I've been up early every day while I'm in Hawaii--my inner-clock is still ticking to the eastern time zone. It was the 5th of July, it was 4:30 a.m. and I was transcribing the Sluman Q&A when someone from Florida was calling my cell phone.

"Hello," I said.

"Matt. It's Carl Bubeck . . ."

Immediately, from the combination of the voice and the name, I remembered who he was and where I met him.

I've bumped into a lot of characters throughout my search for great golf. From beverage cart girls, Jack Johnson, John Smoltz, Jerome Bettis and locals looking for a game. I've played with Jim Mahoney, Frank Sinatra's former PR guy in Palm Springs and recently I played with Clesson Pang at Wailua Municipal on Kauai. Pang taught me a valuable lesson about how to lose $30 in a game of $2 "whip out." Which means if you lose the hole, the greenie, the sandie or a birdie, you pay $2 on the spot. Ties carry over and you should carry enough ones to last two hours at a strip club. Clesson shot 75 and I shot an 83. "I love Golf Digest money," said Pang, after the first time I had to whip it out. 

In a regular blog format about people like Gina Cloepfil, the spicy beverage cart girl at Crosswater in Oregon, and now Carl Bubeck, the Monday starter at the C.C. of Miami, here's my latest installment of people I meet at golf courses all over the country:

Name: Carl Bubeck

Age: He turned 96 on July 4th.

Golf Course: The Country Club of Miami (36 holes--East and West. M-F: $35; S-Su: $43).

Short Story: Bubeck was quick to explain the reason for his call: "Matt, I turned 96 on the 4th of July, I still play golf twice a week and I can't believe people aren't coming down to do a story about me."

I told him to give me a second. I'd grab a notebook and a pen.

Besides the fact that his last three rounds were a 97, a 92 and a 91, the most amazing stat about Bubeck: in May he celebrated his 70th wedding anniversary with his wife, Betty. (I can't date a girl longer than 7 days.) I asked him his advice on a successful marriage: "Take care of your wife. Make sure she's happy when you're out playing golf. And sometimes, take her with you."  Betty, 91, used to play golf with 62 friends but now they've all passed away. Bubeck still plays with a group they call the Eastern Shores Golf Association. It's about 20 guys, ages range from early 20s to Bubeck and they have a game a few days a week. Bubeck works as a starter at the C.C. of Miami on Mondays to pay for his golf. It saves him about $100 per week. "It's an easy job," he says. "I collect tickets, talk to them, if they haven't been here before I tell them that the National Airline Open used to be here. Snead, Nicklaus, Palmer and Trevino all played in it. And then the tour moved out. I guess they had other places to go." Bubeck prefers the East Course at the C.C. of Miami, because "the West is too damn long."

Golf Game: Bubeck says he's an 18 handicap who hits it 150 yards off the tee, "But they're straight."

What he thinks of how far the tour pros hit it today: "It's hard to believe. And they do it without much effort."

Aces: "I have six. But none lately. I used to get certificates from Golf Digest, but I guess there are so many now they can't do it any more."

Local Knowledge: "If you play here you better bring a lot of golf balls. There's water somewhere on all 36 holes."

Keep up the good work, Carl--at home, on the golf course and in the starter shed. You're an inspiration to all of us. And yes, you're right, you're a good story.

--Matty G.
 

Before I was the golf photo editor at Sports Illustrated, my friend Ward Haynes had the job. This was back in the mid-'90s and Jeff Sluman, all 5'7" of him, was coming into his prime. He won the '88 PGA Championship for his first tour victory and then didn't win again until '97. He went on to win one tournament every year (except 2000) through 2002. He was a late bloomer. He ended up with six victories, he has two Champions Tour wins and has over $18 million in career earnings.

I bring up Ward because I can't think of Jeff Sluman without thinking of what Ward called him: "Little Jeffy Slu." I speak of Ward in the past tense because he died on 9/11, two weeks into a job at Cantor Fitzgerald. Ward was an infectious spirit, loved golf, his family, his friends, catching the bar car on Metro North from Manhattan to Rye, and Jeff Sluman was one of his favorite tour players. What's not to like? Sluman's a little guy with a big heart and he's well traveled. And I'm not talking about getting to the John Deere or Milwaukee Open (which he won twice). I'm talking about helicopters to glaciers, peering down the pyramids and he's looking into a trip to Croatia. I sat down with Sluman recently and he told me about restaurants he recommends in his hometown of Chicago. He also told me about buddies trips to Ireland with fellow tour pros, how he kills time on a plane, his thoughts on Tiger beating Jack's record and why he doesn't own a vacation home.

