While recovering from an existential crisis arising from VERY close look into the hateful reflection of the mirror, I desperately needed an excuse for living my failed life. I'd never again be an actuary, and was so ashamed for having tossed away the financial rewards of that career, I spent much time projecting how to explain to prospective employers WHY I was so over-qualified for the job I sought. Only I knew, that in what should have been my most triumphant time as an actuary, I had been tried, and found wanting. I was a sham, a fraud.
Totally depressed, unable to imagine a transfer of my skill set to another field, the only way I could see past my self-inflicted prison (a voluntary commitment) was to start over again, from the bottom, MacDonald's, Jewel, bus boy, etc. Afraid to engage life and living a fantasy world inside a crowded head, I'd mentally preview job interview scenarios. Every time the interviewer would see through my sham and banish me to the chthonnic depths. AUTHOR!
I was just some Joseph, looking for a manger, to create a clean heart and right spirit within me. My "solution" was to return to the places of my comfortable "triumphs" before my failings in the adult world. At least that's what I'm telling now, and it makes sense, and gives me a place from which to move forward, and a place to which I need not return.
Luckily, I found some outlets to eventually lift me out of the sewer of my self pity, doubt and despair. Like mom says, Action Alleviates Anxiety. I started to write letters.
My brother John phoned in 1986 to tell mom he had come down with the AIDS pneumonia, I answered the phone. Normally he and I would have spent time catching up. Not this night. "Hello Mark. I have to talk with mom." His voice said much more than his words. I called upstairs to let her know.
Twenty seconds later mom unleashed a cry of anguish. My fears were confirmed; my foreknowledge was accurate. My dear brother, my hero, was sick and sentenced to death. Why him Lord, and not me instead? What can I do for him? How can I ever tell him how much I love and admire him; how guilty I feel about commissioning him to deliver 35% of the Monday-Saturday paper route when we lived in Streator; how much easier my work was now that John had to deal with the two BIGGEST dogs on the route, while paying him a pittance -- 4.5% of my bounty.
I had exploited my own younger brother. Although, he WAS the most financially well off kid in second grade, what with his $0.15 a week allowance plus the $0.35 from the paper route. This is the lie all slave owners tell themselves -- how much better off their slaves are in their slavery than they would be if they were free. I see it so clearly now. I was a self-serving CHEAP LABOR Conservative (emblematic GOP man).
The mirror beckons.
I heed its call.
I dare to look.
My eyes burn.
My heart blackens.
My mind is repulsed.
No generosity of spirit
No sense of fair play
An exploiter
Woe is me.
Okay. Get over it Mark. Forgive yourself, and start treating people more fairly in your financial dealings. Sheesh, quit pretending to live a life in your own head. It's WAY to limiting a space, and not really all that interesting.
All thanks to You, Allah, for opening my eyes
For Your tender mercies,
For Your Kindness, Compassion
For Your Loving Forgiveness
For the insights You Grant even unto me
the least worthy of all your creatures
What could I do for my dying brother, to let him know? I know what I'll do. I'll write. And write him I did.
Totally depressed, unable to imagine a transfer of my skill set to another field, the only way I could see past my self-inflicted prison (a voluntary commitment) was to start over again, from the bottom, MacDonald's, Jewel, bus boy, etc. Afraid to engage life and living a fantasy world inside a crowded head, I'd mentally preview job interview scenarios. Every time the interviewer would see through my sham and banish me to the chthonnic depths. AUTHOR!
I was just some Joseph, looking for a manger, to create a clean heart and right spirit within me. My "solution" was to return to the places of my comfortable "triumphs" before my failings in the adult world. At least that's what I'm telling now, and it makes sense, and gives me a place from which to move forward, and a place to which I need not return.
Luckily, I found some outlets to eventually lift me out of the sewer of my self pity, doubt and despair. Like mom says, Action Alleviates Anxiety. I started to write letters.
My brother John phoned in 1986 to tell mom he had come down with the AIDS pneumonia, I answered the phone. Normally he and I would have spent time catching up. Not this night. "Hello Mark. I have to talk with mom." His voice said much more than his words. I called upstairs to let her know.
