MASTERING RESPECT
Competition teaches us many valuable lessons, both as individuals and team players. But sports are also a window into the soul of our society, showcasing qualities we choose to celebrate.
Take for example the game of golf. The sport has always been driven by an elevated code of ethics- honor and integrity more important than club-head speed or putting ability. Golfers routinely penalize themselves for breaking rules, even for an accidental offense. Imagine a baseball player correcting an umpire over a call in his favor, or a football wide receiver fessing up to a referee that he didn’t get both feet properly in bounds.
Perhaps that’s why golf, more than any other competitive sport, is held as a gold standard for honesty and fair play.
Within the world of professional golf, there is an event that personifies these lofty ideals, and it continuously pushes to attain even higher standards. The Masters tournament is an annual April competition held in Augusta, Georgia. This event is not only the epitome of major championship golf but it’s also the finest sporting event played on earth.
The beauty of the golf course, built in the 1930’s on an undulating property once home to a botanical nursery, is a logical reason why so many cherish The Masters. Blossoming azaleas and dogwoods color Augusta National’s grounds amid towering pine trees and lush fairways. Even for people who don’t play golf, the scene is an inspiring sight of horticultural wonder. Once seen in person, the enchanted heart will forever recognize the place as the symbolic Eden of springtime.
Despite natural platitudes, the lovely grounds are not The Masters best feature. It is the traditions forged there that have elevated this tournament to a status unrivaled by any other athletic contest.
Many of those traditions are known around the world. The Green Jacket is awarded to The Masters winner, ceremoniously slipped on their shoulders by the prior year’s champion. A Masters badge, worn with pride by the patrons (the event’s spectators) is passed down within families like a priceless heirloom.
On Wednesday afternoon, a day before official play begins, contestants and former champs play a festive Par-3 contest, with their wives, children, or grandchildren caddying. For hungry patrons walking the course a selection of southern fare is served, including delectable pimento cheese sandwiches sold at prices reminiscent of the 1980’s. All these wonderful customs make The Masters memorable, but there is a special tradition that separates this event from all others: respect for elders.
Golf has always been a lifelong sport. A golfer’s first tee shot can occur in toddler years, the last one well into a player’s 80s, or even 90s. Augusta National Golf Club has chosen to remember the latter.
When a player wins The Masters they are immediately enshrined into an exclusive, green-jacketed club. The first perk: an invitation to play the tournament for life. This is an incredible benefit since the rest of the field must qualify by winning other events or earning a high world ranking. To the delight of the golfing world, legends like Jack Nicklaus (a six-time Masters winner), Gary Player, and Tom Watson, return to Augusta year after year; long after their competitive skills have left them. None of those three golfing icons (average age: 81) play in The Masters any longer, but they serve as honorary starters. Other past champions gently fade into Masters lore when they’re no longer capable walking the hilly 18 holes, or they retire from competition to allow younger players a chance to compete.
Past winners are also feted at a grand Champions Dinner each year, with the elders holding court telling stories and passing tips to younger members who dream of another title. When those winners meet to break bread, two-time Masters champ Ben Crenshaw, known among his peers as a distinguished golf historian, serves as honorary host. The prior year’s champion selects the menu- and surprisingly picks up the entire dinner tab.
This year, 2022 winner Scottie Scheffler served ribeye steaks and Texas redfish. On several prior occasions foreign winners rumbled stomachs when they served delicacies from their home turf. In 1989, Scotsman Sandy Lyle chose Haggis as his main course, a dish made from minced Sheep organs. Lyle wore a kilt that evening to celebrate his heritage and some members still shudder at memories of his Scottish meal.
Before competition begins on Thursdays, the elder statemen of golf are sought by younger players for tips on course management. Local knowledge is paramount at Augusta, and no one knows more Masters secrets than a seasoned pro that played the course for thirty or forty years.