Here's a link to my complete Q&A with little Jeffy Slu.

Oddly enough, Sluman's birthday is Sept. 11, 1957

--Matty G.

Now that most of the emotion has been washed away with the rain and mud of a U.S. Open Monday at Bethpage Brown, I thought I'd post one last exchange on the Lucas Glover front.

If you need background--read this post first (and be sure to check out the comments box).

The best of my sparring partners would be Ian Ware of Lexington, KY.
He wrote:

Matt, I just wanted to thank you for showing us how emotion should be displayed when you won the U.S. Open. It's great for the game that you wish other professionals to show such passion in their quest to achieve the great things that you have in golf (while getting paid). Your example shows all of us that golf no longer need be about etiquette, rules or being one's genuine self, and that it should be more about the people who wish they could take more exciting photos so that they will get paid more. After all, isn't this how Mr. Palmer made his army? By profiteering from others good play. I would like to thank you once again for all your heart felt emotion shown during your amazing PGA tour and major wins, it is a shining example why genuine reactions should be looked down upon, after all, we need Tiger to say the f-word on TV a couple of more times to show our children and younger generations how "real" golfers act. With genuine disrespect for your personal desire to make the greatest sport a soap opera. 

Ian Michael Ware, a fan of the long lost need to be genteel.


Nice note, Ian. I mean, that's well written. But you're a little off. This isn't about ME. It's about the sport WE love. And it's in trouble. If Tiger goes down with another bad knee, or, God-forbid, something worse, as evidenced by interest in the sport and ratings when he was gone last year (and the start of this year), the PGA Tour will become the pga tour. And that's about the time we'll be shifting our attention to soccer. (Can you believe we almost beat Brazil?)

My Mom tunes in to watch Tiger, my sister can pick Tiger out of a lineup and my niece thinks it's cool I met Tiger. And they have no idea what it means to win a major and they think shooting 65 is a bad score. They just know Tiger makes the sport fun to watch because he shares with the viewers what he's going through on the golf course--the best of times and the worst of times. And if that means we get the occasional f-bombs, I'll be quick to clarify to the offended that it's a bad word. Shame shame. And that doesn't mean we should use it in our professional arenas or around the house. But I'll explain that Tiger's just frustrated because he has more money than most small countries, combined, and yet he still just wants to win--every tournament he enters. And anything less is unacceptable. And that's exactly what we love about him.

I've always said the sport could get a boost in ratings just by letting us hear more of what's being said between caddies and players. Yesterday, as Stevie Williams was talking to Tiger in the 18th fairway at Congressional, we had to hear the commentators walk us through Anthony Kim's meaningless approach shot. Bad call. They need to stop talking and let us in on the strategy of the game--from the player's perspective--not the washed-up announcers loving on their glory days. I still laugh when I heard Ian Baker Finch welcome Lucas Glover to "the club." HA HA HA. I'm sure Glover had no idea Mr. two-last-names and can't keep it in bounds on the first tee of St. Andrews ever won a major.

Glover, from all that I can tell, is a good guy and a ridiculously great golfer (obviously), but he's not good for golf. Not when he wins an Open and reacts like he just found out his 401k was being handled by Madoff. The reason why the tour is so unhealthy is because it's filled with boring personalities who think shooting 65 is good enough. It's not. And there in lies my frustration. And my concern. Look at the harsh facts: Sponsors and massive purses--they're all going away. We're being force-fed a FedEx Cup that no one, not even the players, have any clue what it is and if they'll play in it even if they do qualify--for whatever it is. The old traditional Skins Game--gone because no one cares if the rich get richer or care to watch good golfers simply making great shots. We tune in to see, and feel, people win or lose. And I mean, we want to see it.

Ian, what's your favorite team? If and when that team wins a title, say the Red Sox, and they passed up on the pile up on the pitching mound after the last out of the World Series and reacted like Glover did after winning the Open, you (and the rest of the Red Sox nation) would first stop following the Red Sox. And if that's the way all the teams reacted after winning a World Series, even the biggest of baseball fans would stop following baseball.

