WPBT Hand History

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***** Hand History *****

Table Sherwood Forest Bar (Real Money) -- Seat 2 is the button

Total number of players: 65-ish

Seat 1: ThisIsNotApril
Seat 2: Maudie
Seat 3: F-Train
Seat 4: Falstaff
Seat 5: Absinthetics
Seat 6: BamBam and Pebbles
Seat 7: PokerPeaker
Seat 8: Iggy
Seat 9: Garthski and Saunter
Seat 10: DawnSummers

JoeSpeaker joins Table Sherwood Forest Bar

** Dealing down cards **

Dealt to JoeSpeaker: Newcastle

Everybody: Congratulations!
JoeSpeaker: Thanks (and talks all about Emet's pregnancy and AJ's video and reactions and emotions, thoughts he would repeat over and over again the entire weekend and never, ever tire of it).
Iggy: So, I'm out there in the Boundary Waters and I throw my steak in the lake so bears don't get it, but while I'm sleeping I keep hearing these splashes in the water and I'm in full 'what the fuck?' mode.
PokerPeaker: So what was it?
Iggy: Beaver.
JoeSpeaker: You look great, man.
Iggy: Shut up.
JoeSpeaker: No, seriously, that fresh air is doing you some good.
Iggy: Fuck you.

JoeSpeaker joins Table Craps at Excalibur

Seat 1: Maigrey
Seat 2: Gus
Seat 3: Chilly
Seat 4: Garthski
Seat 5: Marty
Seat 6: Astin
Seat 7: Drizztdj
Seat 8: ThisIsNotApril

Maigrey: Horn Hi-Lo!
Gus: Horn Hi-Lo!
Garthski: What are these bets? I think they're just making them up.
JoeSpeaker: Give me a $10 white elephant!
Garthski: Five bucks on Strawberry Milkshake!
Marty craps out
Chilly: That's now how you do it.
Maigrey: (Thrusts two middle fingers in Chilly's direction)
Chilly: What?
Maigrey: crapscritics.com

JoeSpeaker joins Table WPBT Winter Golf Classic

Seat 1: DrChako
Seat 2: Ringer Josh
Seat 3: BamBam
Seat 4: Pebbles
Seat 5: JoeSpeaker
Seat 6: F-Train
Seat 7: Drizztdj

Drizztdj shoots net even-par on the front 9.
JoeSpeaker takes away his strokes on the back
F-train is one bloody mary short of the pocket
(Observer chat) Katkin: Sorry I couldn't make it.
(Observer chat) TheRooster: Me too. I'm a flake.
DrChako suggests wagering guidelines. Group now has 37-way action.
JoeSpeaker hits a duck, makes par on the hole, wins four skins.
Bambam marvels at the balmy weather.
JoeSpeaker also hits a flag stick, three drives into the desert.
F-Train: You're using up all your run-good.
Pebbles birdies, one of only two by the group on the day.
Drizztdj jams his shoulder, is net +16 on the back.
JoeSpeaker scrambles to an 86 to win overall title, four skins and two Nassaus.
BamBam: nh
Drizztdj goes 41-56, wins seven skins, closest-to-the-hole, long drive.
DrChako: Rigged.
RingerJosh wins a Nassau.
Pebbles wins a skin
DrChako wins a skin.

JoeSpeaker joins Table Raku

Seat 1: Astin
Seat 2: DrChako
Seat 3: F-Train
Seat 4: Katkin
Seat 5: Drizztdj
Seat 6: Garthski
Seat 7: JoeSpeaker
Seat 8: Saunter
Seat 9: Absinthetics
Seat 10: Grubby