Spectators also soak up the nostalgia generated by these ex-champions, despite their expanding waistlines and thinning gray hair. Age isn’t a disability at The Masters, it’s a jacket worn with pride. The deference shown to these former heroes is a beacon to a youth-oriented world that often forgets the relevance of its elder citizens.
The Masters Tournament is not perfect (they’ve finally admitted women as members of the formerly all-male club), but their leadership has striven in recent years to be more inclusive. Masters’ officials now invite golfing champions from Asia and Latin America to compete. They have also created the Augusta National Women’s Amateur tournament to foster greater female interest in their sport. A Drive/Chip/Putt competition for children was started (the finals are played on the Augusta National course) to inspire future generations of golfers.
When one of those talented youngsters ultimately enters a future Masters’ field, rest assured a group of polite golfing elders will be waiting with advice, good cheer, and a gleam in their eye. Their wisdom and maturity will forever be respected at The Masters.
MAY 2023
A MEMORABLE DAY, 1993
I departed for a road trip on a foggy Friday morning in May, thirty years ago. After a three-hour drive, I arrived atop Fort Mountain, a landmark in northern Georgia known for an ancient and mysterious rock wall. Legend said the structure was built by Native Americans and had spiritual qualities. The landscape at that sacred site was rugged and remote.
I was in the infancy of my photographic career and looked forward to using my new Pentax 6×7 camera that day. It was my first foray into medium-format photography. My new camera body was massive- heavy and boxy with a wide-angle lens attached that possessed a glass surface the size of a small coffee-table. I had stretched my start-up budget to purchase the $1200 camera and lens.
Slung over my shoulder was another new piece of gear: a borrowed tripod much larger than the one I owned. I needed its extra sturdiness so my new Pentax would have a stable platform to rest on. Unknown to me, my friend’s three-legged device had a lethal flaw.
As the morning progressed, I photographed a few views that pleased me, and I continued roaming along the crumbling rock wall. The trail was cut into the hillside, with the mountainside falling away to my right in a moderately pitched slope littered with lichen-covered stones. Among these speckled rocks I finally found a perfect spring scene. Enclosed by a group of sturdy hardwoods, an artistic collection of Catawba rhododendrons flowered in the alpine landscape. My working space was cramped, but I had sufficient room to set up the tripod. Brilliant pink-purple blooms colored the foreground of my new composition.
Standing in nature’s glory, I executed my normal pre-shot routine. The tripod was anchored in front of me. My Pentax was attached with a metal ‘quick release’ plate, which snapped onto the tripod’s head. A simple flick of the release lever freed the camera for an easy return to the bag. Normally, this was a safe and convenient system for securing and stabilizing heavy equipment, but this wasn’t a normal day.
As I bent down to retrieve a new roll of film (digital photography not yet invented), I saw a sight in my peripheral vision that made my hair stand on end. The tripod, with the camera still firmly attached, made a sudden lurch to the right. Unknown until that instant, one of the telescoping legs of my photo buddy’s tripod had a random tendency to collapse. In a slow-motion sequence I will always remember, the camera’s weight made the two working legs as useless as toothpicks and the whole contraption crashed into a neighboring oak tree. I made a desperate last-second grasp for the tripod but was too late.
The precise impact angle made a bad situation worse. As fate dictated, the first part of the tripod to strike the tree was the quick-release lever. This tripod feature worked to perfection. Like a jailbird on the run, my Pentax popped off the tripod and began rolling down the mountain at breakneck speed.
At first, I froze. Two or three seconds elapsed. Then the reality of my situation struck. My new expensive cameral was running away from me- I’d better start chasing it. I heard it rolling and crashing through a thick layer of leaves on the forest floor, but quickly lost sight of the Pentax. So I followed the terrible noise, which sounded more like a rambling bear than a black box filled with electronics. I ran as fast as possible down an incline riddled with mossy logs and pointed rocks but couldn’t keep pace. My camera was winning a wicked race.