Twenty seconds later mom unleashed a cry of anguish. My fears were confirmed; my foreknowledge was accurate. My dear brother, my hero, was sick and sentenced to death. Why him Lord, and not me instead? What can I do for him? How can I ever tell him how much I love and admire him; how guilty I feel about commissioning him to deliver 35% of the Monday-Saturday paper route when we lived in Streator; how much easier my work was now that John had to deal with the two BIGGEST dogs on the route, while paying him a pittance -- 4.5% of my bounty.
I had exploited my own younger brother. Although, he WAS the most financially well off kid in second grade, what with his $0.15 a week allowance plus the $0.35 from the paper route. This is the lie all slave owners tell themselves -- how much better off their slaves are in their slavery than they would be if they were free. I see it so clearly now. I was a self-serving CHEAP LABOR Conservative (emblematic GOP man).
The mirror beckons.
I heed its call.
I dare to look.
My eyes burn.
My heart blackens.
My mind is repulsed.
No generosity of spirit
No sense of fair play
An exploiter
Woe is me.
Okay. Get over it Mark. Forgive yourself, and start treating people more fairly in your financial dealings. Sheesh, quit pretending to live a life in your own head. It's WAY to limiting a space, and not really all that interesting.
All thanks to You, Allah, for opening my eyes
For Your tender mercies,
For Your Kindness, Compassion
For Your Loving Forgiveness
For the insights You Grant even unto me
the least worthy of all your creatures
What could I do for my dying brother, to let him know? I know what I'll do. I'll write. And write him I did.
And I wrote from the heart
And I wrote from the soul
I did not know how well I wrote
It just made me whole
And I wrote from the soul
I did not know how well I wrote
It just made me whole
Here's a note I e-mailed to Dr. Charles O'Prian, my stats professor and advisor at Western Illinois University. Of the two stat guys, Dr O emphasized applied statistics. The other prof emphasized theoretical.
I have never been a theoretical mathematician. Not interested at all. Just tell me how to use the statistical tools to make sense of the numbers. I don't need to understand how to wire a computer to send e-mails, to research, or to blog. Just how I can use the machine to make my life more productive or more gratifying.
The work of theoreticians sometimes produces practical applications. Even Philosophy Ph.D.'s. If there were no place for them to do their theoretical studies, they might embrace politics, testing their theories in a venue where unimagined pain and misery can be inflicted on the proles.
Oh, wait. They already have; they already are.
Allah, grant that we might find political leaders
Who will use the power of their office
To help make our country a better country,
To help make our world a more peaceful world,
To help uplift the downtrodden,
To help ensure peace for our children's children's,
And for our children's children's children
Unto all the generations.
Oh Most Magnificent,
Oh Most Merciful
Oh Most Wise
If it be Thy Will.
Greetings Dr O, my all-time favorite math professor,
You'll be happy to know that what you imparted in the six statistics courses which I studied under you tutelage has born fruits of sweet favor in my life.
Some background. My parents and I didn't perceive a medical decision I made in the same light. (I stopped taking my meds last August, after a life-changing weekend in Galesburg). Things were intense around the household, and finally, the evening of the day of our local block party, during dinner with Chen, Yuhong & Ping, the Chinese couple living next door and Ping, Yuhong's cousin, who is doing post-graduate work in theoretical mathematics and the University of Chicago, I had had enough, got up from the dinner table, walked into my bedroom, put $257 cash in my pocket, and walked into town to take a train into Chicago, and then a train out to a very special tavern in Long Lake, Illinois, a suburb of Ingleside, which is itself a suburb of Fox Lake.
I wanted the advice of a young woman I had met there in May, 2000. Lisa, who works in the Lake County Courthouse in a clerical capacity, had at that time been kind and gracious enough to listen to my story. And upon hearing its completion, said not a word, but put her arms around me and gave me a gentle hug. It was what I needed, just when I needed it.
For the most part, the faces at the tavern were the same, except there was a new day manager, Robert Anthony. That tavern (Yvonne's, The Other Place) closed at 2 a.m., but would reopen at 6 a.m. I was seeking another place that would be open longer. Robert Anthony had Little Jay give me a ride to a biker bar Mecca in Fox Lake, the Dwight House, which was open until 3 a.m.
