I remember taking my SAT exams.
It still gives me nightmares.
I mean, I wasn't ever an exceptional student and I never tested well. School, as far back as I can remember, was a social gathering where I accidentally learned a few things, maybe through proximity and osmosis more than anything else.
Some stuff even today escapes me. I was never comfortable with numbers, so anything mathematical was foreign to me, and still is. To this day, I have no clue why they ("They" being the system) tried to teach me algebra, armed for numerical combat as I was with a protractor and slide rule (Wait, that's geometry. Another stumbling block). I guess it was part of being the well-rounded liberal arts college-bound student.
But you still needed to take the SATs (we never heard of ACT in our neighborhood) to get into college.
It's basically impossible to study for the Scholastic Aptitude Tests. I think the exams are more geared toward aptitude than knowledge anyway. I don't know. Maybe that's the point for some schools of higher education.
I still don't know why I had to figure out how a train traveling east at X miles per hour will arrive at a destination at a particular time when a train traveling west at Y miles per hour does something totally inexplicable. So how fast are they going. Huh? (I probably left that one blank, my deductive reasoning being what it is).
I don't remember what my scores were, but they weren't great. I think I took the exams twice, because it was on a chart somewhere (probably in some college) that scores were generally higher when you took the test the second time around. (It also sounds like a scam).
I think my score actually dropped the second time. In theory, if I had taken the exam a third time, I probably could have tested my way out of college.
I mention all of this in light of the recent SAT scandal where well-to-do parents have been criminally charged with gaming the system to get their kids into prestigious schools by bribing coaches and educators. In some cases, they appear to be spending more money to bend the system than it would cost them in tuition.
At the same time, by cheating their kids' way into school, they're most likely knocking out somebody who's actually done the work to qualify for admission. It's been suggested that at least 700 people could be involved in a scam that goes back at least a decade. Stay tuned.
And it's a scandal with implications everywhere: what does it say about parenting? Elitism? Legacy? Affirmative action? Education? Simple morality? Money? No money?
As it turned out, I did go to college, a place called Kutztown State College (it's now a university) in Pennsylvania that focused on producing teachers and, primarily, art teachers. I went with the idea of becoming a secondary ed history teacher, but soon discovered that I didn't want to stand in front of a class of students who probably had higher SATs than I did.
So I switched to liberal arts English with the idea of becoming a sports writer, even though the school did not offer journalism in its curriculum. I learned (and earned) my keep with on the job training.
This was 1969 to 1973. Kutztown, nestled deep in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, was a state school and I was a commuter student. It took me 90 minutes round trip each day to drive back and forth to school, and I did that for all four years. My first semester tuition, because it was a state school and I didn't live on campus, was $50. By my final semester four years later, tuition had skyrocketed to $350.
My parents contributed toward the gas and insurance for my car, which happened to be a red 1965 Volkswagen Beetle. Fahrvergnugen, y'all. I think it was the only parental helicoptering they did as I went off to learn things about life that were not mathematical for myself.
I had a part-time job each summer (and sometimes into the scholastic year) that paid for my books and tuition. Kutztown will never be confused with the Ivy League, and I will never be confused with an actual scholar.
The prestige of going to Kutztown, as it turns out, was that it somehow prepared me to be to be a productive and functioning member of society, and we didn't have to bend the rules to do it.
It also turns out it wasn't that difficult.
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Sunday, March 10, 2019
Blue Eyed Bettys redux
The first clue we had that something might be a little different was the electric keyboard sitting stage left.
That confused me for a moment as we were finding our seats. The Blue Eyed Bettys are, on most nights, a three-piece string band featuring Ben Mackel on guitar, Sarah Hund on fiddle (or is it violin? I guess it depends on how you play it: in my mind, it's a violin for classical music, but it's a fiddle when the catgut smolders. Sarah makes the catgut smolder), and Daniel Emond on banjo.
Then I remembered what Sarah told me a couple years ago: that as good as Daniel is on the banjo, he's unbelievable on the keyboards. So, OK, I'm ready.
The second clue we had was the upright bass laying on its side, stage right. I knew the Bettys used a bassist on occasion, and apparently, this was going to be one of those nights. Oh, boy. As it turned out, the bassist was somebody named Kroy Presley from Charlotte. And, as Sarah told me, he just happens to share – albeit distantly – a bit of DNA with some guy named Elvis. For real.
