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Walking With a Tiger

      Life is funny. It's true what they say. Life is like a merry-go round. You go around and around and you have to wait until the ride stops to see where you get off. Then, you hope it's in a spot in which there is an ability to find and enjoy a great new adventure.

     My name is Robert Planter. I'm 37 year-old Pro-Am golfer who has learned the truth of this statement. Thirteen years ago the world was at my feet. I graduated form Arizona State University earning a Masters in Sociology courtesy of a golf scholarship. At twenty-three years old, I was ranked number-one by Golfweek magazine and number-one by Golfstat.

     This propelled me to Augusta where I not only received the Silver Cup,(an award given to an amateur for making the cut), but the Hole in One crystal for a miraculous one-shot-stroke on the 12th hole. But I don't remember to many great details about the tournament.

     On the second day, I was partnered with Ernie Ells. Having just teed off to begin the 7th, my caddie Kyle Stanley tapped my shoulder. I hadn't even noticed the course official approaching us. "Mr. Planter, there's been an accident sir. You better come with me." A million thoughts ran through my mind. The crowd looked as confused as I did. As the roped was raised, I noticed Georgia State patrolmen and more course officials waiting.

     Taken to a small media tent, people were asked to clear out. Kyle sat down next to my right as I was handed a telephone. It was Charlie Greene, Cheryl's father. "She didn't make it Robert. It was a freak accident. A pickup ran the light and she didn't have a chance. Are you there?" I couldn't breathe. "Robert?" I could hear his voice, but it seemed to be a distant echo. "And Talitha? I asked. How is Talitha?" "She's fine, he replied. Not a scratch."

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     The next thing I knew, I was on my way back home to Scottsdale, just outside of Phoenix. Kyle had wept with me as we were all close. With all of our backyard barbeques and family get-togethers, we were like brothers neither of us ever had. Carolyn and Cheryl giggled like slumber party girls, and when Talitha was born, our best friends were there with bells on.

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     I met Cheryl in my junior year at ASU. Always running late, I was running out the front doors of the library, tripped, and fell with her into a Hydrangea Bush. Both of us were quite surprised. "Geesh, is this your way of asking me out?" She had a sense of humor; great. I picked a full flowering branch and held it up. "Well, what do you say?" We both laughed and the rest was history. We got married that summer and spent our senior year in an off-campus apartment. As beautiful as Cheryl was, she glowed brighter while pregnant with our daughter Talitha.

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     As I walked up the gate ramp, I could see everyone waiting: mom, dad, in-laws, and friends. I was covered with hugs. Looking into the stroller, I could see Talitha. Her sleeping face had brought water to my eyes once again. I was afraid; afraid of how I could do this on my own, afraid of living without my best friend, my soul-mate.

     Golf was a forgotten thought over the next few months as I needed to lay out my priorities. Talitha was my number-one. Ryan Gooden owned the Sanctuary, a course in the foothills of Scottsdale and offered me the position of Head Instructor. I accepted and have been there ever since.

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     Family, friends, and fans, have asked over the years when I was going to get back on the tour. With a shrug of my shoulders and a mumble, they never pressed the issue. Little did they know that I still played virtually every day. At the break of dawn, or dusk of the evening, I was out there. I played against myself. I played against the demons that tried to bring me down. Tucking Talitha in at night allowed me to still love life and to trust in what was to come

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     "What was mommy like?" At seven years old, Talitha's curiosity for life's many mysteries was never-ending. Although my answers were always the same, she never tired of listening. I pulled the covers up and she tucked them under her arms. "Mommy was like a favorite song. Whenever she spoke, it made everyone happy. People would smile and their day would be better. She loved you so much, and when you were born, the sun shined brighter." Here reply was always the same. "Really?" "Really," I said. "I must be pretty special." Her dimples became exaggerated with a missing-tooth smile. "Yes, you are, just like mommy."

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     "You think that you're pretty sneaky don't you?" My 9-iron dug in and threw a full, toupe-sized clump of turf. It was my boss Ryan Gooden. The sprinklers had just shut off as I approached my first hole that morning. "I've been watching you for years and I can't stand it anymore." Gooden was a hell of a player back in the day and his course was an instant success with his challenging design. "Stand what?" I asked. "Take a walk with me." he replied.

     The distant yelps of the coyotes meant they were done with their nightly quest for food. It wouldn't be long before the Arizona sun would warm the air to a 100* plus. "Talitha's seven now. You've given such a great beginning to her life. But, it's time you used your gift as a golfer now. I've never seen anyone other than Tiger that strokes the ball like you do." I didn’t want this conversation this morning. I had Mrs. Gilcrest as my first lesson and she was a rich......well, you know. "I appreciate the compliment Ryan, I do. But I've got too much going on right now." He stopped walking. "Pig poop ," he firmly exclaimed.