As the Dwight House was getting ready to close, I asked the bar maid for directions back to Yvonne's. This was self-defense, because I have the worst sense of night time direction ever bestowed upon a person who counts amongst his relative Quanah Parker, the was the last Chief of the Commanches who never lost a battle to the white man was the son of son of Comanche Chief Peta Nocona and Cynthia Ann Parker, a white girl taken captive during the 1836 raid on Parker's Fort, Texas. Cynthia Ann Parker was recaptured, along with her daughter, during an 1860 raid on the Pease River in northwest Texas. She had spent 24 years among the Comanche, however, and thus never readjusted to living with the whites again.
My Uncle Jim, First Lieutenant James Raymond Hockett, who was mortally wounded by enemy mortar fire near Tray Ningh, Vietnam, traced our family tree back to the Parkers, and Cynthia Ann Parker.
The bar maid didn't know the directions back to Long Lake, so she asked one of the patrons who had entered the bar just eight minutes before close. He came over to me and talked, and when he finally realized that I was on foot said, "I'll give you a ride."
I thanked him, and offered to buy him a beer. He replied, "No thanks, I've got enough," and Diogenese set down his lamp, and rested. And hopped in the back seat of the car, whilst this kind hearted, generous-spirited man advised his wife that they would be giving me a ride.
How many people do you know who can say these words with all there heart: "I've got enough."
I aspire to be that kind of man. I'm not there yet. But, I digress.
On Sunday, Lisa, whom the Lake County Courthouse people call "Counsellor" appeared, with her 14-year old daughter. I re-introduced myself, and described my stories, and asked for her counsel. There were two issues, one relating to the life-changing 46 hours in Galesburg, earlier in August. The other was how to convince my father to be less quick to judge, and pay attention to the realities on the ground.
About the issues with my father, Lisa said, "Mark, you have to understand. People communicate in one of three manners: by word, by touch, by sight. You need to determine what your father's primary modality of communication is, and reach out to him on that level."
Incredible advice. Immediately I knew what to do. I would start playing golf again, after a six and a half-year hiatus. I would play golf with my father. And I would kick his *ss. In preparation for the *ss-kicking, I took to practicing at the par three course nearby at the Barrington Park District. I still had "it", that elusive ability to strike a golf ball solidly, straight, to make six foot putts, and to chip close. I was ready to challenge him.
We played in a threesome with Dr. Jim Pride from our church congregation. Dad had a rugged front nine, and I birdied the fourth hole, a 180--yard par three, AND the eight hole, a tricky short 310-yard par four, with a small green. Damn near hit the fifth hole, a 380-yard par four that goes straight uphill in two, driver, driver. At the end of nine, I had shot 42, and dad struggled to 47.
At the end of nine, dad and Jim went into the club house to get some coffee and refresh and regroup. I was playing well (although, I must add, this was at Cary Country Club, the first course I ever broke 40 for nine on, back in September of 1964, when I came home from eight grade and asked dad, who was cleaning the gutters, if we could go play golf. There was a time, when he was the kind of father I have been to my son ... incapable of saying no to a heartfelt request to do something together. D*mn the leaves in the gutter.
On that September evening, with the sun setting ever earlier, we played what was then the back nine, par 37. But it was SHORT. Three par fives, 505, 475 and 565 years, and two very short par three, 310 and 295. It was a mountain goat course, but the short holes were all down hill. So was the 565-yard eighteenth hole. The sun had set when we got to eighteen, and I was two over par. You can play golf after sunset, provided the moon is full. There is a 12-minute window when the moon is out and the sun's rays still reflect off it, and visibility is not too bad, provided you can tell my feel, or perhaps sound, the direction your shot has been hit. When I hit it correctly, in those days, my shots went straight. I was not then yet strong enough to hook or snap hook the ball. That would change.
I held myself together, and put the ball on the green in regulation, the first time I'd ever done that. I two-putted for par, and 39.
So, in a sense, shooting 42, forty-two years after having first shot 39, at thirteen years old, could hardly be viewed as a triumph. Heck, when I was eighteen, I played that nine in four under par, 33, missing two birdie putts from inside eight feet. That was the most under par I've ever been for nine.
But, on the other hand, 42 beats chopped liver, and most of the scores I was posting (by a LOT) back when I gave up playing golf (for the umpteenth time) in April of 2000.