The third clue we had was that the intimate Muddy Creek Music Hall in Bethania was sold out for Friday night's show. I've never been to this venue before when it was sold out. Usually, the Bettys attract a comfortable following that allows for some elbow room, but this was different. They were going to play for a full house, including about a dozen or so Betty first-timers.
I've written about the Bettys before, but just for a refresher recall that all three are primarily stage actors based out of New York City and who met serendipitously while doing a theater production in Florida a while back. They essentially have a second home in the Piedmont, I think in part because Daniel is a graduate of the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. Also, Ben – a graduate of Salisbury's Catawba College – currently lives in Asheville, soaking up all the Blue Ridge inspiration that endlessly trickles down the mountain from that eclectic artist colony. Plus, he once was a resident actor at the Barter Theater in nearby Abingdon, VA., for eight years, so there's that.
Sarah is a force of nature unto herself, with a beautifully evocative and dynamic voice that can elicit chill bumps one moment and then tenderly caress the emotional heart nanoseconds later. She's remarkable.
As for Kim and myself, it had been two years since we last saw the Bettys perform and we just couldn't wait.
So when the music began, it was as if the universe had moved into perfect alignment. Their signature harmonies were tight, their musicianship was mind-blowing, and their stage banter and audience repartee were both witty and charming. These guys are really quick on their feet. I didn't realize how much we missed them until they started performing.
The set list included an even mixture of self-written original tunes (some with hysterical lyrics) to familiar goodies like "Landslide," "Crayola Doesn't Make a Color for Your Eyes," "Ain't No Sunshine," and "I've Just Seen a Face."
They've been performing together now for about six or seven years (interrupted, as they are, by their other projects) and I'm thinking that, even so, the quality of their shows has reached a level that exceeds fine tuning. I don't know how they do it.
I just hope it doesn't take two more years before we see them again.
That confused me for a moment as we were finding our seats. The Blue Eyed Bettys are, on most nights, a three-piece string band featuring Ben Mackel on guitar, Sarah Hund on fiddle (or is it violin? I guess it depends on how you play it: in my mind, it's a violin for classical music, but it's a fiddle when the catgut smolders. Sarah makes the catgut smolder), and Daniel Emond on banjo.
 |
| From left: Ben, Daniel, Sarah and Kroy. Blue eyes all... |
The second clue we had was the upright bass laying on its side, stage right. I knew the Bettys used a bassist on occasion, and apparently, this was going to be one of those nights. Oh, boy. As it turned out, the bassist was somebody named Kroy Presley from Charlotte. And, as Sarah told me, he just happens to share – albeit distantly – a bit of DNA with some guy named Elvis. For real.
The third clue we had was that the intimate Muddy Creek Music Hall in Bethania was sold out for Friday night's show. I've never been to this venue before when it was sold out. Usually, the Bettys attract a comfortable following that allows for some elbow room, but this was different. They were going to play for a full house, including about a dozen or so Betty first-timers.
I've written about the Bettys before, but just for a refresher recall that all three are primarily stage actors based out of New York City and who met serendipitously while doing a theater production in Florida a while back. They essentially have a second home in the Piedmont, I think in part because Daniel is a graduate of the North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem. Also, Ben – a graduate of Salisbury's Catawba College – currently lives in Asheville, soaking up all the Blue Ridge inspiration that endlessly trickles down the mountain from that eclectic artist colony. Plus, he once was a resident actor at the Barter Theater in nearby Abingdon, VA., for eight years, so there's that.
Sarah is a force of nature unto herself, with a beautifully evocative and dynamic voice that can elicit chill bumps one moment and then tenderly caress the emotional heart nanoseconds later. She's remarkable.
As for Kim and myself, it had been two years since we last saw the Bettys perform and we just couldn't wait.
So when the music began, it was as if the universe had moved into perfect alignment. Their signature harmonies were tight, their musicianship was mind-blowing, and their stage banter and audience repartee were both witty and charming. These guys are really quick on their feet. I didn't realize how much we missed them until they started performing.
The set list included an even mixture of self-written original tunes (some with hysterical lyrics) to familiar goodies like "Landslide," "Crayola Doesn't Make a Color for Your Eyes," "Ain't No Sunshine," and "I've Just Seen a Face."