Good golf is impressive. Tour level golf, to you and me, the ones who know how hard the game is and how much time the players put into practice getting to that level, is something we will never comprehend. But it's not impressive to the masses and they don't appreciate it like we do. And they're the ones we need to keep engaged or it will all go away.

I don't even blame the players most of the time. I think a big percentage of the current players, represented by their wives, their college friends or agents who are afraid of losing their commission, are a big part of the problem. If the players aren't being coached on how to have a personality to go with their amazing touch around the greens, if they're not being told to share their story or stories with the media (who disseminate that info to the fans) they're being misrepresented. And they're missing out on opportunities to grow their bank accounts, but more importantly, the game of golf. All good writers have good editors. Someone who can kick the copy back with advice on how to make it better. (I have a team of people working on my copy.) Successful players need good agents who are willing to give tough advice. And that's all I was doing. Passing on a little tough love to Glover--get a pulse.

Ian, I hope this makes some sense. It's my two cents, and I'm sure you think that's all it's worth.

--Matty G. 

Wishing you a perfect Fourth of July. I'm back in Hawaii visiting my brother and his family on the North Shore of Oahu before I jump to Kauai on Wednesday and report an upcoming Away Game. The waves are small in the summer, the water is warm, the white sandy beaches are bright on the eyes and the scenery, well, you'd have to see it for yourself to believe it. It's Brazil meets the best of beverage carts. God bless America.

I'm passing on a trip report from Frank Olive, a reader based in Texas, who, like most of us, met a fellow golf enthusiast while trapped on a plane one day. Their common bond went beyond, "Nice talking to you, maybe we'll play someday." These guys actually made it happen.

This is Frank and Nick's trip to Dornoch:

Matt,
 
I would like to share a wonderful experience given to me by my dear friend Nick from Scotland. We met on a flight five years ago while Nick was making his annual pilgrimage to Pinehurst. Since then we’ve shared several rounds of golf (and countless pints) in various places.
 
While playing in the annual Bill McGhee Cup last October in Houston, Nick invited me to his member-guest in Northern Scotland. I had never ventured that far north, but I’ve played several times with Nick in Southwestern Scotland where the locals say, “You can hit a golf ball from Irvine to Turnberry (roughly 20 miles) without leaving a golf course." And so I accepted his invitation.
 
The actual road trip to Northern Scotland was interesting. Castles and colorful countryside entertained us for our first hour. We stopped for coffee and a peek at Glen Eagles Golf Club, the home of the 2014 Ryder Cup. Then it was off through the Scottish Highlands where snow capped mountains and tall evergreens bordered the roadside. If we weren’t on the left side of the road, I would have sworn we were in Colorado. After a quick stop in Inverness, we continued to an area of Scotland called the Sutherland's, where farming, hunting, fishing, and small quaint towns fill the long fingered rolling hills bordered by the North Sea.

Dornoch, our final destination, which sits on the same latitude as Juneau, Alaska, was well worth the four and a half hour drive. This small three-street town where Donald Ross was born and raised was littered with B&Bs, restaurants, quaint shops, two small hotels (one looks like a mini castle), a bookstore for the non-golfers, and a historical cathedral. Up on the hill, just beyond one of the local cemeteries and the main entrance to the beach, is the Royal Dornoch Golf Course--our playground for a few days.

Once settled in our accommodations and after a quick lunch at the clubhouse, we played a practice round at a local course in the town of Tain. The Tain Golf Club is a traditional heathland course with heather-bordered rolling fairways and undulating greens, which made for a great challenge to start our five-day golf getaway.
 
Our 36-hole second day started at a town to the north called Brora. The Brora Golf Club (established in 1891) was a typical Scottish "out and in" 18-hole course (nine holes go out from the club house and the remaining nine bring you back). Being bordered by the North Sea to the west and beautiful hillside farmland to the east wasn’t the most unique quality of this course. That would be the sheep and cattle we played through. Low-voltage single-wired fences surround the perimeter of the greens to protect them from the grazing animals. (The hot fences were NOT there for decoration.)

The afternoon brought us back to Royal Dornoch’s elevated tee boxes, rolling fairways, bunker riddled elevated greens and breathtaking views. We were reminded we were in Scotland. There was some rain and we finished the day wet (and thirsty).