     "You see that cactus over there?" Gooden pointed to a large Saguaro Cactus with Gila Woodpecker hacking away at it's skin. "Even as tough as that cactus is, it's still vulnerable. If you take it out of it's environment, it won't survive. Too much of this, or too little of that, and it's gone; history. You're out of your environment Robert. Your living and making it, but you need to get back on tour." He was serious. "The FBR Open is coming soon. You need to consider entering the field. I've talked to the tour committee and they're willing to let you play." Formally known as the Phoenix Open, the FBR was an incredible course.

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     Sitting in the den, I had my father on the phone. As we talked, my eyes shifted from my trophies, to the multiple golf-course paintings, to the bi-foldable picture frame of Cheryl and Talitha. I had told my dad about the conversation with Ryan Gooden that morning. He laughed when I told the now-familiar lesson mishaps with my student Mrs. Gilcrest. Hanging up the phone, I reached into the top desk drawer and pulled out a photo. It was of Cheryl and I. I had just received the NCAA Div I Champion trophy. It was hard to tell who was happier as she was so glad for me.

     "Don’t you like to play daddy?" Talitha was standing on the other side of my desk. "What do you mean pumpkin?" I asked. "Well, everybody should play. It's important. If you don't play, life isn't any fun." She was just too cute. "Come here," I said. I do like to play hun." I gave her a big hug. She looked at me real serious. "Then you should play."  I gave Talitha another squeeze and patted her off to bed.

     I didn't sleep that night, at least not very well. Tossing, turning, and watching the clock, I knew I had little choice. I needed to do this.

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     I walked into Gooden's office later that morning. "I don't even have a caddie. I can't ask Kyle as he's buried in responsibilities with Nike."  My best bud's marketing degree had paid off as Nike gave him a huge position in their Region-West Marketing Department. "What, I'm not good enough for ya?"  Ryan Gooden leaned back in his over-sized, leather diamond-tucked executive chair. I laughed. "Never even thought about it." He leaned forward. "Don't need to. You can be my boss for a change." He reached his hand out and we shook on it.

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     I played great at the FBR Open. I was matched with a South Korean by the name of Brian Cheung. The guy lifted my game up as his drives were okay, but his short game was dangerous. Gooden's wisdom was invaluable. Cheung and I had moved up through the field together and we ended up finishing 14th and 15th; I the later.

     I didn't fair as well at the "import tourneys" as Gooden referred to them ; The Nissan Open and Honda Classic. But I excelled in the others. My bank account was starting to love my deposits, and I was definitely finding my groove.  I quickly sprung to the Top 50 Players  list in the Official World Golf Association. This brought me not only an invite the World Golf Championship, but a special opportunity.

     Gooden and I were able to have a quiet lunch with Tiger Woods and his caddie Steve Williams. As a private person, we met in Tiger's suite.  Tiger's wife and Terri Gooden, Ryan's daughter, had run off to take Talitha out for lunch and shopping.

     "I better watch out for you at Augusta," Tiger said with a smile. Gooden spilled coffee on the front of his white crew shirt. He was as excited as I to be there. "It's great to have you on the tour as we kind of missed each other; your time away and all."  I nodded. "Yes we have." I replied. "I don't think you'll have to much to fear, but I am getting my game."

     I ended up at 12th in the field ending my final day matched with Greg Norman. He was a true wild-man and loved talking about yachts. His current one is 230 feet long and Gooden and I received an open invite.

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     That brings me to now. Here I sit on a back-deck of a new, but old-styled plantation home situated on the 12th green. A Jonathan White had called with an invitation to stay at his home. "If y'all don't show up, my wife will have a fit," he said in a long drawl. Making it in some auto-parts chain, White's Discount Auto, the guy was rolling in it.

     It's Sunday morning; early Sunday morning. I'm partnered with none other than Tiger Woods. My merry-go-round has stopped in a place for a hell of an adventure ride. The sun is barely creeping it's way into the day, and I'm watching as the sprinklers make their long, steady pass, then flutter in a spitting motion back to their original position. The fine mist slowly floats to the perfectly flattened grass, leaving little diamonds.

     Robins, Jays, and other birds rustle about. Making songs and squawks, it's peaceful and my coffee tastes great. The sliding-glass door behind me opens, and I hear the light running patter of feet coming. Talitha jumps in front of me. "Hi!" she exclaims, as if thinking she'll startle me. "Good morning princess." I scoop her up into my lap and she settles under my arm, laying her head on my shoulder.