While waiting for Ralph (dad, whom you met) and Jim, I decided it was time to do some MAJOR stretching exercises, to really extend those big muscles of the shoulders. Incroyable!! I pulled a muscle near my rib cage. Imbecile! I couldn't make a decent follow through. Ended up making four double bogies on the back nine and only one par, to finish with 47, for an 89 total. Dad shot 41 to beat me by a stroke.
The next time out, we played with Paul Stunkel, the minister of Joy Presbyterian Church in Huntley. I've played bridge against Paul for about fourteen years, and had only recently overheard of his passion for golf. We went to Boone Creek Country Club. And I bested my dad by a stroke. (Something like 87 to 88). Once again, he struggled.
So, I assumed he would never beat me again. Although this was not a particularly good statistical assumption, given that I had beaten him MAYBE four times in my life prior to the Boone Creek round.
Let's just say, we played about 40 more times, up until January 13. And I was triumphant on but one of those occasions. "You kicked my b*tt," he said, with pride for my accomplishment. "Don't let it happen again." But he went and bragged on me to mom, and told his friends too.
And I just kept getting better and better. But no matter how well I played, he always found a way to win, sometimes he'd birdie the last two holes and I'd bogey them both. Four shot swing, Ralph wins by one. Whatever, it didn't matter. He always found a way.
But in that January besting, there was the taste of dust and rust in my mouth. Yes, I had a lower score, but how many times do you think I out-drove my 78-year old father? ZERO. Not once. Not once. Not one single time. Oh, the embarrassment.
And then winter slapped us back into reality. What a winter. But by mid-March, things were nice enough for a crazy golf-addicted idiot (that would be ME) to pick up the sticks, and start whacking at it again.
Dad has more common sense than I, and usually didn't play in the 30's, when the winds were whipping. But those elements didn't stop me. So, I established some good habits, learned to relax on the course (mostly), and developed a warm up drill before teeing off: Hit six full sand wedges (the heaviest club in the bag). Start by the fifth green, aiming towards the tee. Hit three, and then hit them back. Then hit three chips from the frinnge. Finish off with three two-futt putts, each separated by 120 degrees of the compass. Now, go to the first tee, and remember to RELAX, GRIP, ALIGN, and make a SMOOTH PASS in TEMPO.
That's a lot of swing keys, but, if I first get relaxed, I don't have to think about that anymore. If my grip is correct, that's checked off. If my alignment is square / parallel to target, then all I have to think about is that last swing key -- Smooth Pass in Tempo.
So, you're probably wondering ... when (if ever) in the world is this rambling former actuary going to get around to applying statistics to golf?
My game's pretty good, EXCEPT for two clubs, one of which I can do without (my 8-iron; but who needs it? I can use a reverse Vardon grip and take about ten yards off my 7-iron, which is my best iron, by far, and voila, got that 8-iron distance covered). The other, sadly, is my driver. (Putter doesn't count. Some days I make em, some days I don't .. although I really need to develop a consistent pre-stroke routine with my putter and apply it all the time ... sometimes, when I'm striking the ball well, I don't give a d*mn about my putts, OR my score. I once hit seventeen out of eighteen greens at the Village Green Golf Course in Mundelein, and shot six over par ... including a four-putt; and it didn't bother me in the least, I was hitting the ball so well. Couldn't WAIT to get to the next tee. Hurry up and putt; hurry up and miss.
The other club is my driver. I've been carrying two of them. A big headed Big Bertha, which I use when I want to SLICE the ball a lot. There's a 220-yard par three at the Barrington Park District Course, out-of-bounds left, trees right, and trees blocking the sight lines to the green .. TALL trees blocking the sight lines. I can use the Big Bertha, and especially when the prevailing wind, which is left to right, blows, I just take BB out, aim her over the railroad tracks, open the face of the club, relax, and let it rip. IF I make solid connection, I can use the wind to carry it on the green. Which I have done twice. Having played the hole, well, 100's of times. And the last time I drove it on the green, well, it was my third shot, because my original drive ... DID NOT CUT BACK, and was O.B. But, I did make the putt, a four the hard way.
But, into the wind, the Big Bertha is simply NOT the club for me. A high slice is particularly ineffective, into the wind. So, I carry a smaller headed driver, which I have not been particularly consistent with ... no, wait, make that, have been consistently BAD with. So bad, that I can hit my 21 degree five metal about as far as the driver.