They've been performing together now for about six or seven years (interrupted, as they are, by their other projects) and I'm thinking that, even so, the quality of their shows has reached a level that exceeds fine tuning. I don't know how they do it.
I just hope it doesn't take two more years before we see them again.
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Oklahoma!
I had my socks blown off last night.
Kim and I did something we've never done before in our nearly 39 years of married life together.
(Got your interest now, huh?)
We went to see a high school musical. In fact, we went to see the Lexington Senior High School production of Oklahoma!
We went primarily because Emma West, the daughter of our friends, Billy and Stacy West, had a leading role in the show. She played Laurey Williams.
Did she ever.
We only know Emma peripherally because, as a teenager, she runs in vastly different circles than we do. She's worried about where she's going to college while we worry about whether or not we're getting a tax refund this year; she's worried about maintaining her lofty GPA while we're worried about how we're going to pay for getting our house painted. Stuff like that.
So when we do see Emma, it's usually in a social setting, like at a neighborhood party sitting around a fire pit, eating S'mores. "Hi, Emma, how's school going?" we'll ask. She'll answer, we smile, and our social spheres slowly drift apart from there.
But we knew she was involved in theater and we knew she was a pretty good dancer. And we were very curious about her role in Oklahoma!
So we went.
I don't think we expected this. Emma, from the very first note she sang (she sings? She sings like that?) was powerful, confident, and assured. Stage presence and nuance were everywhere, from her spoken lines to her ballet steps. She brought tears to our eyes because the depth of her talent was a joy to behold. Suddenly, our little circle went from "We know this girl" to "We KNOW this girl." She was an eye-opening surprise, and we took pride in her performance in that way you can take pride in somebody else's kid.
It was a wow moment.
Now, before I get too carried away, let me point out that virtually the entire ensemble – nearly 40 students – was magnificent. They might change my mind about seeing future high school productions. Kinsey Calderone, a freshman, was spectacular as Ado Annie. Dymond Robinson, a junior, was perfect as Aunt Eller. Geizi Romero Hernandez, another junior, was awesome as Curly, the male lead, and Devon Burns, a senior, nailed it as Will Parker. Franco Stumbo, a sophomore, was great as the peddler Ali Hakeem.
The production (which was physical at times, featuring one-handed cartwheels, elevated trust falls and high-flying somersaults) was fantastic, from the actors to the seven-piece orchestra. Stacy Sosebee-West, Emma's mother, made the costumes herself. There must have been 100 of them. I'm shaking my head in wonder.
But there are a couple other things to note here. As you may have noticed by many of the surnames, there was great diversity in this cast. At least 15 nationalities took part in this play about an American territory on the verge of American statehood. Let that tell you something. These kids are the future of Davidson County, hear them roar.
The quality of the production also brought some focus on the Lexington school system itself. Traditionally, it's the athletic teams that tend to be a reflection of a school's heartbeat. But the arts can be a part of that, too. We generally don't see that because high school stage productions don't usually take place twice a week for three months of the year.
But the arts are our common voice to help express our vast diversity and points of view. LSHS is a melting pot that perhaps makes the community a little stronger, a little deeper, a little more tolerant. Stir constantly. Add spice. Taste occasionally.
I'll get off my own stage now. I need to find some socks.
Kim and I did something we've never done before in our nearly 39 years of married life together.
(Got your interest now, huh?)
We went to see a high school musical. In fact, we went to see the Lexington Senior High School production of Oklahoma!
We went primarily because Emma West, the daughter of our friends, Billy and Stacy West, had a leading role in the show. She played Laurey Williams.
We only know Emma peripherally because, as a teenager, she runs in vastly different circles than we do. She's worried about where she's going to college while we worry about whether or not we're getting a tax refund this year; she's worried about maintaining her lofty GPA while we're worried about how we're going to pay for getting our house painted. Stuff like that.
So when we do see Emma, it's usually in a social setting, like at a neighborhood party sitting around a fire pit, eating S'mores. "Hi, Emma, how's school going?" we'll ask. She'll answer, we smile, and our social spheres slowly drift apart from there.
But we knew she was involved in theater and we knew she was a pretty good dancer. And we were very curious about her role in Oklahoma!
So we went.