As I ran, I remember thinking about that big beautiful wide-angle lens- knowing it was now worthless. But I still had a misguided hope that my camera body might be salvageable, so I kept up my pursuit. The trees grew thicker, and the slope became steeper as I chased. I was careful to watch for ankle-breaking obstacles.
Then, the crashing beast stopped. With no sound to guide me, I slowed and scanned the forest for my Pentax. I saw it with plenty of time to spare, but it was still unnerving when I realized why the noise had ceased. I arrived to the edge of a cliff. It wasn’t a thousand-foot drop, but an eighty-foot precipice, nonetheless. In the frantic haze of my wild chase the fog had lifted. Looking out from the clearing I saw distant mountain ridges with no sign of modern civilization. The only sound was the wind rustling overhead in the forest canopy.
In my first moments of shock and sorrow, I considered climbing down the cliff-face to find my dearly departed Pentax. But I came to my senses, realizing it would be a foolish idea. I was alone, with no one to spot me.
To add further insult, an enormous boulder field covered the landing area below, so my Pentax had plummeted to its death unto a pile of camera-crushing rocks. I scanned for several minutes for a glimpse of the hideous carnage, but I never saw that camera again.
The hike back to the car was agonizing, and to further sour my mood, it began to rain. I was numb and dreaded the drive home. The radio was turned on as a diversion, and I heard a DJ playfully warn his audience to “be careful out there today, you KNOW what day this is.” I hadn’t realized until that instant the date in May: Friday the 13th. I’m not a superstitious person, or a believer in curses, but at the time I felt my disaster was caused by an evil hex.
I went out the next week and bought a new Pentax- and a reliable tripod- an expense I could ill afford starting a new business. But with much gratitude, I successfully used that camera for many years before it was officially retired; intact.
Thirty years later, many other Friday the 13th’s have come and gone, thankfully without a return of that awful photographic bad luck.
JUNE 2023
SWIMMING UPSTREAM
You’ve talked about it for years. At first, your friends were encouraging. You want to write a book. Not just any book, but the great American novel.
To begin, you’ll need a catchy title. For a first stab at fiction, the name will need some heft with appropriate mystery attached. To Kill a Mockingbird and In Cold Blood are already taken. Your working title is: The Poisonous Mushrooms that Lurk in the Black Forest. Seems a tad long; it needs work. No worries, you have yet to write your first word. After five years have passed, your friends have stopped asking: “How’s the book coming?”
Every book needs iconic characters. Your male protagonist is a tall, quick-witted, handsome guy- despite an anvil-shaped mole above his right eyebrow. You’ve named him “Leonard Elmore” is homage to your favorite writer. You’ve already decided when the film is adapted from your novel George Clooney will play Leonard. It’s a no-brainer. The female love interest is a bit trickier. You think Meg Ryan would be perfect playing her during her Sleepless in Seattle phase, but before she had the affair with Russell Crowe.
You’ve struggled with the story’s setting. At first, Paris was selected- right after World War II. Too much of a cliche. Then, Berlin was chosen, but you know nothing about German fungi and traveling for research would be pricey. Finally, you settle on Toledo, Ohio.
Before a single word is put to paper, you’ll need a pen name. Your Slavic birthname, without a single vowel, doesn’t roll poetically off the tongue. You once met a real person named Steele Fortune. At first, you thought no one could possibly have a name that cool, but there he was. You will borrow that name and hope the real Steele has not written his own novel. Imagine the confusion on Amazon if two Steele’s are hawking books online.
With those years of prep work behind you, one last step remains before you begin slaving away at the typewriter. You know a a guy named Dalton Diggs. He’s a writer. A published author. He’s written three novels, four if you count the one he plagiarized. Dalton is ancient, probably eighty-five. He’s grown noticeably crabbier recently. But he has the creativity of a master novelist mixed with the practical knowledge of a publishing businessman. This book-whisperer lives only two blocks away.
Eight months later, he greets you in his foyer, which offers the scent of cat urine mixed with red cabbage.
“Good to see you Steele,” he says, being kind to use your new pen name. “I know we’ve talked about your itch to write, but I thought that ship had sailed.”