** Dealing down cards **

Gigantic pitchers of Sapporo
Tofu with Bonito, scallions, wasabi and green tea salt
Sashimi Salad with spinach and crispy onions
drizztdj: I just may lick the bowl.
Red Snapper sashimi and seared
JoeSpeaker: I don't often eat food that comes with a head.
Saunter: We should name him.
JoeSpeaker: (Launches into uncommonly long story about AJ and his love for a certain name)
Saunter: Antonio, it is!
(Observer chat) Waitress: Would you like those bones deep-fried?
Everybody: The answer is 'yes!'
Seafood soup
Shellfish and broth
Fried chicken thighs on spinach with balsamic vinaigrette
absinthetics: Everybody make sure to tweet @gamblingblues
(Observer Chat) gamblingblues: STFU
Asparagus deep-fried with panko bread crumbs
Roasted mackerel
drizztdj: This poor guy swam the wrong way.
Astin: Our cruel waitress is fattening up to kill us later I assume.
Red Snapper bones and skin redux
Saunter: Deep-fried Antonio!
(Observer Chat) AJ: It's not nice to eat a fish twice.
Tofu in beef broth with Salmon roe
Bacon-wrapped mushrooms, two ways
F-Train: These mushrooms are fucking ridiculous.
(Observer chat) Waitress: Do you want another pitcher?
JoeSpeaker: How many courses are left?
Kobe beef with wasabi
DrChako: This meat has no right to be that good.
Pork cheek
JoeSpeaker: (unbuttons pants)
absinthetics: Our mouths are full of amazing
DrChako folds.
Ground chicken on a stick
drizztdj: They should serve these at the Minnesota State Fair
Rice with salmon roe
Astin: Right, 'cause what this meal was missing salmon rice.
JoeSpeaker: I can't possibly take one more bite.
/takes one more bite.
/takes four or five after that

JoeSpeaker joins Table WPBT Winter Classic at Aria

Seat 1: Wookie
Seat 2: Lefty
Seat 3: Katkin
Seat 4: JoeSpeaker
Seat 5: Maudie
Seat 6: ThisIsNotApril
Seat 7: Derek
Seat 8:
Seat 9: Chilly
Seat 10: Timtern

** Dealing down cards **

Katkin bets 300
JoeSpeaker raises to 850
Katkin calls [550]

Dealing Flop: Jh, 8s, 4c

JoeSpeaker bets 1100
Katkin folds, shows [7s 2h]
JoeSpeaker wins pot, shows [As, Ac]

JoeSpeaker finished 12th, wins $0.
Team Los Angel-ish--JoeSpeaker, absinthetics and ShaneNickerson--wins $130 for finishing second in Last Longer Challenge

JoeSpeaker, frustrated and beat, spends 90 minutes contemplating calling it a night. It's 8 p.m. Instead, he calls his wife, is cheered up, and heads to Aria where he has two very interesting and thoughtful conversation that he doesn't get to finish.

JoeSpeaker joins Table Pai-Gow at the IP

Seat 1: drizztdj
Seat 2: Saunter
Seat 3: ColorsTease
Seat 4: F-Train
Seat 5: JoeSpeaker
Seat 6: Garthski

Garthski: PAI-GOW!!!!!
drizztdj: ........
JoeSpeaker: I can't stop hitting bonuses
ColorsTease: Cocktails?

*

JoeSpeaker folds

*

There is no way to express how much I enjoy the company of this group. Many thanks to April for herding the entire flock, to F-Train for setting up possibly the finest eating experience ever, the Aria Poker Room (@AriaPoker) for the hospitality, to Jordan and pokerist.com for the added money in the Last Longer, to the brave six souls who dared take me--and Rhodes Ranch Golf Club--on in the Golf Classic, to each and every one of you who offered your best wishes and kind remarks on the upcoming baby.

Let me also throw out a hearty and heartfelt congratulations to the runners. A truly inspiring feat and I'm sorry I wasn't there to celebrate it with you, but I'll get you the next time.

Too Many Words for Twitter

I have an irrational set of expectations for other people and I often have to remind myself that these random individuals with whom I cross paths have both a) their own expectations and b) a total ignorance of my peculiar set of rules. This expresses it self frequently on mass transit, which I have now used daily for more than seven years, a fact which is nigh unthinkable in the vast metropolis of Los Angeles, as well as a constant reminder to me that I have escaped the ritualistic Car Culture of my city and its inherent rudeness.*

(*I am often asked why I never use my blinker when changing lanes on the freeways and it is because, as soon as one signals intent, the nearest driver in the intended lane will attempt to block any and all attempts at movement, by speeding up/slowing down/honking horns/spitting. It's a Darwinian culture of Fuck You-ness that I've never encountered anywhere else.)