The next two days was the member-guest. Our afternoon tee times gave us an opportunity for sightseeing: a tour of the town and a trip to the Glenmorangie Scotch factory. Overall, Nick and I played good golf, but not great. It was the best we could do.
 
On our way back to Glasgow, we would finished our trip in the heart of the highlands. Boat of Garten Golf Club (the “Boat” as the locals say) is nestled in the middle of the Scottish mainland mountains. Tree-lined fairways, elevation changes, snow-capped mountains, and an occasional train whistle defined the day.

I hope you enjoyed a few of my great memories.  It was quite a golf experience that I thought was worth sharing.
 
Frank Olive
 
PS--In October join us for the 19th Annual Bill McGhee Cup in Houston. We should have up to 28 golfers from the ages of 40 to 83 from all over the country. Nick from Scotland may join us again this year. We play Tour 18 for Monday's practice round, Bay Oaks for the first day of the tournament, Timber Creek for day two, followed by our awards banquet that evening.


Thank you for the report, Frank. If you haven't done so already, fill out an Ambush entry form. You never know, you and your group (and your foreign friend Nick) might be next.

--Matty G.

I can now say I know what it's like to find a pot of gold. I met Gary Holland.

Holland, 62, lives in French Lick, Ind., with his wife, Melinda, of 37 years. He's the type of guy who removes his cap the minute he walks into a room. He gives firm handshakes, looks you in the eye and answers direct questions with honest answers. He's a guy who buys a ranch and push-mows five acres of the grass. Which makes him the perfect employee at the new Pete Dye course at the French Lick Resort.

Holland no longer has to work for a living. The gig at the golf course allows him to keep busy and gives him an opportunity to coach some of the younger staff through life. "They're good kids," says Holland. "But some of them could use my help."

Coaching, like mowing, is something Holland loved to do. When he was 25 he was given the boys basketball head coaching job at Springs Valley High School in French Lick. Holland inherited a 6-foot-7 senior by the name of Larry Bird.

"All I did was get him on the bus and get him to the game," says Holland. "He did the rest."

This past April, my friend Kevin Price (a huge basketball fan) and I met Holland at the Springs Valley gym one evening after his day at the golf course. Holland walked us around and told us stories of Larry Legend.

He told us Bird liked to play basketball in jeans because he was so self-conscious about his skinny legs. He said he had to warn the other kids on the team to keep their hands in front of their face at all times or they risked a broken nose from one of Bird's now-famous no-look passes. Even after Holland ended practice, Bird and his teammates would stay and keep shooting. And if he forced the kids out of the gym, they would hide outside and wait for Holland to leave before they would sneak back in to shoot some more. "I would see their little faces in the windows trying to see if I had left yet." Bird averaged 30 points per game his senior year, and that was before there was a three-point line. He scored 55 in one game--and came out with three minutes left in the fourth quarter.

I wasn't sure I would get to speak to Bird about the story I was writing for Golf Digest. But after some help from one of my spiritual coaches and friends, Sports Illustrated writer Jack McCallum, I got the call 10 minutes after I sent Bird the e-mail request.

"Hello," I said. "This is Matt."

"Matt, this is Larry Bird."

"Hello, Larry." And then I scrambled for a pen and paper. Half of me wondered if it was one of my friends playing a practical joke.

Bird gave me about 15 minutes. He told me he was happy for the town of French Lick--that the new Dye course, restored resorts and things like the water park would help create jobs and stimulate the local economy. He said he used to caddie at the Donald Ross course, which is also in French Lick and one of Bird's favorites, and he used to run the hills where the new Dye course was built. Bird played to a 5-handicap before he started suffering from back spasms and before he got the job as president of the Indiana Pacers. He says he doesn't have much time for golf right now. 

The last time Bird was in French Lick was in 2008 for the funeral of Chuck Akers, who died in a car accident.  Akers was the football coach at Springs Valley and a first-tee starter at the Ross course. Bird never played football, but Akers also had a big influence on his life. When Bird showed up with his wife for the funeral at the Springs Valley gym on Larry Bird Blvd., the line to pay his respects was two and a half hours long. Someone came up to Bird and explained that he could be escorted to the front of the line and avoid the wait. Bird declined. He insisted on waiting just like everyone else.