You’re impressed how he uses slick literary phrases so easily in everyday language. What a genius.
Dalton takes you into his study, crammed with paperbacks and feral cats. You sit in a worn leather chair next to a Siamese with only one eye. What Dalton says next is scarier than the cat’s uni-stare.
“Writing a book is not for the faint of heart,” he says, opening his monologue and a Snickers.
You say you have a strong ticker and encourage him to explain further.
“I compare the process to an almost impossible journey,” Dalton says. “Imagine the life of a Sockeye Salmon. Can you picture that fish in your brain, Steele?”
You start to describe a Steelhead Trout you once caught but he interrupts.
“The Sockeye Salmon is one of nature’s most cursed creatures. Ugly little buggers. Consider its story, at first from the safety of the vast ocean, where it lives most of its life. Floating around, hanging out with other salmon while avoiding the occasional shark or boat propeller. But then, like a writer, that salmon does something completely bonkers. It leaves those soothing waters to travel inland, up miles of river toward a sacred place, and every inch of its journey is upstream. That salmon has an instinct to spawn and create new life. If he knew the pitfalls of his coming trip, he’d surely never attempt it. But like an aspiring writer, he is utterly clueless about what he’s getting himself into.”
How so, you ask.
“First, he’ not swimming in some kiddie pool, but a raging river. The water flows with unbelievable aquatic force, pushing him backward with every wiggle of his streamlined body. The salmon exudes tremendous energy to fight that current. He struggles every second. There are Class-Five rapids along this river, Do you know how powerful those rapids can be?”
Dalton then answers his own question. “Well, let me tell you. Class-Fives have the ability to capsize a boat with a dozen full-size men inside. Then, once in the water, these guys face hydraulics which can hold a man, even one as fat as you Steele, underwater forever. Think about that. You don’t mess with Class-Fives, you understand?”
You stare wide-eyed and ask why the salmon doesn’t turn back or summon Uber.
Dalton points a bony finger. “Maybe it’s because he has incredible faith in his journey. He will create something special that will change the world.”
It’s just a dumb salmon, you say.
“That so-called dumbass has more guts than most men I know,” Dalton says. “Present company excluded. So, are you still with me, Steele?”
You nod your head yes. Dalton wiggles a sprig of catnip from his fingers and the one-eyed feline next to you bolts and curls on his lap. Then, the Siamese hisses in your general direction.
Dalton continues. “Those rapids are just the tip of the iceberg. Above him in the sky, Ospreys soar, staring down with amazing eyesight, looking for traces of movement in the water. When the salmon gets a short break from the churning water, that is when these birds strike. They dive like fighter jets, swooping in low with razor-sharp talons. With their hunting prowess, they pluck the clueless salmon from their watery domain. Can you imagine? One second, you’re swimming, the next, you’re clutched under a raptor’s belly, in sight of snow-capped mountains, and you’re gasping for breath. A fish doesn’t do well in the sky, Steele.”
You’re more of an Eagles fan- not the band or the football team, but the birds- but you nod agreement.
“Next thing he experiences,” Dalton says, “the salmon has a rude landing in a tree, into a nest with a bunch of hungry chicks. As a writer, consider this like your first one-star Goodreads book review, after your manuscript is published. A callous reviewer writes, for the entire world to see, stuff like: ‘I thought the characters were one-dimensional’. Peck. Then another says: ‘the book has really weak sentence structure.’ Peck-Peck. Then a third finishes their diatribe with: ‘The thin plot was so full of holes you could drive a truck through them.’ Peck-Peck-Peck. Like the bird that stole our hard-working salmon, these critics, who, for the record, don’t know diddly about writing, peck at you while you’re helpless. They feast on you. At least the salmon will die of this injustice, while the writer must somehow slog onward, forever damaged.”
You ask how many stars his last novel achieved, and Dalton changes the subject. The feline coughs up a hairball.