I find myself grumbling at others. The folks who sit across from me on the train--thereby inhibiting my leg room, which must be substantial for my comfort because I'm a tall drink of water--when there are other seats available nearby that would be more apt for them an me. The people on the subway who stand right in front of the doors so they can be first off at Union Station, but who also refuse to move--even the slightest--when I am trying to board. I liken these offenders to people who christen a pristine row of theater seats by sitting on the end, making others crawl over them. And the worst, those who stand on the left side of the escalator/people mover, when the right is for standing and the left is for walking.

All of these things annoy the living ish out of me. To my mind, they are unwritten rules of behavior, of accommodation to your fellow man/woman. However, if you think about it, my expectations are borne of my own frame of reference and have no relation to that of others, like back-to-back spins on the roulette wheel. Sure, I'd like to think we're all in this together, it takes a village and all that hunky dorey crap, but the truth is, it's every man/woman for themself.

This is called The Gap. The space between our own expectations and the reality of others. It's what you fill that gap with that determines the success or failure of any relationship, as well as one's own sanity. If you fill that gap with patience and understanding, then ta-da! life is good. If you (I) fill it with "get your stupid elbow off my arm-rest!" the days can be long and frustrating.

I guess what I'm saying is you should do what I say and we won't have a problem.

Actually, here's my advice: Mind the Gap.

*

Here's another rule I've recently learned. Say you're visiting friends out of town. Say this hypothetical town is Chicago. And you go to one of their favorite restaurants. Say it's called The Publican. You do not--DO NOT--want to mention, even in passing, how very much you enjoy the experience and you especially do not want to compliment a single dish--say it's the Country Rib--no matter how delicious and savory and downright otherworldly the dish might be, because every single time these "friends" of yours return to said Publican restaurant in Chicago and order themselves a Country Rib or three, they will mercilessly and gleefully taunt you with tweets, texts, pictures and this will be especially hurtful if all you've eaten that day is a hot dog at the turn and a frozen pizza.

I hate you all.

*

My cat is a genius. Normally, I'd never write that sentence since I'm an adult male and enjoy my standing as such, but this kind of blew my mind. Unlike the dog, whose most fervent desire is to stay indoors, preferably within licking distance of at least one of the three humans in the house, the kitty wants to go tomcatting outside as often as possible. Due to the fact that our house is close to the mountains and we have an open field nearby, we restrict her playtime to daylight hours, lest she be eaten by the coyotes which sometimes sneak into the tract for food.

To aid our ability to find her at nightfall, she has a collar with a bell (and her info). A few days ago, she lost the collar on her adventures (it's a breakaway deal so she doesn't hang herself by it). So, all day Saturday, she whined at the back door since we wouldn't let her out without a collar. We procured a replacement on Sunday and duly allowed her back into the wild, from which she returned a couple hours later with the lost collar in her mouth.

She screeched to get our attention, pointedly dropped it on the kitchen floor and stomped right back outside.

*

I'd like to recommend a book to you all. It's "Let the Great World Spin" by Colum McCann. You New Yorkers will especially like it. The setting is 1974 and the common thread running through the novel is the famous tightrope walk between the Twin Towers by Philippe Petit, immortalized in the excellent documentary "Man on Wire." It's basically a love letter to NYC and a metaphor for 9/11. It's exquisite. The prose is so smooth and velvety. Just a wonderful experience.

*

We're fine. Great, in fact. How are y'all?

Mind the Gap.

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Studs Up

Alright, since The Rooster keeps sending me racist, jinoistic messages about El Tri and their crop of young studs who play a lovely brand of futbol, I thought I'd offer a retort, something beyond the usual "Go Back to Mexico!" and "Mow My Lawn!"

I was once on a team that lined up opposite a bunch of Jamaicans, real Jamaicans, black and everything, not white suburban kids who liked Bob Marley. They had this dude in the middle of the park who absolutely dominated us with his quickness, vision and skill. We lost 4-1, but it was far worse than that. the next time we played them, we game-planned specifically for that guy, switching to a 4-5-1 and having a usual left back in the center to man-mark their play-maker. In addition, we put out the call to chop him down physically.