     "I'm proud of you too daddy." I lean my head back to look at her face. "You are?" She reaches into the pocket of her robe and pulls out a photo. It's the one of Cheryl and I with my NCAA trophy. My throat tightened and my eyes watered. "I'm glad you are sweetie. You're my inspiration." Talitha hugs me. "And mommy?"  "Yes, and mommy too," I say smiling.

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     Tiger and I shake hands as we approach the tee. I shake Steve William's hand as Gooden and Tiger do the same. It doesn't ake long to figure out who to talk to, and who not to talk to when matched when another player. Reputation usually supersedes the pairing. Tiger is much too intense, and the talk it very light as we progress.

     Every once in a while I catch a look at Talitha and Terri Gooden standing outside the rope marking off the field of play. We exchange smiles and waves. Tiger is getting irritated as he's unsatisfied with a few shots allowing me to stay with him. We're both at nine-under par; the next closest is Vijay Singh at seven-under.

     The crowd gets more and more vocal as the day gets closer to an end. I'm still finding it hard to believe Tiger and I are paired up. It just seems so unreal. But, I am playing great. Approaching the 18th, we're both eleven-under, Singh is nine-under.

     Tiger crushes the ball off the tee. I watch as it elevates up to whole different level of the atmosphere. It wanders towards the right, bouncing it's way towards a cluster of trees; partially blocking a clear second shot. I won't tell you what he just said. Gooden gives me a smile and head-nod.

     My drive feels perfect off the tee and the crowd approves with applause and shouts. It lands in the middle of the fairway, shy of Tiger's, but centered. I have a chance.

     My second shot should be further, but it lands on the apron of the green. I look over towards the world's best golfer analyzing his situation.

     Tiger's second shot is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. It curves right around the imposing trees and centers itself in the middle of the green. He pumps his fist; then high-fives his caddie Williams.

     "It's not over ‘til the fat lady sings." Gooden smiles and hands me a two iron. He sees my questioning face and responds. "Run and gun baby....run and gun. It's a long walk for the ball to the hole." As we get to the ball, I see that he's right. "This drives the announcers crazy," he says.

     As Gooden walks away, I'm left alone with my thoughts. The crowd is mostly quiet with a few coughs, whispers, and odd noises. I line the club for a fast straight on shot, not wanting to give it a chance to break. Silence. When a ball leaves the club right, you know it. And it feels right. It goes straight for the cup and swirls around the edge, stopping left by a foot. The crowd moans. Gooden smiles and hand me my putter.

     Tiger's ball is six feet from the hole. Taking his time, he looks at it from every angle. A few words with Williams and the caddie walk away. There's a hell of a break two feet from the cup in his line. He taps it. Slowly moving up, over, sideways, the ball drops in. The Green Jacket is his.

     Talitha runs up to me and hugs my waist. "You did it," she said. "Did what?" I asked. "You played and had fun." She was all smiles. I smiled back and dropped to a knee. "Yes I did pumpkin, yes I did."

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     Golf is a funny sport to some people. You hit the ball, and then chase it down. You get there; then hit it again. But it's a great sport that allows a person to challenge himself in so many ways. Yeah, I played with Tiger Woods, and I'll see him again. But I walked with a greater tiger that day. The tiger within myself. While life may attack us at times, it's how we walk that allows us to get away from its jaws.                                         
 

“I’m Johnnie McGrath”

     “Warm up kid." It was Walleye Thornton, head coach for the New York Yankees. Was he talking to me? I looked up from my trance. No telling how long I had been staring at the laces of my cleats. "How 'bout today kid! Got fans out there you know!"  Damn, he was talking to me. "Sure thing Coach."

      WalleyThorton was what people referred to as a half and half player. He was half good and half bad. As a second baseman for the Cards, Thorton played good enough to hang around for nine years. Then, bouncing from team to team as a coach, Steinbrenner picked him up at the recommendation of Torre just before old Joe retired; that opened the door. Story goes, just before his own retirement, Mariano Rivera gave Coach his nickname in Latino tongue......"Dreeeble". All the vets had no problem calling Coach "Dribble". That nasty wad of tobacco in his cheek would leave spit to the underside of his lip at all times of the day. Not me. I'm the rookie.