Dad makes golf clubs. Has made thousands of them, maybe 10's of thousands. We've got a dozen drivers downstairs.
SO ... my statistical study involved taking two of the small-headed drivers, going to a practice area, and seeing which one went the farthest, OR which one of the two drivers went the most consistently. The difference between the two drivers is the length of the shaft. One is 44 inches, the other 43.
My statistical experiment invovled hitting about thirty full sand wedges to get into the groove. Then select 16 golf balls. Eight of them yellow or orange, and eight of them white. Hit a yellow ball. Switch drivers. Hit a white ball. Switch drivers. Hit, repeat, hit repeat. Eggregious shots .. well, those got do-overs.
Then go out align the balls, which are color coded, and make a determination as to which (if either) driver works best. If only I had brought pencil and paper, I could have written down the results, and quantified the distances. But, alas, I failed (for neither the first, nor likely the last time) to be fully prepared. So, non-parametric tests were in order, non-parametric tests of the ocular kind. Non-parametric encounters of the Ocular Kind ... nice title for an advanced math text book, covering non-parametric statistics AND binocular elliptical visual space (my father's FAVORITE math topic, geometry was his speciality, was the Sequari quadrilateral, the applied results of such theory, wherein by assuming that the sums of the angles of a triangle can have either greater than or less than 180 degrees, explain why when stands upon and looks down railroad tracks, the tracks appear to converge. Nice to have a rigorous theoretical construct from which to explain observable phenomenon. Math majors of the world UNITE! We are very relevant.
So, the shorter driver was the winner. And I was just about to leave it at that, when I had another thought. How does Big Bertha compare to the shorter smaller headed driver?
The results were tallied. Big Bertha compares NOT WELL AT ALL.
Okay, toss Big Bertha, carry just one driver, and seriously consider to the real source of my driver problems, which reside between my ears!
May the Spring, Summer and Fall golf seasons in Macomb
bring great joy to your heart, uplift and delight and inspire you.
May the game of golf render unto you warm fellowship,
and permit you to win the biggest of all golf competitions,
the battle within yourself.
Peace and blessings upon you and your house, my dear Dr. O.
Mark Ganzer
How I spent my run away from home weekend last August: slept outside, under the stars, in the woods. in warm dry weather. Met a lot of very nice non-judgmental people. Started writing poetry again. Returning to my roots, the things I loved as a child. Allowing for the creation of a clean heart within me.
My Uncle Jim, First Lieutenant James Raymond Hockett, who was mortally wounded by enemy mortar fire near Tray Ningh, Vietnam, traced our family tree back to the Parkers, and Cynthia Ann Parker.
The bar maid didn't know the directions back to Long Lake, so she asked one of the patrons who had entered the bar just eight minutes before close. He came over to me and talked, and when he finally realized that I was on foot said, "I'll give you a ride."
I thanked him, and offered to buy him a beer. He replied, "No thanks, I've got enough," and Diogenese set down his lamp, and rested. And hopped in the back seat of the car, whilst this kind hearted, generous-spirited man advised his wife that they would be giving me a ride.
How many people do you know who can say these words with all there heart: "I've got enough."
I aspire to be that kind of man. I'm not there yet. But, I digress.
On Sunday, Lisa, whom the Lake County Courthouse people call "Counsellor" appeared, with her 14-year old daughter. I re-introduced myself, and described my stories, and asked for her counsel. There were two issues, one relating to the life-changing 46 hours in Galesburg, earlier in August. The other was how to convince my father to be less quick to judge, and pay attention to the realities on the ground.
About the issues with my father, Lisa said, "Mark, you have to understand. People communicate in one of three manners: by word, by touch, by sight. You need to determine what your father's primary modality of communication is, and reach out to him on that level."
Incredible advice. Immediately I knew what to do. I would start playing golf again, after a six and a half-year hiatus. I would play golf with my father. And I would kick his *ss. In preparation for the *ss-kicking, I took to practicing at the par three course nearby at the Barrington Park District. I still had "it", that elusive ability to strike a golf ball solidly, straight, to make six foot putts, and to chip close. I was ready to challenge him.