Bird told me how much he appreciated Holland and all that he did for him when he was in high school and beyond. Holland says he and Larry were kindred spirits. "I was in the right place at the right time. I was quiet. Larry was quiet. And we both wanted to win ball games."

In 22 years as Springs Valley's head coach, Holland won six sectional titles. He still thinks back to the 1973-'74 season, when he was just a rookie head coach, working with a kid who had NBA talent, and he wishes he would've had more experience. "I would've used my bench better," he said. "If I had a couple more years of experience I don't think we would've lost in the regional finals. We could've beat Bedford."

--Matty G.

Here's a link to the Away Game in the current issue of Golf Digest about my trip to French Lick, a review of the Pete Dye and Donald Ross courses, and some other things to do while you're in town.

And here's the video interview:

It's hard for me to find time to wash socks let alone tweet, but I figured I'd jump in this Twitter pool, or pond, and swim around for awhile.

For my parents, my immediate family and a few friends (the only ones who care) here's where you can further follow my life on the road: http://twitter.com/WheresMattyG

I'm also on Facebook and use it to promote blogs and articles I write for Golf Digest and Golf World. This is where I post pictures from trips and videos such as: fishing in Minnesota, Porsche Driving School, the walk to the 16th tee at Cypress Point and zip-lining at Kapalua. Search: Matt Ginella and I'll add you as a friend.

Golf Digest, Golf World, occasional spots on Golf Channel, golfdigest.com, Facebook and now Twitter. I know, I know . . . you're not alone. Even my Mom thinks I'm overexposed.

--Matty G.

Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake, pictured above, performed the hysterical skit, "Mother Lover," on Saturday Night Live the week of Mother's Day.

I wonder if Lucas Glover's win at Bethpage might inspire a "Glover Lover." I think I did.

I've been flooded (more like a light rain) with comments. The common theme: Matt, you were rough on the U.S. Open winner.

Two blog posts ago, in the middle of my (edited) Amsterdam trip report, I used a paragraph to express frustration with Glover's inability to share emotion with the invested audience. I was mostly concerned about myself, which is another common theme. But after such a life-altering victory at Bethpage for Glover, I was disappointed with his lack of react. As a fan of the game, all that I ask is to break me off a slice of the experience regardless of the outcome. And I mean it in the simplest of terms: Thrill of victory or agony of defeat. If you show me no thrill of victory after winning a major championship and a mountain of money, I wish upon you an agonizing defeat.

I don't know Lucas Glover. From what I hear and read he's a good guy and a great stick. Fine. But no apology. I didn't attack him, I attacked his presentation. And he deserved it. Even he apologized for being boring.

What is the source of my venom? Why do I care enough to take time to banter about it?

In addition to my passion to grow the game I love (and get paid to follow), it must be my old photo instincts. As a photo editor for 11 years, I learned early on from Steve Fine, Director of Photography at Sports Illustrated (and countless members of his staff who I consider mentors) that the golfers who photo geeks should pull for wear solids not stripes. And the colors of their clothes are best in shades of red, yellow and blue (not white or black). I learned that critical putts or shots look much better in low sunlight (long shadows) and that it never hurt if players scrolled emotion across their chest as often as ESPN scrolls scores. Quite simply, that formula made for better images and thus, a better looking magazine.

Annika is the sweetest person on earth and I've always considered her cute in golf attire. She's one of only four or five players in the history of producing photo shoots to ever thank the entire crew. And she did it with hugs and hand-written letters. Classy and to be commended. But she has also had a long and distinguished career of boring pictures. She was down the middle of the fairway (no recovery from the rough or bunkers), then on the green, she'd make the putt, crack a smirk just below big sunglasses, she'd threw up a limp-wristed wave and then kissed shiny trophies. If you piled up all of her Golf World covers over the years of being the best, you'd have a healthy substitute to Tylenol PM. Great golfer who made for bad pictures due to lack of visible spirit. She got better as she got older and became more comfortable in front of big crowds. Dominating? Yes. But it was still a long way from entertaining.