That's exactly what should happen tonight. Dos Santos and Barrera should go down hard (at least) once early. Real hard. Then often. With multiple subs, you can get the yellow cards out of the way and bring on someone else. It's like having a bunch of Brian Scalabrines on the team. Back them off a little, slow the pace of the game with multiple re-starts, raise some fucking welts.

Surely, Klinsi knows this, probably, in fact, remembers when Germany did this exact thing to the US in 2002 World Cup. Jens Jeremies annihilated Yank play-maker Claudio Reyna--who is also in camp!--within the first five minutes, rendering him impotent for the remainder of the match. We have guys like Heath Pearce and Zach Loyd in the team. What else are they going to offer but a little thuggery?

So there is the game plan. Get Gio rolling around on the turf like he's trying to put out a fire on his person. And yeah, we beat the Jamaicans in that second game. Completely reversed the scoreline. Took them out physically, which led to them disintegrating mentally. Same thing can happen tonight, though probably not much chance of El Tri sparking fatties at halftime.

Puppy Love

So there's this new entity in my house who has worms and shits on the floor. Shat. It was just once and I cleaned it up post-haste, remembering the time AJ was potty training and had a failure which jump-started his two-year-old's sense of shame, so he tried to clean the mess himself and ended up dragging his soiled bottom and clothing all over the upstairs hallway. And I thought, I've done this before, no big deal.

Reggie, the mutt, the maybe part-terrier, maybe part-pit bull, maybe part-doberman, all-thunderous energy, has been with us for a week and we've had to devise an intricate system of levers and pulleys to prevent more accidents (there have been two of the liquid variety), unsupervised interactions with the kitty--who is up in all kinds of arms over this feisty interloper and is taking it out on each of us in unique ways--and various other attacks on our home furnishings and possessions, up to and including AJ's stuffed animals, one of which was subjected to a brief, but no less hilarious and disturbing, quasi-pornographic act.

He treats our couch as if it merely something to hurdle. He has attempted to eat a dozen snails. He keenly disrupts any and all plans to go outside when we are home. He broke the screen door within 12 hours. He eats with the ferocity of a pack of hyenas and with more speed. He's tried to bury his chew bone in the middle of the living room. He is 23 lbs. of whirling, jumping, tugging, galloping fury.

Of course, we love him to death.

I do not speak for the poor kitty, however. The Princess. Her run of Speaker Manor has come to an ignominious end. She's furious with us. Was a time when Emet's morning alarm would be her call to jump up on our bed and lay next to her for one, two slaps at the snooze button. Now, she won't even enter the room. She reserves her hiss mostly for Reggie, but we've all been subject to a swiped fore paw or bared teeth. He is most unwelcome and perhaps her biggest issue is that her forays into the backyard have been curtailed, while we try to get the two of them to co-exist without the chasing. Ironic. The dog always wants in and the cat always wants out.

When we got Reggie last week, he seemed bewildered. We'd prepared for his arrival with all manner of research and purchases of essentials and doggie toys, yet he was disinterested, as if he didn't know how to play. We knew virtually nothing of his background. He came from one of Emet's students. Her family had just moved and they couldn't keep the dog, who they had only had for a brief time after another family member gave him up. So you could say Reggie's five months of life have been unsettled.

He's a little meek with men. Ducks his head in submission; a sign, perhaps, of abuse, but he's shown no outward symptoms of fear or severe mistreatment. We're crate training him and it's going great. Sleeps in the crate in our room with less and less resistance, though Emet says he snores and I have to take her word for it, 'cause how would I hear over the sound of my own Warthoggery. He's caught on to the fact that going bathroom outside will result in a treat and makes a beeline for the back door as soon as he's un-crated in the morning (and then makes a similar beeline to the pantry after emission, since that's where the treats are).