I don't think we expected this. Emma, from the very first note she sang (she sings? She sings like that?) was powerful, confident, and assured. Stage presence and nuance were everywhere, from her spoken lines to her ballet steps. She brought tears to our eyes because the depth of her talent was a joy to behold. Suddenly, our little circle went from "We know this girl" to "We KNOW this girl." She was an eye-opening surprise, and we took pride in her performance in that way you can take pride in somebody else's kid.
It was a wow moment.
Now, before I get too carried away, let me point out that virtually the entire ensemble – nearly 40 students – was magnificent. They might change my mind about seeing future high school productions. Kinsey Calderone, a freshman, was spectacular as Ado Annie. Dymond Robinson, a junior, was perfect as Aunt Eller. Geizi Romero Hernandez, another junior, was awesome as Curly, the male lead, and Devon Burns, a senior, nailed it as Will Parker. Franco Stumbo, a sophomore, was great as the peddler Ali Hakeem.
The production (which was physical at times, featuring one-handed cartwheels, elevated trust falls and high-flying somersaults) was fantastic, from the actors to the seven-piece orchestra. Stacy Sosebee-West, Emma's mother, made the costumes herself. There must have been 100 of them. I'm shaking my head in wonder.
But there are a couple other things to note here. As you may have noticed by many of the surnames, there was great diversity in this cast. At least 15 nationalities took part in this play about an American territory on the verge of American statehood. Let that tell you something. These kids are the future of Davidson County, hear them roar.
The quality of the production also brought some focus on the Lexington school system itself. Traditionally, it's the athletic teams that tend to be a reflection of a school's heartbeat. But the arts can be a part of that, too. We generally don't see that because high school stage productions don't usually take place twice a week for three months of the year.
But the arts are our common voice to help express our vast diversity and points of view. LSHS is a melting pot that perhaps makes the community a little stronger, a little deeper, a little more tolerant. Stir constantly. Add spice. Taste occasionally.
I'll get off my own stage now. I need to find some socks.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
Feeling like crap
Despite my best efforts to avoid coming down with a cold this year, I came down with a cold.
Watery eyes, runny nose, achy joints, sore throat. You know the drill.
And, no, before we go any further, I'm not trying to solicit your sympathy. One of the things I like to do with this blog is to sew a thread through our common experiences, if for no other reason than to show how much we all really share together. Subliminally, at least.
And so, the other day, I woke up with with a scratchy throat.
Uh-oh.
A sore throat is usually the first indicator that I'm coming down with something. The first thing I do is go to the kitchen cabinet where we keep all our home remedies.
Ah, there it is. Hall's throat lozenges. Cherry. I plop one in my mouth, knowing full well that it's going to affect everything I taste the rest of the day. Or for the rest of this cold.
Meanwhile, I wrap myself up in a blanket, settle in front of the TV, and wonder where this cold came from: At the high school gym, where I cover basketball games for the paper? At the YMCA, where I'm touching all kinds of equipment that others have touched? The gas station pump? The restaurant? Could be anything, even though I wash my hands constantly. And even though I've had my flu shot, shingles shots, pneumonia shots, and I think I can still see my smallpox vaccine scar on my upper left arm, there is no shot for the common cold.
It's about this time my sore throat morphs into a nagging cough. I go back to the cabinet. Damn, no cough syrup. That means I have to go out into the cold, rainy weather and drive to the pharmacy, where I buy a generic cherry-flavored version of Delsym. Is there anything else I need while I'm out? Nope. I'm good.
Until I start sneezing. Back to the cabinet. Yes, there it is. Aprodine. Aprodine is an over-the-counter remedy that sort of takes the place of Pseudophed, which used to be the only thing that really dried up my congestion before lawmakers required birth certificates, photo ID, proof of signature and armed guards to purchase the stuff. Even the Aprodine requires pharmacist approval before purchase, I think.
Anyway, now I'm popping Aprodine and swigging Delsym. I've got a pile of lotion-treated Kleenex building up on the end table in the TV room because if I got up to throw away each Kleenex after each use, I might as well be on a treadmill. So the pile gets distressingly larger.
Then Kim comes home. She's been gone all day on a pre-planned girls' trip. She knew I was coming down with something and originally she wanted to stay home and see me through it, but I encouraged her to go and be with her friends. She doesn't do this enough. Besides, while I don't get particularly lonely when she's gone, I do appreciate my solitude. There is a difference.