We played in a threesome with Dr. Jim Pride from our church congregation. Dad had a rugged front nine, and I birdied the fourth hole, a 180--yard par three, AND the eight hole, a tricky short 310-yard par four, with a small green. Damn near hit the fifth hole, a 380-yard par four that goes straight uphill in two, driver, driver. At the end of nine, I had shot 42, and dad struggled to 47.
At the end of nine, dad and Jim went into the club house to get some coffee and refresh and regroup. I was playing well (although, I must add, this was at Cary Country Club, the first course I ever broke 40 for nine on, back in September of 1964, when I came home from eight grade and asked dad, who was cleaning the gutters, if we could go play golf. There was a time, when he was the kind of father I have been to my son ... incapable of saying no to a heartfelt request to do something together. D*mn the leaves in the gutter.
On that September evening, with the sun setting ever earlier, we played what was then the back nine, par 37. But it was SHORT. Three par fives, 505, 475 and 565 years, and two very short par three, 310 and 295. It was a mountain goat course, but the short holes were all down hill. So was the 565-yard eighteenth hole. The sun had set when we got to eighteen, and I was two over par. You can play golf after sunset, provided the moon is full. There is a 12-minute window when the moon is out and the sun's rays still reflect off it, and visibility is not too bad, provided you can tell my feel, or perhaps sound, the direction your shot has been hit. When I hit it correctly, in those days, my shots went straight. I was not then yet strong enough to hook or snap hook the ball. That would change.
I held myself together, and put the ball on the green in regulation, the first time I'd ever done that. I two-putted for par, and 39.
So, in a sense, shooting 42, forty-two years after having first shot 39, at thirteen years old, could hardly be viewed as a triumph. Heck, when I was eighteen, I played that nine in four under par, 33, missing two birdie putts from inside eight feet. That was the most under par I've ever been for nine.
But, on the other hand, 42 beats chopped liver, and most of the scores I was posting (by a LOT) back when I gave up playing golf (for the umpteenth time) in April of 2000.
While waiting for Ralph (dad, whom you met) and Jim, I decided it was time to do some MAJOR stretching exercises, to really extend those big muscles of the shoulders. Incroyable!! I pulled a muscle near my rib cage. Imbecile! I couldn't make a decent follow through. Ended up making four double bogies on the back nine and only one par, to finish with 47, for an 89 total. Dad shot 41 to beat me by a stroke.
The next time out, we played with Paul Stunkel, the minister of Joy Presbyterian Church in Huntley. I've played bridge against Paul for about fourteen years, and had only recently overheard of his passion for golf. We went to Boone Creek Country Club. And I bested my dad by a stroke. (Something like 87 to 88). Once again, he struggled.
So, I assumed he would never beat me again. Although this was not a particularly good statistical assumption, given that I had beaten him MAYBE four times in my life prior to the Boone Creek round.
Let's just say, we played about 40 more times, up until January 13. And I was triumphant on but one of those occasions. "You kicked my b*tt," he said, with pride for my accomplishment. "Don't let it happen again." But he went and bragged on me to mom, and told his friends too.
And I just kept getting better and better. But no matter how well I played, he always found a way to win, sometimes he'd birdie the last two holes and I'd bogey them both. Four shot swing, Ralph wins by one. Whatever, it didn't matter. He always found a way.
But in that January besting, there was the taste of dust and rust in my mouth. Yes, I had a lower score, but how many times do you think I out-drove my 78-year old father? ZERO. Not once. Not once. Not one single time. Oh, the embarrassment.
And then winter slapped us back into reality. What a winter. But by mid-March, things were nice enough for a crazy golf-addicted idiot (that would be ME) to pick up the sticks, and start whacking at it again.
Dad has more common sense than I, and usually didn't play in the 30's, when the winds were whipping. But those elements didn't stop me. So, I established some good habits, learned to relax on the course (mostly), and developed a warm up drill before teeing off: Hit six full sand wedges (the heaviest club in the bag). Start by the fifth green, aiming towards the tee. Hit three, and then hit them back. Then hit three chips from the frinnge. Finish off with three two-futt putts, each separated by 120 degrees of the compass. Now, go to the first tee, and remember to RELAX, GRIP, ALIGN, and make a SMOOTH PASS in TEMPO.