It's been a long time since I've had a dog in the house and that was a house that barely needed to be protected from the behavior of a dog. Sixteen years. I suppose I'm getting used to him just as much as he's getting used to us. I'm up 45 minutes earlier in the morning for a walk and it's quickly become something I look forward to, a quiet, relaxing start to the day, with the added benefit of getting the blood pumping. He's remembered how to fetch a ball and play tug-of-war with...oh...anything and I can get him sprinting around the backyard at frightening speed as he somehow avoids running into the fences or flower boxes. My typical evening of sprawling on the couch watching sports is no longer an option since his energy needs a watchful eye. "He's your dog," Emet says, while sipping wine.

He is, but I want him to be AJ's dog, too. Right now, Reggie favors the adults, who feed and walk him and who are there all the time, as opposed to the half-time kid with the short attention span and fiery desire for the dog to sleep in his bed. AJ's talked about having a dog for so long that the reality might be a little too overwhelming for him, too different from the idea he had in his head about ownership. Goodness knows he's not too happy about having to wash his hands all the time now after playing with Reggie.

So we're integrating this lovable beast into the family. We walk the neighborhood, give him deworming medicine, bounce the ball, higher the better, pretend he's too strong and we can't get the sock out of his mouth. He foils a handful of attempts to get him in the yard when it's time for work, sits there at the back door with those ears, huge and alert, saying "don't go."

And we don't want to.

Pure

I didn't say anything until after a routine par on #5, the number one handicap hole, a long par-4 with an uphill second shot. Nor had Emet remarked on the round I had going. "Are you aware I'm one-under right now?" I said.

"Don't talk about it," she said, like she was watching a perfect game.

Sage advice. But the round is over now and I can't stop talking about it.

*

It's not like I've been knocking on the door of breaking 80. In fact, I'd been golfing at the same plateau the entire year with outlier results being on the higher scale rather than the lower. My handicap, after hitting a low of 14.5 in March, has risen to 15.1. My scores--and goals--were still bogey golf and the majority of rounds were within a shot or two of 90. The scores were fine, but I was getting frustrated.

This isn't news to golfers. Frustration is ever present. The primary reason for mine was a swing that seemed to come and go, sometimes in the same round. Again, no news to golfers. The only way to find that consistency, I figured, was to keep playing. More experience, the better one can replicate the good swings.

So, of course, I broke 80 in the first round I'd played in a month.

*

This past weekend was the first I'd had off in a while. I've been taking a lot of weekend shifts because I needed to bank some comp days for a summer chock full o' vacation goodness. Because I'd spent so much time away from my wife, I dubbed the past two days Angeliquend, 48 hours of wifely attention and festivities. Fortunately, she's a selfless person and allowed a round of golf as part of the fun.

We took a trip to the driving range on Thursday after work to get out some kinks, but spent most of our time chipping and putting, as I gave her pointers on those pesky chips that she struggles with (and I could say to her many times on Saturday that the shot she was about to attempt was "the same ones we practiced"). I had mixed results on the range, hitting two balls square then duffing the third. Same as it ever was. Didn't walk away feeling like anything was different.

Then, on Saturday morning, we did some yard work. We let the kitty out into the backyard to play while we did so and I took a short break to play with her. She likes me to whack plastic golf balls at her. It was then that I had a revelation.

*

The sixth hole is a 178-yard par three over water. It's tough because the hole is open and unprotected from the wind, which blows left-to-right and both knocks balls down and pushes them into the bunker at the right front of the green. I've used as much as a 5-iron on this hole when the wind is howling, but on Saturday it was a strong 7. I found the green off the tee and two-putted for par.

Still one-under.

*

It has been those iron shots that have been the biggest hole in my game lately. I've honestly had no idea where they have been headed the last three months. I've tried a few changes, mostly in my grip, which is on the weak side, partially owing to the wrist surgery I had, but also because it feels most comfortable that way. Nothing's really worked.

So, there I am with the kitty in the back yard, hitting nice, easy seven irons at her as she tries to catch the plastic balls in the air. I'm not really paying attention to my swing until one shot where my hands brush against my right thigh on approach to the ball.

Holy shit! Total lightbulb. That's it!