     Who am I? I'm Johnnie McGrath. Rookie closer. I've just been called up from the Cape Cod League. And right now I just want to puke everything that I've eaten since last Saturday. That's when I got it; the call. I was hanging out at my dumpy apartment on the edge of Charleston, a suburb of Boston. Big rats with rear-ends the size of baseballs. One just ran past me making a clunking sound as he squeezed behind the fridge. The cell phone rang and scared the crap out of me.  I flipped it open. "Hello?"    "Johnnie, you done it boy, Mitch Jenkins just called and wants your skinny butt pronto. Steinbrenner’s having a heart attack 'cause the damn Yanks can't close one." I was trying to breathe after my minor's coach Ronny Bland broke the news. "You there boy?"   "Yeah, I'm here Coach."

     I wanted to puke then. And I want to puke now. The call was a week and a day ago. It's Sunday night and I'm walking to the bullpen of Yankee Stadium. It's a funny sensation. I can hear the crowd, yet it's silent. The walk is too fast, yet it feels like slow motion. I can smell the sweet-sour smell of the grass, but I swear I smell puke at the same time. The door opens and fans lean over trying for a hand slap; can't make out a word they're saying.

     "Don't let 'em get to ya kid." Carlos Santina was standing in front of me punching his mitt, mask on top of his head.  "Alright, let's get ya warmed up." He tugged on his mask, squatted, and punched his mitt again. Carlos was a great veteran of the game; nine years, four Gold Gloves, five All-Star games, .278 averages. Cleveland let him go for new blood. The Yankees picked him up for emergency back-up to Posada. In just one week I already loved the guy for his advice, encouragement, and stories. Damn, don't get him on a story if you have some place to be.

     My arm started to feel good. I can see that big you-know-what eating grin behind the mask. With each toss back to me, he'd give that big old mitt another punch. "Aye corrumba amigo!" I couldn't help but laugh. He was a ham. But the arm was feeling great. My speed picked up. My pitches? Splitter and fastball. Pure smoke. I stay in the nineties, but clock some hundreds. "Pay attention to Posse, he'll keep you honest kid."

     Terry Glover, the pitching coach, tapped me on the shoulder. "Showtime Johnnie. You ready? You warmed up?"   "He's ready Glove," Carlos was my voice. “Go get 'em kid." He slapped me on the shoulder. "You too Carlos, I need this one and you've been working him."  Carlos smile got bigger than I thought possible with the nod from Glover. The door to the outfield swung open and here it came. I puked like I never puked before. Damn stuff was coming out of my nose. Carlos laughed. “You ready!"

     As I walked to the mound, the crowd seemed a mile away, yet I had this feeling they would rise and swarm over me like a tidal wave. Vern Hasher was swinging in the circle. Hasher was the DH for the Boston Red Sox. 6'3" with a Babe Ruth belly. Boston's hit-man. I looked at the board for the first time. Top of ninth; man on second, man on third. The score was Boston 4, New York 5. Two outs and a world of pressure.

     Coach met Carlos and I at the mound. "Alright kid. You know Hash. He likes it outside, and he likes it low. I got a need placement, and a need for speed. You got me?" I nodded.  "Carlos, you know what to do."  "Sure Dreeble, I know." Carlos smiled and I was left alone. I purposely avoided looking at Hasher. My placement was there, I was warmed up; ready to go.

     As Vern Hasher stepped to the plate, I looked at him. He looked like a bull that had just seen red. Swing, tap, swing, spit; trademark Hasher. Carlos gave the sign punched his mitt. My first pitch was supposed to be a splitter down and in; it sailed in and up. Hasher jumped back, Carlos squeezed it with the edge of his mitt. He smiled, nodded and tossed it back. The sign, the punch.  My second release felt great, high and away fastball, Hasher tips it back. The new ball comes out; sign and punch. My third pitch up and in catches the corner while Hasher watches it pop into Carlo's mitt. He stands. "Time!" The ump raises his arms and here comes Carlos.

     "You want to give Dreeble's a heart attack?"  “How’s that?" I ask.  "Hasher is ticked off and he is going to crush the next thing you bring. Can you break a splitter low and outside? You gotta break the sound barrier with it."  The last place to go with Hasher. "Sure, I can do it."  I could hear Carlos laughing all the way back to home plate. Then, I hear the crowd for the first time. My elbow feels funny. Not pain, but like I can feel the bones in my arms from adrenaline and nerves. But I'm pumped.

     Hasher steps up; swing, tap, swing, spit. Carlos gives the sign. Not the pitch we're using, but he didn't want Coach to rush out onto the field. I swear he's laughing. I wind up and throw. The ball makes a belt-high beeline, and then crosses outside, knee-high. Hashers bat misses high and not by much; but enough. Carlos charges at me, dropping catcher's gear along the way. I'm swarmed by players from behind.