There are other golfers who I never want to win again. A Vijay Singh, Henrik Stenson, Geoff Ogilvy, Retief Goosen milkshake of emotion would taste like dry ice. That's why I love Tiger, Sergio, Anthony Kim, Paula Creamer and . . . well . . . there's the rub: there aren't many more to choose from. I give credit to Phil for his lame leap after he sank his winning putt at the 2004 Masters. At least he tried.

I get that the U.S. Open, more than any other tournament, rewards the heartless plodders. But that's why I used to love the Masters (prior to the course changes) because it produced rabbits as winners, not turtles.

On behalf of the Glover lovers, I post this e-mail from one of my favorite readers (and writers)--Bill Cooper:

Holy Hatchet Job, Mattman! Your rabid diatribe against my fellow Clemson alum, Lucas Glover, was a little excessive, wasn't it? You don't have one of those dreaded khaki and white negativity fetishes, do you? Have you read Rick Reilly's sedate and objective viewpoint? Between the two of you, Lucas has been severely de-boned, cauterized, caramelized, skewered, and frickaseed.

Would you have preferred Ross Fischer, or perhaps David Duval? I don't know much about the Fischerman, but is there a more sullen, expressionless, reclusive, and uncommunicative golfer this side of Scott Hoch than Mr. Duval? He makes Lucas look like a Jack Russell terrier with A.D.D. on speed.

Of course, the entire civilized world and portions of New Jersey and Tennessee wanted Phil to win. I was pulling hard for him (and Lucas) too.  But we can't wait forever while Phil is being Phil and going wide left at Winged Foot and missing 3-5 footers at Pinehurst, Shinnecock, and Bethpage. Phil Mickelson usually is in serious contention playing the front nine of the Open's final round, but then turns it over to his evil twin, Mel Phickelson, to play the back. It's the U. S. Freaking Open, not the Beautiful People, G-5 Owners, and Charismatics Invitational.

Sometimes you get your Hogans and Arnies, your Jacks and your Tigers. But occasionally, you get your Jack Flecks, your Ed Furgols, your Michael Campbells, and yes, your Lucas Glovers. I too wish that Lucas would be more flamboyant, more demonstrative and ebullient, and would grin like a mule eating briers; and in a faux Boo channeling, would ride his Scotty Cameron around the 18th green in celebration. However comma we don't get to choose our Open winners; and they shouldn't be forced to apologize for having the temerity to insert themselves into our fantasy. 

Mattman, methinks mayhaps you should have cracked another Heineken (or 11) and biked a little slower through Amsterdam's red light district in an effort to rid yourself of Lucasitis. The forgoing jabs notwithstanding, I always look forward to reading your diatribes and docutribes. Anybody who takes a week off from their hectic travel schedule and goes to freakin' Amsterdam is most worthy individual and not one with whom to trifle. Welcome back, Bill.


Fair enough, Bill. But when Arnold Palmer, who turns 80 this year, threw his hat after he won the Open at Cherry Hills in 1960, he was still building his legendary army one fan at a time. He brought that army on his magical ride through his life as a competitive golfer. And to this day, even at 80, he makes more than most of the current tour pros make on and off the course--combined! It's because Palmer gave us what we wanted. And that goes well beyond just great golf. If sports is entertainment, I don't want tickets to Glover's show. But I'd still pay to see Palmer.

--Matty G.

Do you have a question or comment for me? If so, click here and send it in. I'll try to answer it via e-mail, on this blog or in the pages of the magazine.

Of all the Ambush entries I've received so far, the majority of the itineraries are headed to Myrtle Beach. Pinehurst, Bandon, Pebble, Orlando and the Pan Handle of Fla. are also popular destinations.

A few weeks ago Wayne Coffey, a writer for New York's Daily News, called me and we talked about the benefits of Myrtle Beach. "The Grand Strand" in South Carolina (stretches into North Carolina) has become a hive of four star (and above) affordable golf. Here's a link to Coffey's story which includes a few of my thoughts on why this is a destination to consider for your next trip.

Whatever you do, don't skip Caledonia when you're in town. For more on my recent visit, here's a link to the Away Game.

--Matty G.

We all survived. Six guys used five bikes to navigate the central nervous system of Amsterdam. We had a variety of foods, played soccer in a park, toured the Van Gogh Museum, implemented the buddy system as we wandered the red-light district, but mostly we avoided collisions with buses, trains, boats, trams, scooters and other bike riders. To summarize a few days of close calls: Mike (back right) lost his wedding ring in the park, his wallet and passport in the street, and a Van Gogh print in the airport. And he got it all back.