*

The seventh hole is a bad one for me and my baby fade. Right-to-left dogleg with water left and a big bunker guarding the corner. That bunker is 235 to carry and it rises about three feet above the fairway. I can clear it. I have. Maybe one out of ten. So, I tend to play away from it. I drove it well, staying right all the way, but it ran out of the fairway. This course is fairly easy if you drive it in the generous fairways (I hit 9 of 14 on the day), but if you're in the rough, it's never a flat lie.

In this instance, I had a hook lie and though I hit it pretty well, it landed hard and carried to the back left of the green, 40 feet and a deep swale away from the pin. I figured my best option was to go high, around the swale, but I didn't hit it hard enough and left myself 12-feet for par.

I missed. "First blemish on the card," I said to Emet, while also noting the hilarity of me calling a bogey a "blemish."

Even after seven.

*

I'm no golf expert. I've never taken a lesson. But I watch a lot of golf. I pay close attention to those slo-mo swing analysis features on the tee-vee. Most of it goes over my head. I'd rather not stand over the ball and think about swing plane and hip tilt. But I do get certain aspects and one thing I've really struggled with is releasing my hands after contact. I've never been able to get extension on my follow through with my irons (driver is different, for some reason that I don't want to delve into because I hit my driver fine thankyouverymuch). I'm certain that explains my fade and I've tried more changes to get my body and hands around more completely.

It never occurred to me that the problem was in my address.

*

The 8th is the longest par-5 on the course and very difficult off the tee. A strand of trees guards the left side of the fairway, which narrows at 230-yards. Bunkers on the right and a hill that's driveable but which slopes sharply right to left. Anything center or left rolls into deep rough and a shot where the ball will be at least a foot above your feet. I'm always in trouble on this hole. The solution would be to hit 3-wood and stay short of the trouble, but I can't hit my 3-wood to save my life (guess that's the next thing to work on).

Alas, on this day, to this point, everything was working, so I just dialed back the driver a bit and landed it short of the hill, in the fairway. A smoked 5-iron left me 128 and uphill to the pin and it was here I got a great break. I thought I was hitting an easy 9, but I got more of it than I thought and it flew the green with malice. Until it hit that tree and caromed dead right, leaving me just a few yards off the back of the green, from where I got up and down for par.

Even after 8.

*

The kitty sat there waiting for me to hit another ball, but I was in no hurry to do so. One practice swing. Two. Eleven. Every single one of them feeling absolutely perfect.

*

The 9th is a gimme. 308 yard par-4, downhill. I've never actually driven it, but I've been awfully close. There's a lake front and left of the green, but my fade takes it out of play for me. The driving range and a buttload of trees are right, so if you don't hit it straight you might be looking at a big number.

I hit it straight, about 280, and it settled just past where the cart path bisects the fairway. I had my distance right with the wedge, but pulled it, leaving me 15-feet for birdie. I missed it--just--on the low side and tapped in for a front-nine score of 36.

Even par.

*

Emet and I hit a bucket before the round. I was anxious to try out my new "fix" with full swings and actual balls.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Every single one of them came pure off the club face. 9-iron to 4-iron. All the way down the line.

*

I still hit the ball great on the back-9. Had a bit of trouble with distance control as the wind kicked up. I left my approaches short on both 10 (bogey) and 11 (up and down for par). I found a fairway bunker on 12--a drive that I came across because I was thinking too much--and then three-putted from 20 feet for a double. On the par-3 13, the easiest hole on the course, I hit my one truly bad shot of the day, a super-fat 9-iron that left me short and with a downhill lie to an uphill green. Bogey there. And then 14, where I took a triple-bogey 7.

I hit a good drive, but missed the fairway. The slice lie, my fade and the wind conspired to put me in a greenside bunker from which it took me three shots to get out. I was okay with the first one (downhill lie and I hit the lip of the bunker), less so with the second (I hit a hard patch and my club bounced up resulted in me blading it right into that same lip). At which point I uttered my first curse word of the round.

So, suddenly I'm 7-over after 14 and a little tilted and I say to Emet, "I need to play par golf over the last four holes to break 80."

"Stop talking about it and just hit your shots," she said.