That's a lot of swing keys, but, if I first get relaxed, I don't have to think about that anymore. If my grip is correct, that's checked off. If my alignment is square / parallel to target, then all I have to think about is that last swing key -- Smooth Pass in Tempo.
So, you're probably wondering ... when (if ever) in the world is this rambling former actuary going to get around to applying statistics to golf?
My game's pretty good, EXCEPT for two clubs, one of which I can do without (my 8-iron; but who needs it? I can use a reverse Vardon grip and take about ten yards off my 7-iron, which is my best iron, by far, and voila, got that 8-iron distance covered). The other, sadly, is my driver. (Putter doesn't count. Some days I make em, some days I don't .. although I really need to develop a consistent pre-stroke routine with my putter and apply it all the time ... sometimes, when I'm striking the ball well, I don't give a d*mn about my putts, OR my score. I once hit seventeen out of eighteen greens at the Village Green Golf Course in Mundelein, and shot six over par ... including a four-putt; and it didn't bother me in the least, I was hitting the ball so well. Couldn't WAIT to get to the next tee. Hurry up and putt; hurry up and miss.
The other club is my driver. I've been carrying two of them. A big headed Big Bertha, which I use when I want to SLICE the ball a lot. There's a 220-yard par three at the Barrington Park District Course, out-of-bounds left, trees right, and trees blocking the sight lines to the green .. TALL trees blocking the sight lines. I can use the Big Bertha, and especially when the prevailing wind, which is left to right, blows, I just take BB out, aim her over the railroad tracks, open the face of the club, relax, and let it rip. IF I make solid connection, I can use the wind to carry it on the green. Which I have done twice. Having played the hole, well, 100's of times. And the last time I drove it on the green, well, it was my third shot, because my original drive ... DID NOT CUT BACK, and was O.B. But, I did make the putt, a four the hard way.
But, into the wind, the Big Bertha is simply NOT the club for me. A high slice is particularly ineffective, into the wind. So, I carry a smaller headed driver, which I have not been particularly consistent with ... no, wait, make that, have been consistently BAD with. So bad, that I can hit my 21 degree five metal about as far as the driver.
Dad makes golf clubs. Has made thousands of them, maybe 10's of thousands. We've got a dozen drivers downstairs.
SO ... my statistical study involved taking two of the small-headed drivers, going to a practice area, and seeing which one went the farthest, OR which one of the two drivers went the most consistently. The difference between the two drivers is the length of the shaft. One is 44 inches, the other 43.
My statistical experiment invovled hitting about thirty full sand wedges to get into the groove. Then select 16 golf balls. Eight of them yellow or orange, and eight of them white. Hit a yellow ball. Switch drivers. Hit a white ball. Switch drivers. Hit, repeat, hit repeat. Eggregious shots .. well, those got do-overs.
Then go out align the balls, which are color coded, and make a determination as to which (if either) driver works best. If only I had brought pencil and paper, I could have written down the results, and quantified the distances. But, alas, I failed (for neither the first, nor likely the last time) to be fully prepared. So, non-parametric tests were in order, non-parametric tests of the ocular kind. Non-parametric encounters of the Ocular Kind ... nice title for an advanced math text book, covering non-parametric statistics AND binocular elliptical visual space (my father's FAVORITE math topic, geometry was his speciality, was the Sequari quadrilateral, the applied results of such theory, wherein by assuming that the sums of the angles of a triangle can have either greater than or less than 180 degrees, explain why when stands upon and looks down railroad tracks, the tracks appear to converge. Nice to have a rigorous theoretical construct from which to explain observable phenomenon. Math majors of the world UNITE! We are very relevant.
So, the shorter driver was the winner. And I was just about to leave it at that, when I had another thought. How does Big Bertha compare to the shorter smaller headed driver?
The results were tallied. Big Bertha compares NOT WELL AT ALL.
Okay, toss Big Bertha, carry just one driver, and seriously consider to the real source of my driver problems, which reside between my ears!
May the Spring, Summer and Fall golf seasons in Macomb
bring great joy to your heart, uplift and delight and inspire you.
May the game of golf render unto you warm fellowship,
and permit you to win the biggest of all golf competitions,
the battle within yourself.
Peace and blessings upon you and your house, my dear Dr. O.