Collectively we gave Amsterdam high marks. Right from the start, my five friends and I on a bachelor party (J.D.'s--in the red shirt) flew into one of the best airports in the world. In fact, the Amsterdam airport was ranked eighth best airport in the 2009 World Airport Awards. My friend J.C. (back-middle) said he could live there. We were also fans of the train system and the electric trams. The flat topography is conducive to cycling and everyone was doing it. The bike lanes are like cart paths running along streets throughout the most remote sections of the city.

One might assume life in Amsterdam is like a college dorm: slow, filled with tie dyed shirts, smells of incense and that everyone is overweight from eating big bags of chips. And ice cream. And microwavable burritos in a bag. But that is not the case. Not even close. The locals seem to be in great shape. They’re quick on bikes, and quiet as they go about their business. And they won’t stop for the wandering tourist, so look both ways before every step.

While in Amsterdam we never had a bad meal and I believe it’s because it was really good food. The Van Gogh Museum was some much needed culture mixed into an otherwise debaucherous few days away from reality. (Vince was a strange cat, but he sure knew his way around a canvas.)

Amsterdam can be compared to Vegas only in that they’re both cities and any longer than three days in either place is a true test of your guardian angels. Besides that, I’d say Vegas is like practicing off mats at a driving range. Amsterdam is like practicing on grass. Or, say, real turf.

As I mentioned in a previous post, this was a personal journey. I left the clubs and empty notebooks at home. But I did have a brief brush with golf.

I’m not talking about a messy U.S. Open that I tried to follow by way of spotty Internet connections and even spottier TV coverage. Poor Lucas Glover. He deserves a kick in his khaki covered shins. It was ridiculously disappointing for me (and the game of golf) to crown yet another generic major champion dressed in a white hat, white shirt, who gave nothing more than a limp salute to the masses right after he stole the trophy from a pair of potential storybook endings.

Lucas, if I may, you just won a national championship and a pile of cash and you’ve accomplished a chunk of what you’ve been working for since the first day you picked up a club. It’s OK to show some emotion. Drop to your knees, man. Cry like you just watched “The Champ.” Rock back, lift your farmer-tanned arms to the sky and scream, “Any-thing-is-poss-ible.” Throw your headwear like you just don’t care. Run around and high-five a frustrated and muddy Monday gallery--all of them. Fist pump. Kiss kids. Do SOMETHING! Good shots and making putts are only part of your responsibility, and I respect that aspect of what you do. But in order to grow the game beyond Tiger, we need winners with charisma. I’m sure you’re a great guy, but with that new bag of loot, go buy some personality.

J.C.’s pink bike with a black basket that he rented for seven euros a day had more color than Glover. Which brings me back to a story involving golf while I was in Amsterdam.

The cast of assembled characters and I were having a late lunch, drinking tall pints of Heineken (brewed in Amsterdam, it’s much better than the U.S. version) when we noticed a stunning brunette standing on the street wearing tight pants, snappy golf shoes, lugging a bag of clubs over her shoulders. This woman didn’t wait long before an attractive friend on a scooter jumped the curb with an extra helmet.

They were on their way to hit balls and they invited me to get on and go for a ride to the range. They said they needed instruction and that they wanted to play golf in New York some day. In the spirit of male bonding and a commitment to the crew, I passed. And away they went. Gone, like spring.

You’ll notice by a quick glance at the images above that their invitation was safe. A third person on a two-person scooter wasn’t an option otherwise I would’ve ditched my motley posse for a grass range in Amsterdam. And I might still be there.

--Matty G.

My Dad (pictured) didn't give me my official introduction to the game of golf. It was my friend's dad--Al Cohen. One afternoon, when I was maybe ten years old, Mr. Cohen drove his son, the "other Matt" and I to the Sonoma County Fairgrounds for the first nine holes of my life. The other Matt and I were about ten years old and, combined, weighed maybe 100 pounds. We were built like the junior clubs we carried over our shoulders. I can remember teeing the ball up all over the course, and especially in the fairway. It was SO much easier to get the ball airborne with a two-inch headstart. To Mr. Cohen our score was well beyond insignificant. He only cared about the fun meter, and that was high.