*

All I did was move my hands away from my body. About six inches. One, I was able to take an inside swing path to the ball without my body getting in the way. I think, and I'm just guessing here, that I was auto-correcting on the way to the ball, dipping my right shoulder too much to get the club face there, and that was resulting in hitting it fat too often. Two, I was much more balanced, so, at impact, my body turn was maintaining speed. Three, my hands were free to release the club head and flowed easily to a good finishing position.

*

Fifteen is a short (491 yards), downwind par-5 and I owned it, hitting the fairway and then a 5-iron from 210 that ended up pin-high, just right of the green. I got up and down for birdie.

A routine par on 16 (I hit 12 greens in regulation. 12!) and then a three-putt bogey on the par-3 17 (pretty much missed the ball on the first put, a 25-footer up the hill).

I needed par on the 18th, a par-five that isn't especially long, but has a waste bunker fronting the green that discourages going for it in two. Which became a moot point when I out-thought myself again on the tee (I tried to hit a draw so it could ride the wind and all I succeeded in doing was swiping it). My drive was well right (but playable) and only 220, so I laid up with a 6-iron to a decent spot, about 110 yards out.

The green is well uphill from there and we had a blue flag, so I hit a big pitching wedge. It wasn't enough. I had to two-putt from 40-feet for 79.

My first putt was good. I got it there, plus six-and-a-half feet. Six-and-a-half feet, slightly downhill. For 79.

Right in the heart.

*

Dr. Jeff sent me a message of congratulations and an note of warning. "You will never be satisfied with anything higher."

Yeah. I know.

But I am tempering expectations. All I want is to be able to keep a reasonable facsimile of my "new" swing. I don't think I'm currently an 8-handicap, which is what that 79 would be. No, I still think I'm in the right range. Maybe a little lower than my current 15.1 (and, actually, disregarding any rounds I play until May 31, the 79 moves my HDCP to 14.3). I know I won't hit the ball as pure as I did every time out.

I just want to be able to find that swing again after it inevitably goes missing.

Is that too much to ask? If so, can I just keep it for another week? I'm playing TPC Scottsdale on Sunday.

Stay Gold, Ponyboy

In our 50-50 custody arrangement, five days is the longest I ever go without seeing The Boy. It sometimes seems much longer. Every once in a while, he walks through the door and I hardly recognize him.

AJ will be ten in three months. That scrambles my brain (says every parent ever). It goes so fast. He's reaching a tipping point. Double figures. Out with The Boy, in with the...whatever social demographers call it. He's growing up. Young man strut and new concerns. He smells bad after soccer practice.

His current favorite word is "crud," which I find oddly heart-warming. A word from my own childhood, that I've never heard out of the mouth of someone older than ten. "Holy crud!" he says. "Kevin Kouzmanoff is cruddy." And I laugh.

"I hope he stays sweet as long as possible," Emet says, and he is that. Sweet. He'll disarm me with no warning. He is also argumentative, convinced he's always right. The other day, he insisted the record for the mile run was under three minutes. I gently told him that was not true, but he insisted. I dropped the conversation--pointedly--and sent him to Google after dinner was done.

On the other hand, I took him on a surprise trip for a scoop of ice cream--one measly scoop--last night and the thanked me with little boy genuineness. Three times.

*

I was ten, in fifth grade, when I first noticed girls. Didn't know what to do about it yet, but I noticed 'em. "Started kissing them a year later," I told AJ and he predictably screwed up his face and blurted, "Ewwww."

Just wait, buddy. Before you know it.

*

We have a fantasy baseball team together this season and it's the worst side in the league (this is entirely my fault as I didn't peruse the league specs before drafting and went with, you know, the best players, instead of players that fit the scoring. What kind of idiotic league has categories for singles and save opportunities?). Yet, every night, he's on the computer, checking our team (not helped by the fact our #1 pick, Hanley Ramirez, is currently hitting .200) in a way that describing as "obsessive" would be understating it by a buttload.

He has his own You Tube account now and monitors his viewer numbers. He comes home from school and wants to play with his buddy across the street. Social. Maturing. At his Open House a few weeks back, he showed me a project that illustrated these changes. "I used to..." all the sentences opened and turned on "...but now I..."