But now she's home. I want to hug her and hold her close because she's been gone all day. "Don't breathe on me," she warns, possibly misinterpreting my watery eyes for a twinkle instead. (Plus, my voice drops an octave when I'm congested. I think I sound sexy. Like maybe Barry White sexy). But we both know better. Suddenly, solitude sucks.
All that was yesterday. I'm feeling a little better today. Today's our grocery shopping day and I might buy some ice cream to soothe the sandpaper in my throat.
Probably cherry vanilla.
Watery eyes, runny nose, achy joints, sore throat. You know the drill.
And, no, before we go any further, I'm not trying to solicit your sympathy. One of the things I like to do with this blog is to sew a thread through our common experiences, if for no other reason than to show how much we all really share together. Subliminally, at least.
And so, the other day, I woke up with with a scratchy throat.
Uh-oh.
A sore throat is usually the first indicator that I'm coming down with something. The first thing I do is go to the kitchen cabinet where we keep all our home remedies.
Ah, there it is. Hall's throat lozenges. Cherry. I plop one in my mouth, knowing full well that it's going to affect everything I taste the rest of the day. Or for the rest of this cold.
Meanwhile, I wrap myself up in a blanket, settle in front of the TV, and wonder where this cold came from: At the high school gym, where I cover basketball games for the paper? At the YMCA, where I'm touching all kinds of equipment that others have touched? The gas station pump? The restaurant? Could be anything, even though I wash my hands constantly. And even though I've had my flu shot, shingles shots, pneumonia shots, and I think I can still see my smallpox vaccine scar on my upper left arm, there is no shot for the common cold.
It's about this time my sore throat morphs into a nagging cough. I go back to the cabinet. Damn, no cough syrup. That means I have to go out into the cold, rainy weather and drive to the pharmacy, where I buy a generic cherry-flavored version of Delsym. Is there anything else I need while I'm out? Nope. I'm good.
Until I start sneezing. Back to the cabinet. Yes, there it is. Aprodine. Aprodine is an over-the-counter remedy that sort of takes the place of Pseudophed, which used to be the only thing that really dried up my congestion before lawmakers required birth certificates, photo ID, proof of signature and armed guards to purchase the stuff. Even the Aprodine requires pharmacist approval before purchase, I think.
Anyway, now I'm popping Aprodine and swigging Delsym. I've got a pile of lotion-treated Kleenex building up on the end table in the TV room because if I got up to throw away each Kleenex after each use, I might as well be on a treadmill. So the pile gets distressingly larger.
Then Kim comes home. She's been gone all day on a pre-planned girls' trip. She knew I was coming down with something and originally she wanted to stay home and see me through it, but I encouraged her to go and be with her friends. She doesn't do this enough. Besides, while I don't get particularly lonely when she's gone, I do appreciate my solitude. There is a difference.
But now she's home. I want to hug her and hold her close because she's been gone all day. "Don't breathe on me," she warns, possibly misinterpreting my watery eyes for a twinkle instead. (Plus, my voice drops an octave when I'm congested. I think I sound sexy. Like maybe Barry White sexy). But we both know better. Suddenly, solitude sucks.
All that was yesterday. I'm feeling a little better today. Today's our grocery shopping day and I might buy some ice cream to soothe the sandpaper in my throat.
Probably cherry vanilla.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Self diagnosis
A couple of years ago I wrote a blog about all the prescription drug commercials on television these days.
Based on the volume of the type of commercials I see, I don't know what we, as American consumers, purchase more – beer, cars or pharmaceuticals.
The blog I wrote back then worried about all the side effects the drugs that are meant to cure you can actually be worse than the malady you are treating. You know, the rapidly speaking voice at the end of the commercial that tells you that treating erectile dysfunction with this particular drug might actually cause your death. (Suddenly, being a Sixty-Minute Man doesn't sound so appealing anymore).
Anyway, since then, the proliferation of prescription pharmaceutical ads on the air seems to have actually increased.
The other morning I was keeping track of the ads so I could write this blog. In the course of less than an hour, I counted nine such commercials. There were probably more because I walked away from the tube from time to time and for several reasons.
But it was astonishing to me nonetheless.
It got me to wondering if we could self-diagnose ourselves as we sit in front of the tube mindlessly eating our pizzas and guzzling our beers. (Is there a pharmaceutical for that?)
In less than an hour, I saw ads for Vraylar, Ageless Male Max (OK, not a scrip, but bear with me), Xarelto, Linzess, Taltz, Celebrex, Ambien, Prevagen and Repatha.