I still use a tip Mr. Cohen gave me for chipping around a green. I was having a hard time not decelerating the wedge at impact causing the ball to do a variety of bad things. Mostly not go vary far. I know you're familiar with the results. So Al said, "Don't think about just chipping it to the flag. Think about a short backswing and chipping the ball to the other side of the green." Just the thought helped, and still helps me, control the dreaded decel.

As for the following rounds of young golf with my Dad, I remember a round at Oakmont Golf Club in Santa Rosa, Calif. when he taught me the proper way to tend the flag: step to the side and back and make sure my shadow didn't cover the hole. He also taught me how to rake a bunker and to always take my hat off after the round and before I shake the hands of my playing partners. I still like doing that today regardless of the state of my hat-head. A very underrated tradition of golf in my opinion and a tradition best passed from a father to a son.

And then there was the day my dad let me drive the cart. Mostly I remember learning the term, "ride the brakes."

From the top of a steep hill and headed to the bottom at a good clip, my dad shouted, "Ride the brakes!" I interpreted that to mean slam on the brakes as hard as my little limb could hold the slab of rubber to the floor without breaking a bone in my leg. It was after 1,480 degrees (or more) of rapid rotation as though we were a tea cup at a carnival, and two lives passing before four eyes, that I got the proper meaning of the term: ride the brakes. It means, simply, that the operator of the golf cart applies steady and only firm pressure to the brake pedal, allowing the cart to proceed to the bottom of the hill at a manageable pace. Was I supposed to know that at the tender age of 12? 

Which brings me to my first memory of beating my dad on the course. "Well, the little s___ finally did it," is what I think he said to my mom. My Dad has always carried about an 18 to 25 handicap. And thus the start of a lifetime negotiation of strokes. One that, within reason and respectfully, but not without a fair amount of resistance and ridicule, that I'm always willing to lose.

My dad was a civil engineer for his professional life and he's faster than a calculator on any and all things relating to numbers. But he's also a very good writer. So in honor of Father's Day I asked him to write something for my blog.

This, I thought would be appropriate, because my parents recently moved to San Diego, a few miles from one of my two older brothers (I'm the youngest of five). My dad and my mom (married 51 years) have a little private nine hole course off their backyard (they share it with the neighbors of a gated community. It's very nice. I've played it once. It's short, narrow, well-kept and ridiculously cheap. I think we dropped $2 per player in a box on the first tee. My Dad has been telling me tales of getting better, winning club championships even, and a guy he plays with who has a hard time seeing and yet he has over 40 aces. And that's just one of several characters he has made friends with in their first year in Southern California. My Dad even has my Mom playing a game she hasn't touched since they lived in Chile back in the '60s. So golf is helping keep both of them young and active. And it has given my Dad and I countless memories of life on fairways (no more tees) as spectacular as the short grass (and long grass) of Spyglass Hill and Pebble Beach. And there will be more. More rounds for $2 at the short course in his backyard. 

So this is what my dad turned in for his Father's Day assignment to write a guest column poem to post on my blog. It's his ode to golf by John Ginella:

Dear Matty G,

We all remember where we were when.....
    
     Our children were born
     JFK was killed
     On 9-11
     When we took up golf
     Joined a club
     & made our first eagle, or,
     Hole in one (same thing)
     We got to play with our wife (on the course, that is)
     Played golf with all our sons
     Played a Saturday "bandit" game with friends
     Watched Tiger roar through Augusta for his first Masters jacket
     Retired to a place where we could play daily
     Won a low net club championship, and,
     Got our name on a plaque, and,
     Know what it's like to be tagged a "sandbagger"
     Play now with the over 55 group (mostly over 75)
     'Set up' a 4some paired with an old (retired) pro vs two sons
     Laughed when sons discovered the 'set up'--retired pro can still play
     Play with 90+ year olds (with eye trouble) that have 43 Aces
     Host three guests for a round at a cost of $4 per guest, per 18, then,
     Take $1.40 each from two guests in side bets
     That's about it except to use the time on the course to brag a little
     (a lot actually) On our great group of Sons and Daughters.

Love, Pop


Here's a picture of the four Ginella boys last fall when my dad turned 75. His birthday is Nov. 11, 1933--that's 11/22/33. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there . . . especially Papa John.

--Matty G.