and can't disappear.

Tiger's been gone for months but remains the number one hot topic of sites and blogs that cater to golf junkies. Television ratings have plummeted, and it's everything commentators can do to keep the analysis focused on who's playing rather than one golfer who might have been but isn't.

Tiger's talent explains some of our fascination. He has wowed us so many times we get hungry for another fix. We like to be reminded of what true excellence looks like.

But he demands attention by his absence almost as much as his participation. We feel like we know him. We thought we did. And until his prodigious appetites became public, we were able to assume they were . . . what? More like ours? And what exactly is that?

We're a horny unfaithful lot if you believe the polls. Why would we assume he be less so?

I think we, the public, are waiting to hear his voice-- to hear the sound of reckoning, humility, honesty, and embarrassment. Because while we're listening to him, we'll be hearing ourselves.

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com

Two Kinds of People

You'd like to think people are basically all the same, that whole love-your-brother thing, but really? There are truly only 2 kinds of people, people who prefer the stupid animal with the empty eyes and the idiot stare, and those who go for the dog.

Some causes are too important not to participate in.

Please visit:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Can-this-poodle-wearing-a-tinfoil-hat-get-more-fans-than-Glenn-Beck/334162806080?ref=nf

Rub Of The Green by Brock Walsh will, with a little luck, appear in bookstores soon.

Contact brockwalsh@gmail.com