Wow.
I guess it's possible I could wake up one day feeling a little nauseous and discovering that my symptoms match those on the Linzess commercial. Hey, Doc, I know what's wrong with me. Write me a prescription.
Or maybe my complexion is spotty. Where's my Taltz, Doc?
OK, OK. I am taking Eliquis to thin my blood as a way to treat my afib. But that was at the recommendation of my cardiologist, who hooked me up to various machines and computers to get her readouts. It was not a self diagnosis.
If it was up to me (actually, maybe it is, but I was trained to wrestle with words, not maladies. I am not a physician), I'd self diagnose my way out of taking any drugs at all. All those pill bottles on the counter make me feel like an old person.
I did google "pharmaceutical ads on TV" and found a couple sites that more or less confirm the burgeoning prevalence of these ads on television. Big Pharma, apparently, spends upwards of $4 billion annually just to advertise the top 10 prescription drugs in the country.
And, there is a movement to take these ads off the air.
Good luck with that.
I have a headache...
Based on the volume of the type of commercials I see, I don't know what we, as American consumers, purchase more – beer, cars or pharmaceuticals.
The blog I wrote back then worried about all the side effects the drugs that are meant to cure you can actually be worse than the malady you are treating. You know, the rapidly speaking voice at the end of the commercial that tells you that treating erectile dysfunction with this particular drug might actually cause your death. (Suddenly, being a Sixty-Minute Man doesn't sound so appealing anymore).
The other morning I was keeping track of the ads so I could write this blog. In the course of less than an hour, I counted nine such commercials. There were probably more because I walked away from the tube from time to time and for several reasons.
But it was astonishing to me nonetheless.
It got me to wondering if we could self-diagnose ourselves as we sit in front of the tube mindlessly eating our pizzas and guzzling our beers. (Is there a pharmaceutical for that?)
In less than an hour, I saw ads for Vraylar, Ageless Male Max (OK, not a scrip, but bear with me), Xarelto, Linzess, Taltz, Celebrex, Ambien, Prevagen and Repatha.
Wow.
I guess it's possible I could wake up one day feeling a little nauseous and discovering that my symptoms match those on the Linzess commercial. Hey, Doc, I know what's wrong with me. Write me a prescription.
Or maybe my complexion is spotty. Where's my Taltz, Doc?
OK, OK. I am taking Eliquis to thin my blood as a way to treat my afib. But that was at the recommendation of my cardiologist, who hooked me up to various machines and computers to get her readouts. It was not a self diagnosis.
If it was up to me (actually, maybe it is, but I was trained to wrestle with words, not maladies. I am not a physician), I'd self diagnose my way out of taking any drugs at all. All those pill bottles on the counter make me feel like an old person.
I did google "pharmaceutical ads on TV" and found a couple sites that more or less confirm the burgeoning prevalence of these ads on television. Big Pharma, apparently, spends upwards of $4 billion annually just to advertise the top 10 prescription drugs in the country.
And, there is a movement to take these ads off the air.
Good luck with that.
I have a headache...
Sunday, February 10, 2019
Golf in February
With the forecast for temperatures in the 70s on Wednesday, primal instinct took over.
I fished out my golf clubs.
This was a major commitment on my part. For various reasons over the past five years or so, including having a daily part-time job that ate up my afternoons, I hadn't played golf at all. I can't begin to tell you how painful that was for me.
But that was about to change.
So I put on a pair of cargo shorts and a polo shirt, put the clubs in the trunk of my car, and headed off to Heather Hills Golf Club in Winston-Salem.
A couple things to note here:
• The first thing that should jump out at you is "cargo shorts." C'mon. It's February. According to the forecast, it's going to hit 70 degrees plus. The only thing more ridiculous than wearing shorts in February is, well, playing golf in February.
• Why Heather Hills?
Heather Hills is an "executive" style golf course that usually doesn't have a lot of traffic. And both of those are good things.
An executive golf course is usually short in length. Heather Hills is about 3,200 yards and a par 60. (Lexington Municipal, by contrast, is par 71, 5,600 yards). For a guy who hasn't played in nearly five years and wants to kick off the rust, this is perfect. So is the idea that there usually aren't that many other golfers at Heather Hills watching you, which could raise my embarrassment factor with any shanks, chilli dips or whiffs I might employ,
• I almost always walk the course when I play. First, I walk for the exercise. And secondly, I walk because I can save five or six bucks as opposed to renting a cart. Priorities, you know.
