I love to watch Tiger Woods play golf. I want him to win. I want him to win every time he plays. It’s the way I felt about Arnold Palmer when I was a kid. <\/p>\n
I no longer play golf. But when I did, I rarely watched it on TV… it was nigh impossible to follow the flight of the ball & coverage of a tournament was limited to the final 5 or 6 holes. <\/p>\n
There is a big difference in watching golf on TV today… in watching Tiger launch a rocket from the tee, as opposed to watching Arnie years ago nail a fairway wood to the green. Thank you technology. <\/p>\n
Watching golf is infinitely better today. Better equipment, better angles… easier to follow the ball’s flight path… and coverage begins on the first hole. <\/p>\n
I will catch the last day of a Grand Slam tournament… particularly if Tiger is still in the hunt. I’m going to watch Tiger. I’m going to root and twist my body to make that 20 ft birdie putt drop… and if the putt lips the cup, I’ll toss my hat down… and if the putt curls into the cup, I’ll jump up and punch the sky!<\/em> Yes, I want him to win. <\/p>\n Golf on TV is one thing; but playing it is another matter. And as I say… it’s been years since I had a 7 iron in my hand. But there isn’t a time I watch Tiger pursue a winning trophy that I don’t remember playing golf with my Dad and Paul at Racebrook <\/p>\n To this day I can remember specific shots on specific holes. Each time I recall that perfectly placed drive to right on the 7th hole, I think of Paul and Dad & summers of sun and mixed clouds. <\/p>\n And at the conclusion of the round, regardless of the golfing success of the given day, the Club House and the Grill Room awaited. <\/p>\n I think I was sixteen when I was allowed into the Grill Room at Racebrook… back then it was the Men’s<\/em> Grill Room. No women… not even on waitstaff. <\/p>\n Go ahead. Drink your beers or your gin ‘n’ tonics, play cards… fart, swear and tell dirty jokes to your heart’s content. <\/p>\n Paul and I were there to eat (although he taught me how to play poker dice). We developed a routine… we would order three cheeseburgers between us, fries (which were potato fries<\/em>, thick, well done on the outside & tender on the inside)… and then importantly one of two accompanying beverages: a black cow or a razz lime. <\/p>\n Black cows… simple: root beer with vanilla ice cream (I have also heard this referred to as a brown <\/em>cow… but I think that was made with Coca Cola). At Racebrook the vanilla ice cream had a lush richness that vaulted the black cow to a different level. <\/p>\n Razz limes… also simple: raspberry soda in a tall glass with a generous wedge of fresh lime perched on the rim of the glass. Real simple. Real tasty. <\/p>\n Paul and I had many a black cow and a razz lime. And when we scarfed down our cheeseburgers and ordered a second razz lime we would have recounted a particular shot on a particular hole that gave us joy… a perfectly lofted 9 iron from the rough on the 4th hole that put me 2 ft\u00a0from the stick. Arnie couldn’t have done better! Hell… Tiger couldn’t have done better! A razz lime never tasted better. <\/p>\n Razz lime… red “kid’s drink”? I don’t think so! The lime elevated it somehow… made it adult<\/em>… made it better… made it perfect<\/em> like that 9 iron on the 4th. <\/p>\n So let’s say that Tiger is one up on the final round of the Masters and on the par five 15th he puts his second <\/em>shot five feet from the cup… I will smile and punch the sky<\/em>. <\/p>\n But in truth, while I want Tiger to win another Green Jacket, my mind is to other places. <\/p>\n <\/p>\n I punch the sky for Dad. <\/p>\n <\/em><\/p>\n I punch the sky for Paul. <\/p>\n <\/em><\/p>\n I punch the sky for black cows & razz limes.<\/p>\n <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I love to watch Tiger Woods play golf. I want him to win. I want him to win every time he plays. It’s the way I felt about Arnold Palmer when I was a kid. I no longer play golf. … Continue reading