“For the salmon still swimming in that river,” Dalton says, “when momentarily safe from dive-bombing birds, other obstacles rush toward them. Far upstream, in the river’s headwaters, looms a massive glacier. Ice chunks calve off that gigantic ice monster, and they contain razor-sharp edges. Like a flotilla of daggers, these missiles rush downstream. Kind of similar to the avalanche of words that face every writer while creating his masterwork. Sometimes there may be a hundred thousand to wrestle with, sometimes more. How does the wordsmith juke and jive around the weak words bombarding his brain, while embracing the strong ones that also have the power to kill?”
You begin to understand this salmon has one scary journey.
“Then there are the bears, Steele. Grizzlies wait further upstream. They guard a small waterfall that the salmon must clear. The bears salivate and wait with open jaws. These beasts can weigh a ton and have massive heads. Grizzlies are good at playing catch. After they snag a flying fish, these bears don’t baste the salmon with pesto, add a squirt of lemon, and cook them gently at 350 degrees. No, they take their sharp claws and rip the flesh off the poor salmon while it’s still alive. They eat the creature raw, leaving its skeleton on a nearby rock, where marauding crows finish off the carcass by picking out the eyeballs with their beaks. It’s awful. Reminds me of signings at bookstores when readers act like vultures, tearing you to shreds for some perceived story flaw. Why don’t you just cut out my heart you gutless bastards and hold it aloft for the whole world to see?”
You ask Dalton if he needs a minute to compose himself, but he grunts and says he’s ok.
“If you survive the Ospreys and the bears, then there’s those damn fisherman,” Dalton says while opening a Milky Way. “They linger close to the salmon’s final destination. These so-called sportsmen stand in their waders and offer tantalizing lures, tricking fish into biting a sharp hook. But then, they sometimes do something even more despicable. After hooking the salmon, they size up the fish, and they often throw it back. Can you believe that Steele? Brings back a terrible memory from one day at the Bookorama. A man came in to return a volume- MY BOOK- and said he was looking for a better author. Said that slur right in front of two loyal fans who came to hear me speak. Never been more embarrassed in my life.”
Dalton tears up and you offer a tissue. You take one too as the salmon’s story starts to depress you.
Dalton straightens his posture and clears dripping snot from his lip. “So, at the end of that river, a few lucky salmon finally reach their Eden, a clear mountain lake where they will culminate their life’s work. It seems like a happy ending. He is one fortunate fish. But imagine its surprise when a state game warden wearing a goofy safari hat appears and snatches the salmon. The fish is taken in big tanker-truck to stock another stream, this one more dangerous than the first. This situation is similar to the writer who has written his first draft. He thinks his journey is complete, but he’s barely at the beginning. That salmon must swim upstream AGAIN, beating those horrible odds once more. And that, Steele, is the awful truth about writing a novel. Your work in NEVER DONE. Editing. Paper jams. Revisions. Fact-checking. Endless rejections. Dialogue. Point-of-View. More revisions. Stale coffee. Marketing. Beta Readers. Glamour shots. Lead poisoning.”
You tear up at the poetry of Dalton’s words and the realization of the task ahead of you. You ask Dalton why he writes. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words. Then he smiles.
“Oh, I gave up writing eons ago. Now, I create instructional YouTube videos telling aspiring writers how to complete their first novel. I’m a much bigger influencer as a coach than I ever was as a writer. Pays better too. You might want to rethink your goal, Steele. Writing the great American novel is a fantasy. Quit while you’re still sane. That’s my advice.”
“But I have this awesome pen name and a riveting tale about poison mushrooms,” you say. “I think the world needs my story.”
“Well, get busy then,” Dalton says with a smirk. “Books don’t write themselves. But with A.I., they soon will. Call me when you finish your first draft. Then I’ll help you find an agent, copyeditor, and a top-notch coffee-grinder. If you want to self-publish, I can recommend a reputable printer, a graphic designer, some focus groups, and most importantly, the number for my shrink.”