"I used to want to be the center of attention," my son wrote, "but now I just want to share with my friends."

*

He got bullied recently. Escalated from words and taunts to playground shoves. His mother and I reacted quickly, as did the school. No problems since.

Trouble is right around the corner. Bullies, peer pressure, sex education. Teenagers.

I'm the parent who scares him the most. Daddy Discipline. I'm the last to know about things, as he filters his misdeeds first through his mother and then Emet, dipping his toe in the water before I splash punishment. This is a good thing. Boundaries.

It remains a tightrope. Knowing when to rein him in and when to not stifle his enthusiasm. Who knows what sets him off. He wants to be heard, but needs to know when to be quiet. A hard lesson, especially in a house where his Dad is always yelling at umpires on TV.

He still climbs on me when we watch sports together. Doesn't sit next to me. Lays across my lap or on top of me if I'm supine. He laughs at farts and burps and my stupid puns.

I hope he stays sweet as long as possible. Respectful.

He gets out of the car in front of the school. I'll see him in five days. I wonder what he'll be like then?

Ball Don't Lie

Oakland A's #1 starter Trevor Cahill is over-rated. I heard this enough during the 2010 year, during the entire off-season and even now. Relax Sabre-Dorks. I get the argument. BABIP.

Now, first off, I have a bit of skepticism regarding BABIP, which is Batting Average on Balls In Play, for you people who have lives. BABIP basically says the pitcher has no bearing whatsoever on balls hit into the field of play (obviously home runs are excluded), that once wood hits horsehide, it's all luck, the Baseball Gods with their fakery and whimsical ju-ju are now fully in control.

Horse balls.

Do you think Mariano Rivera's cutter in on the hands of a lefty (where it is, roughly, all the time) influences a batted ball? Of course it does, in the form of a weak grounder to the right side or a measly pop-up and, usually, a shattered stick. Does a mighty hitter, every once in a while, manage a bloop over whomever the Yanks are paying ungodly sums to man first base? Sure. But the Mo's cutter surely has a major impact on...er...impact and the former scenario is massively more likely than the latter.

Which brings us to Cahill. Have you seen him pitch? His sinker evokes Brandon Webb in his prime. Or Dan Haren now. Heavy ball. Darting action. No surprise he gets a ton of ground balls (1.35 GB/FB ratio last year) and he is aided by a fine Oakland infield defense (last year anyway) and the spacious Coliseum.

But the Sabre-Guardians can't quit their moaning about Cahill. Unsustainable BABIP (with which I agree, with the above "luck" caveats). Doesn't strike out enough hitters. This is a guy who, at age 22 last season, was an All-Star, had an ERA under 3 (I know, ERA doesn't mean anything, it's peripherals(!) that predict performance; well, maybe I'm an idiot, but I'll take ACTUAL performance over predicted performance any day) and an OPS Against of .619.

Read that last stat again. Also, 22 years-old.

So now, Cahill is off to a heated start in 2011--at age 23. ACTUAL performance. The Sabre-Wonks are trotting out small sample size and "See! His BABIP is up 23 points! WEEEEEEEEE! Regression to the mean! Regression to the mean!"

Except Cahill is allowing an OPS Against of .549 through seven starts. Is striking out more than two batters per nine than last year (and I assure you this isn't a fluke; I've seen all his starts. He is putting suckas away) and his K/BB ratio is at 2.53 versus 1.87 last year. He dominated the best offense in the league last night.

I think we can say that--right now--Trevor Cahill is really good, even over the protestations of those who say he really isn't as good as he looks. Here's the thing:

23!

Maybe it hasn't occurred to others, but young pitchers mature. Young pitchers with nasty movement learn to harness it and have better command. Young pitchers with wide-eyed immaturity gain experience and learn the hitters and vary their attack patterns. Young pitchers get better.

Perhaps this is blasphemy from an A's fan, one who loves and preaches "Moneyball," but sometimes the eyes don't lie. Sometimes watching a player do work is more illuminating than poring through the numbers. Trevor Cahill is on the cusp of being an elite pitcher.

And luck doesn't have anything to do with it.