Anyway, I walked up to the first tee, took a practice swing, and then struck my first tee shot in five years. I used a 7-iron for a 133-yard hole.
Two things happened next. I hit a perfect shot. Well, perfect in the sense that it went straight. It also went short, maybe 90 yards or so. I didn't care about length. I hit a nice shot that went straight.
I ended up bogeying the hole and I projected my score for the entire round, meaning I would shoot bogey golf. I'll take that.
There are some issues about playing in February, however.
Like the grass. I think the course at Heather Hills is seeded with Bermuda, which means everything is an off white right now. Or about the color of my used golf balls.
Also, there's not much grass cutting going on. That means the fairway rough is a couple inches tall.
It's amazing how you can lose a camouflaged golf ball in the fairway. I lost four, but I found two. Not quite break even, but acceptable.
Another thing I didn't factor into the round was that I've grown five years older. I like to think I'm immune from aging, but, sadly, no. Those 7-irons that I used to hit 150 yards a half decade ago are now 110 yards (or less). I guess I have to recalibrate my whole game.
And walking. Sheesh. I carry two woods and six irons, plus a putter, in an effort to lighten my bag. But after Wednesday's round, which I figure was maybe 3-4 miles of walking with a 25-pound bag, wore me flat out.
I was stiff as board before I got back to the car. My feet were killing me. Heather Hills, as the name implies, has some substantial hills on it. Duh. So I need to do a better job taking measure of my surroundings.
My round actually deteriorated on the back nine. I was tired.
But, you know. I shot an 89 (a 39 on the front side). That's 29 over par. I don't care. I was playing golf. Life is good.
The next time it's 70 degrees, I'll be on the course again.
Riding a cart.
I fished out my golf clubs.
This was a major commitment on my part. For various reasons over the past five years or so, including having a daily part-time job that ate up my afternoons, I hadn't played golf at all. I can't begin to tell you how painful that was for me.
But that was about to change.
So I put on a pair of cargo shorts and a polo shirt, put the clubs in the trunk of my car, and headed off to Heather Hills Golf Club in Winston-Salem.
A couple things to note here:
• The first thing that should jump out at you is "cargo shorts." C'mon. It's February. According to the forecast, it's going to hit 70 degrees plus. The only thing more ridiculous than wearing shorts in February is, well, playing golf in February.
• Why Heather Hills?
Heather Hills is an "executive" style golf course that usually doesn't have a lot of traffic. And both of those are good things.
An executive golf course is usually short in length. Heather Hills is about 3,200 yards and a par 60. (Lexington Municipal, by contrast, is par 71, 5,600 yards). For a guy who hasn't played in nearly five years and wants to kick off the rust, this is perfect. So is the idea that there usually aren't that many other golfers at Heather Hills watching you, which could raise my embarrassment factor with any shanks, chilli dips or whiffs I might employ,
• I almost always walk the course when I play. First, I walk for the exercise. And secondly, I walk because I can save five or six bucks as opposed to renting a cart. Priorities, you know.
Anyway, I walked up to the first tee, took a practice swing, and then struck my first tee shot in five years. I used a 7-iron for a 133-yard hole.
Two things happened next. I hit a perfect shot. Well, perfect in the sense that it went straight. It also went short, maybe 90 yards or so. I didn't care about length. I hit a nice shot that went straight.
I ended up bogeying the hole and I projected my score for the entire round, meaning I would shoot bogey golf. I'll take that.
There are some issues about playing in February, however.
Like the grass. I think the course at Heather Hills is seeded with Bermuda, which means everything is an off white right now. Or about the color of my used golf balls.
Also, there's not much grass cutting going on. That means the fairway rough is a couple inches tall.
It's amazing how you can lose a camouflaged golf ball in the fairway. I lost four, but I found two. Not quite break even, but acceptable.
Another thing I didn't factor into the round was that I've grown five years older. I like to think I'm immune from aging, but, sadly, no. Those 7-irons that I used to hit 150 yards a half decade ago are now 110 yards (or less). I guess I have to recalibrate my whole game.