Mark Ganzer
How I spent my run away from home weekend last August: slept outside, under the stars, in the woods. in warm dry weather. Met a lot of very nice non-judgmental people. Started writing poetry again. Returning to my roots, the things I loved as a child. Allowing for the creation of a clean heart within me.
Today, hell hath no power o'er me
and the world holds no attraction.
MEDITATION ON FEAR & BELIEF
There are some days, sadly few,
but recently more frequently occurring,
when I seem to breech the barrier built by humankind,
ever thicker and ever higher, which prevents us
from sensing the touch and guiding hand of the divine.
But these past few days I've felt, aye, e’en seen,
the hand of the Creator, gently on my shoulder,
guiding me in His pathways.
I do not resist.
I am open to all possibilities.
It was always thus, I believe.
It was always thus, I fear.
In the child's soft fresh openness to the universe,
I believe,
having watched my son grow in wonderment,
grow in delight, and grow in love,
the presence of the Divine surrounds, and glows;
sings beauteous melodies and choral anthems --
the lullaby of the cricket,
the woodpecker's wake up knock,
the call of the gently flowing stream,
the power and grandeur of the lightning bolt.
It was always thus, I believe.
It was always thus, I fear.
I believe for I have seen God's glowing love
reflected in my son's mirthful eyes.
I fear for I remember not my own childhood's wonderment.
I believe, for no other explanation fits the facts --
and this is good.
I fear, for no other explanation fits the facts --
and this is not good --
that I once held the universe in a grain of sand
in my small child hand
and cannot remember.
I believe, for to not believe means
that death conquers all.
And greedily, for to not believe means
that death conquers all.
At one time, I must have known that
love is, was and ever will be the answer.
At one time, I must have chosen to forget that
love is, was and ever will be the answer.
Aye, the world's pleasures and temptations o’er came me.
I believer, I fear.
I fear I believe -- for reasons all wrong.
And to believe for reasons all wrong means
that death conquers all.
And yet,
There are days
When I breach the barrier
And feel the touch of the Divine guiding me.
And I am open, to all possibilities.
I believe, I fear.
I fear, I believe.
And since I cannot reconcile these outliers,
I choose instead
the middle path.
I choose to hope.
To hope to be a follower of The Way.
and the world holds no attraction.
MEDITATION ON FEAR & BELIEF
There are some days, sadly few,
but recently more frequently occurring,
when I seem to breech the barrier built by humankind,
ever thicker and ever higher, which prevents us
from sensing the touch and guiding hand of the divine.
But these past few days I've felt, aye, e’en seen,
the hand of the Creator, gently on my shoulder,
guiding me in His pathways.
I do not resist.
I am open to all possibilities.
It was always thus, I believe.
It was always thus, I fear.
In the child's soft fresh openness to the universe,
I believe,
having watched my son grow in wonderment,
grow in delight, and grow in love,
the presence of the Divine surrounds, and glows;
sings beauteous melodies and choral anthems --
the lullaby of the cricket,
the woodpecker's wake up knock,
the call of the gently flowing stream,
the power and grandeur of the lightning bolt.
It was always thus, I believe.
It was always thus, I fear.
I believe for I have seen God's glowing love
reflected in my son's mirthful eyes.
I fear for I remember not my own childhood's wonderment.
I believe, for no other explanation fits the facts --
and this is good.
I fear, for no other explanation fits the facts --
and this is not good --
that I once held the universe in a grain of sand
in my small child hand
and cannot remember.
I believe, for to not believe means
that death conquers all.
And greedily, for to not believe means
that death conquers all.
At one time, I must have known that
love is, was and ever will be the answer.
At one time, I must have chosen to forget that
love is, was and ever will be the answer.
Aye, the world's pleasures and temptations o’er came me.
I believer, I fear.
I fear I believe -- for reasons all wrong.
And to believe for reasons all wrong means
that death conquers all.
And yet,
There are days
When I breach the barrier
And feel the touch of the Divine guiding me.
And I am open, to all possibilities.
I believe, I fear.
I fear, I believe.
And since I cannot reconcile these outliers,
I choose instead
the middle path.
I choose to hope.
To hope to be a follower of The Way.
........Monday, August 28, 2006
........After a weekend in God's country where
........an alien, I was not.
........After a weekend in God's country where
........an alien, I was not.
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