Showing my age

April is about my favorite month. Baseball begins, and the second weekend brings the Masters golf tournament.  Life is good.

Interestingly, although I hardly need another reminder of how old I am, I read earlier this week that among the major sports baseball fans average being 57 years old. The only sport with a higher average fan age is golf at 63.

Here I am at 64 and those are the two sports I watch the most.

And then I gain another year later this month, turning 65 the 22nd. Oh well.

But why let all that get you down? Baseball, golf, and my birthday: all in April. I can't think of a reason not to love the most excellent fourth month of the year. 

Zeke and the Masters

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, who we sometimes called Zeke, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and who had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August which escapes my memory. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family." It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, the first thing I did was dig up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would realize that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy came by, practice swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that he ought to have his own clubs, and made his purchase.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a pang of remorse as the man disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope that he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

The Game

I watched the game yesterday. What? No, not football, golf. The Phoenix Open. It's the golf tournament which, after the Masters, I most look forward to.

It's famous for its stadium hole. The organizers surround the sixteenth hole with a triple deck grandstand that seats 20,000. It has private suites too.

The tournament simply feels electric, even over television. There's less raw energy at the Masters. Of course, I think the Masters folks prefer that, being genteel and all.

Yes, I fully realize there was another game yesterday. But I didn't watch it. I believe that anticipating new commercials against a background of manufactured violence is little more than a neurosis.

Masters Weekend

Editor's note: this is a reprint of a favorite article of mine. Uncle John liked the Masters and I liked golfing with him. Think we got time for a quick nine, Zeke?

The Masters and John Cosgriff

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and whoever had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 170 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August of days gone by. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family". It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, that image popped into my head. I then dug up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with, just to see his signature.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would know that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty sometimes just for kicks.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs three sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? 

A young left handed guy came around and looked them over. He practiced swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough that he ought to have his own clubs, and paid for them.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind him on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a deep pang of remorse as the fella disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.

Sunday fun day

What to do, what to do? 

I'll start by taking my morning walk. Yes, that will work. Then I'll sit with Mom for a bit and take her for a ride. Perhaps we'll go to Ollie's Bargain Outlet. The one in Port Huron. I haven't been to that one yet, and I need, uh, stuff. At bargain prices. Then we'll get lunch and take the long way home.

Once back home I'll check in on the Tigers and catch the last couple hours of the Masters. Hideki Matsuyama had quite a run yesterday after the rain delay and sits with a four shot lead. I'm  going to root for him and hope it's not the kiss of death.

Then I'll finish the day watching the second round of Wrestlemania 37. It won't be the same without the Undertaker. But it was cool to see Hulk Hogan again in part one.

Yes, I think this has the makings of a fine, relaxing Sunday.

I wasn't going to crack this joke.

I wasn't going to crack this joke. I had indeed vowed, in the silence of my own mind, not to make the quip. In fact, I had put it in yesterday's blog but edited it out, wanting to keep that missive reasonably happy go lucky and vaguely wistful in tone. But I like the then edited remark too much not to share it after all.

If I may pontificate, not that any potential negative reply to that not actual request for an affirmative answer would stop me, I believe it is objectively funny. IF, and I mean this, if you have a sense of humor and are not too full of yourself. I say that last part because I have found there are folks out there who can't laugh at themselves. What they find important is far too critical for wit, dammit.

So here you are: and I've offered enough of a trigger warning that it's on you if you read it and are offended.

April brings out the best in sports for me. Baseball begins, while the Masters golf tournament arrives the second week of the month. The only thing that would make it better is if they moved the Masters from Georgia to Colorado.

That is objectively witty and a bit biting. But a lot of good humor has a grain of reality within it, don't you think?

My favorite blog from 2015

December 31, 2015: the last day of the year. We're expected to write retrospectives today, right? Well, I'm not going to. I've looked back over what I've written during twenty-fifteen and decided I'd rather put my own spin on that practice. I'm reprinting my favorite blog from the year, first offered back in April. I hope you like is as much as I do.

-Marty Cosgriff

John Cosgriff and the Masters

I don't watch golf very often. But I always watch the Masters. Although I do find that I like the game more and more as I grow older, there's a part of me which still doesn't really see the allure. Hitting a small ball hundreds of yards into a cup maybe twice the size of that ball just doesn't seem a very entertaining way to spend an afternoon. Still, I find that golf and I have a history. Lately that's been played out through 'swing and sweeps', combined golf and curling tournaments. They're great fun, especially if, as a curler (as I am) it gets you two more curling games per season. I do look forward to them.

But more than that. My father's youngest brother, my Uncle John, liked to golf. He always bet something or other with a coworker on the outcome of the Masters. He and his boss would pick five guys alternately, and who had the winner won a sleeve of balls. I'm not sure who won most often. But I know my uncle was always proud of his picks.

I golfed with him many times years ago, when he was young and I was younger. We'd go out for nine holes after work many a summer's day. Those evenings were always good fun. If I could relive just one...we would joke and laugh, and simply enjoy the quiet and the game.

He was a lefty. That was fairly rare in golf at the time. His swing seemed unusual even to me, but for a duffer he was okay. I scored my only birdie to this date while golfing with him. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills, a 180 yard par 3, a Thursday night in an August the exact date of which escapes my memory just now. I made the green off the tee with a four iron, and hit a 25 foot putt which ran hard left to right right into the cup. I made him sign the scorecard to attest that I had birdied. He remarked, "No one will believe us, because I'm family". It was lightly drizzling as he signed the card under the glare of my car's headlight after that round. I still see him doing it, him down in a squat using the bumper for backing. Why do such things stay in our memories? But when he died, the first thing I did was dig up the scorecard and the ball that I birdied with.

When he had decided he was through with golf he gave me his left handed clubs. Several times I played rounds with them. If you have any idea how poorly I golf, you would know that it hardly mattered from which side of the tee I would address the ball. Might as well play lefty.

I kept those clubs for years. Then I bought a better-than-mine set of used right handed clubs (used better than I ever will), and decided to sell Uncle John's clubs at a yard sale. Who needs two sets of clubs, especially opposite sided ones, right? A young left handed guy practiced swung a few of them, decided that he wanted to golf enough so that it mattered that he ought to have his own clubs, and bought them.

I watched him walk away, dragging Uncle John's clubs behind on the cart which went with the deal. I felt a pang of remorse as the man disappeared with his new found treasure.

I sincerely hope that he has golfed well with them. And I wish I still had those clubs.