Chicks Dig the Long Ball

Atlanta, GA
September 24, 2019

Like an ocean subjected to lunar influence, life moves in cycles, waves, and tides, with shifty undercurrents asserting unpredictable sway. 

When, five moons ago, my severance was sown, I thought I would reap rounds of golf that would fill my days like kudzu covers Georgia. 

Having spent last week pulling that noxious weed from the trees, bushes, and fences behind our house, I am convinced no one could possibly play that much golf. But, as with that invasive vine, the urge to do so is difficult to kill.

This week, I am indulging it. 

Alexander and I visited Auburn University late last year. He and Rita did so again yesterday, taking a two hour tour of the flight school. David and I joined them for the ride from Atlanta, but disembarked in Opelika to inspect the Grand National Lake Course on Alabama’s Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail.

Yesterday was the Autumnal Equinox. The polar pendulum returned to equilibrium. The solar scale was back in balance.

Nature has a way of evening things out. It cherishes harmony and seeks symmetry…but finds it in its own sweet time. It is resilient, and generally immune or indifferent to our passing influence. Like a Defense contractor watching voters queue outside an election-day polling place, it smiles at our pretensions to power.

It can be as severe as a shrew, or subtle as a coquette. It can be fickle and impulsive, or slow and steady. It proves it has a mind of its own by changing it from time to time. It can switch direction like windshield wipers in a downpour.

But, as The Byrds sang in Ecclesiastes, To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. As daylight diminishes, my season of indolence dwindles. 

Next month I return to the salt mines. To reach them I will no longer fly to St. Louis, but instead to Columbus, Ohio, where…unless the drug test frowns on red wine…I will be Director of Strategic Pricing for Cardinal Health. 

My main desire when considering a new company is to work in a stable environment with good people. After my most recent experience, corporate culture is key. I take the people I work for and with very seriously. Happiness is no laughing matter.

Still…pay is important, particularly with two sons approaching college age. Every parent knows what that means: my sons are now good enough golfers that I may start having to shell out for golf bets.

That such a time would come was inevitable. Yesterday hinted that it had arrived. Today confirmed it. 

After a solid front nine on the Lake Course, I stepped to the 10th tee like Greg Norman at the ‘96 Masters. Four stroke lead, my victory was assured. My son would retain his humility, and know his place. 

Instead, he shot even par the last five holes, and put me in mine. Today, he locked the door.

Last week my wife and I played golf with a renowned corporate lobbyist. This morning my son and I teamed with another master of curve balls and change-ups, for a memorable round at Country Club of the South. 

Tom Glavine played seventeen seasons for the Atlanta Braves, plus another five misbegotten years with the New York Mets (as Murray Rothbard once said, everyone is allowed one deviation).

One of the best left-handed pitchers of all time, he won more than 300 games, two Cy Young Awards, and was MVP of the 1995 World Series. In his first year of eligibility, he was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2014.

So, the opportunity to trudge 18 holes with David and me obviously meant a lot to him. Regardless, he could not have been more gracious…or observant.

On the practice range, he made routine small talk with David. 

“So, are you a better golfer than your dad?”

David paused apprehensively, looked at me, smiled sheepishly, and answered as if his wife had just asked if her new dress made her look fat. 

“Uh…No?”

My game, like a Canadian in January, went south immediately. Then, like a second presidential term, things only got worse. 

David was a bit shaky on the first hole, but improved through the day. On the par-three fifth, after David put his drive pin-high and I fed mine to the fish, Tom whispered to my son, “I didn’t want to say it…but you’re better than your dad.”

Nothing in the rest of the round dissuaded him of that eminently defendable impression.

On the tenth hole, David hit another in a series of terrific drives, followed by effusive praise from Glavine on how far it went. David’s response made me as proud of him as I have ever been.

He twirled his club, shrugged his shoulders, and coolly responded, “Chicks dig the long ball”…referencing a great Nike ad in which Glavine and fellow Hall-of-Famer Greg Maddux starred twenty years ago. Chicks had a lot to dig about David’s game today. 

Glavine made a career, quite a bit of fame, and a lot of money, ensuring the ball be hit as few times as possible. He is still pretty good at that. He hit his only 77 times today. That was only nine fewer than David, whose father lost by twice as much.

We had lunch and drinks after our wonderful round, at which point Tommy (by then he was “Tommy” to us) signed so many things that he probably felt like he should own a house. 

Civilization, like nature, fluctuates in its tendencies and preferences. The phases are familiar, and timeless. Plato yields to Aristotle. Greece succumbs to Rome. Baroque consumes the Renaissance. 

And the son eventually surpasses the father.

Today, I passed the torch. On consecutive days, on two unfamiliar and difficult courses, and with a Hall-of-Fame pitcher as witness, I abdicated.

And, as you can imagine, I could not be happier to do so. After all, what type father must I be to feel otherwise?

Meanwhile, Autumn advances. The leaves fall, a cold wind blows, and darkness slowly devours the day.

JD