     After the game, I'm hanging out with the guys at Ray's; a regular team hang-out.  Sucking down cold ones never felt so good. I'm tapped on the shoulder. It's Mariano Rivera. "Good stuff Johnnie. Did anyone tell you the speed of that last pitch? One-oh-two." It was an honor to sit with my hero. A waitress approached, "I haven't seen you before. Who are you?"  I just smiled and said," I'm Johnnie McGrath."

     Having been cursed as next to the youngest, I was forced into the far back with whatever luggage could not be piled on the roof rack; after all, there are overpasses in the Granite State.  My older brother would tease and prank me until I passed out from exhaustion. Thump, thump, thump would awaken me with the reality that we were almost there. The cement road which is there to this day, had stress relieving cracks that were a welcome sound.

    Already perked up, our family would begin to talk of the previous years' adventures. Would the boat still run?  Could we catch that damn fish? Sleeping arrangements would deadlocked as were our individual days of birth. As the car slowed for the last time, my dad would ease in slowly as the well-tattered asphalt of the driveway was slowly rising with the out-growing roots of magnificent trees. Great big pines with a smell that spoke of freshness.

     Jumping out before a complete stop, the motherly call for help with baggage was ignored for the joy of entering our camp. The old thin windows made a light tinny sound as the door rubbed open. entering immediately into the kitchen, there was the rush of a familiar smell. Years of crackling fires left an everlasting sweet-smoky smell. Out of the kitchen and into a huge grand room all done in knotty-pine allowed us to see our old friend, a mountain lion head hanging high above the mantle.

     Restlessness created ill-gotten slumber as the anticipation of tomorrow's sunshine would mean carrying the boat out of the cellar for a short walk to the dock. Mom, having been up for a while, had cereal boxes laid out. English muffins filled the air with hunger remembered, and the pouring of juice was done in Flintstone glasses; rewards of Welch's jellies.

     The door off the back porch had a woodpecker knocker with a string attached. Tap, tap, tap. You couldn't resist giving it a few tugs. The rear-entry wooden-framed screen door’s wood would stick on the bottom, then release with a da, da, da sound. The spring was too tense for all of our years there. Hundreds of times each day through endless summers were filled will the unmistakable slams that were characteristic of busyness.

     The old boat would teach the younger every popular cuss word as she was a moody one. Pulling the string with repeated attempts would make memories of falling backwards, breaking the string, and other joys of such. But, when she started and the bubbling spurts of “Smokey”, oily water churned, it only added to smells to recall.

     Every year, one of my brothers and I would try to catch "old grandpa." he was the biggest damn catfish we ever saw. And every year he would be in the same spot, mocking us. Stepping off of the dock and into the boat, we would cast towards the lily pads that were his home. No matter what we tried, it was futile. If you wormed him, he would lick it off with laughter wiggling his tail. Anything fake, shiny, and the likes; forget it. You could talk to his fin 'cause the fish wasn't jiggin'. Now Cheerios were the closest you could come to success. He would suck 'em in, but hooking was impossible as old grandpa was just too quick.

     The three boys were in charge of the boat. Any rides were administered through us. One day, my oldest sister was walking down towards the dock with key in hand, followed by my three other sisters. My best macho call was bellowed for my brothers to hear. A huge disturbance entailed. The "Brady Bunch" debate was in full flourish for my mom to make the call. We lost. The girls loaded in the old MFG and of course we had to start it. They were actually going out for the first time; alone.  The mocking wave of tongues and giggles from the girls was followed by the motor jumping from too high of a throttle setting for reverse. Then, racing backwards into the dense lily pads induced laughter from us guys. With the motor turned off, the girls slowly paddled back to the dock.

     At 12 years old, I finally received permission to take the boat out by myself for the very first time. I had come of age! Another sleepless night. I watched as the sun squeaked it way towards first light. Too excited to take time to eat, I did fill my trusty Flintstone glass for some quick juice. Mom gave me the last lectures of safety and I ran as fast as I could; the screen door out back releasing its loud bang.

     This was my first memory of really feeling the beauty of God. The lake was as smooth as glass. There was a light, misty fog hovering above the surface like a whisper. I released the ropes and paddled a ways as not to disturb the neighbors. Tug, tug, yank, cuss, tug, and the motor roared to life. Clockwork. I eased the throttle forward and dropped my hand towards the water. It felt so soft, so soft it almost didn't feel wet. After a while, I threw that throttle down and bumped across the awakened surface, enjoying the clappety clap of the plywood floor.

     To this day, when I smell the sweet-smoky smell of good wood gone by, I am  flooded with emotion. And if per chance I hear the da da da and slamming of an old wooden-framed screen door, I listen closely for the laughter of children that should surely follow.