And walking. Sheesh. I carry two woods and six irons, plus a putter, in an effort to lighten my bag. But after Wednesday's round, which I figure was maybe 3-4 miles of walking with a 25-pound bag, wore me flat out.
I was stiff as board before I got back to the car. My feet were killing me. Heather Hills, as the name implies, has some substantial hills on it. Duh. So I need to do a better job taking measure of my surroundings.
My round actually deteriorated on the back nine. I was tired.
But, you know. I shot an 89 (a 39 on the front side). That's 29 over par. I don't care. I was playing golf. Life is good.
The next time it's 70 degrees, I'll be on the course again.
Riding a cart.
Sunday, February 3, 2019
And the winner is...
Well, here it is, Super Bowl Sunday, and I haven't made my prediction yet.
Possibly because it pains me to do so.
Once again, there's a battle raging between my heart and my brain. The trouble is, my heart really isn't in it. The trouble is, this appears to be a no-brainer.
As I illustrated last week, there seems to be a lot of Patriot fatigue out there in real-world land because the Tom Brady-led New England Patriots are in their ninth Super Bowl this century. Unless you are from New England (or Los Angeles, I suppose), the ennui appears to be palpable.
Although, I concede, it could be just me. But I don't think so. I talk to people. I exercise with people, some who happen to be football fans, every morning at the YMCA. I ask them their feelings about the Super Bowl. The ho-humism is nearly overwhelming.
Like most, I'm as tired of seeing the Patriots' annual appearance in the Super Bowl as anybody else.
But then, 40-plus years of sports writing forces me to make this concession: if you can't beat the Patriots in the playoffs, then shut up. As much as we might not like it, they earned it. In spite of the Spygates and Deflategates, the organization is consistently superior in its drafting and player acquisitions. And Brady, the leader on the field, has demonstrated he is a once-in-a-lifetime athlete and we should see it as a privilege to be a witness to his greatest-of-all-time career.
Really, who's been better? Starr? Farve? Unitas? Graham? Elway? Baugh? Staubach? Manning? Montana? Namath?
Just look at the statistics, people. Just count the Super Bowl rings. If the Patriots win today, Brady will own a six-pack of championship rings. Sheesh. And yikes.
As the Philadelphia Eagles showed last year, Brady and the Patriots are beatable, and when you do beat them, it makes victory all the sweeter because you've beaten the very best.
Last year, there was a sense of upset in the air.
This year, there seems to be a confluence of talent, fate, karma and history coalescing in the ozone (if not the end zone). Even the weather seems to be cooperating.
And so, it comes to this: Patriots 35, Rams 21.
Possibly because it pains me to do so.
Once again, there's a battle raging between my heart and my brain. The trouble is, my heart really isn't in it. The trouble is, this appears to be a no-brainer.
As I illustrated last week, there seems to be a lot of Patriot fatigue out there in real-world land because the Tom Brady-led New England Patriots are in their ninth Super Bowl this century. Unless you are from New England (or Los Angeles, I suppose), the ennui appears to be palpable.
Although, I concede, it could be just me. But I don't think so. I talk to people. I exercise with people, some who happen to be football fans, every morning at the YMCA. I ask them their feelings about the Super Bowl. The ho-humism is nearly overwhelming.
Like most, I'm as tired of seeing the Patriots' annual appearance in the Super Bowl as anybody else.
But then, 40-plus years of sports writing forces me to make this concession: if you can't beat the Patriots in the playoffs, then shut up. As much as we might not like it, they earned it. In spite of the Spygates and Deflategates, the organization is consistently superior in its drafting and player acquisitions. And Brady, the leader on the field, has demonstrated he is a once-in-a-lifetime athlete and we should see it as a privilege to be a witness to his greatest-of-all-time career.
Really, who's been better? Starr? Farve? Unitas? Graham? Elway? Baugh? Staubach? Manning? Montana? Namath?
Just look at the statistics, people. Just count the Super Bowl rings. If the Patriots win today, Brady will own a six-pack of championship rings. Sheesh. And yikes.
As the Philadelphia Eagles showed last year, Brady and the Patriots are beatable, and when you do beat them, it makes victory all the sweeter because you've beaten the very best.
Last year, there was a sense of upset in the air.
This year, there seems to be a confluence of talent, fate, karma and history coalescing in the ozone (if not the end zone). Even the weather seems to be cooperating.
And so, it comes to this: Patriots 35, Rams 21.
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