A Golfing Life

One of the reasons for this journey to southern climes is to acknowledge and feed my passion for golf. When I examine when and how this magnificent obsession started, I must confess that it took me by surprise. Most of my "athletic" life had focused on tennis. I was not only a non-golfer; I was an anti-golfer who was convinced that there could not be a dumber undertaking than golf.

Tennis had been my obsession since my preteen years. My father introduced me to the game and I was immediately hooked. I was self taught. I would watch people I thought were skilled and try to mimic them. I remember clearly saving up to buy my first racket, a T.A.Davis Imperial model, gorgeous with all of its gleaming laminates. To earn the money for the racket, I worked at Harvard Stadium vending in the stands during one football season. When I excitedly counted my "profits" from the first game I was dismayed to learn that I had lost about $8.00. I must have given some guy, presumably a Harvard student, the wrong change, and he never told me. There's probably a better than even chance that person works in the Massachusetts Legislature today.

Things got a little better as the season progressed and I eventually had enough money to buy that racket by season's end. Of course by then it was too cold to play tennis so I had to wait until spring to finally use it. It's hard for me to describe how much I loved that tennis racket. It was so artfully and beautifully made that I would just stare at its intricate logos and deep brown colors in awe. It's entirely possible that I have never loved any "possession" as much as I loved that first T.A. Davis Imperial racket. (Think Ralphie from "The Christmas Story" and his obsession with the rifle and you'll get the idea. Luckily, I didn't put my eye out.)

Old friend Marty Flashman and I would meet at Dorchester's Franklin Field to play. The courts were horrible, coarse asphalt streaked with grass-filled cracks and fading lines. You even had to string up your own net, which Marty somehow owned. Of course to my eyes we were at Centre Court, Wimbledon. After I had improved, I would take the "T" to places like Milton and Brookline where some of the better players would hang out. Like most sports, the only way to improve in tennis is to play better players and learn from the drubbings you will inevitably take. Gradually, I developed my strokes, footwork, and understanding of the angles and intricacies of the game. My tennis heroes were the Aussies of the day: Ken Rosewall, Lew Hoad, and especially Rod Laver. I loved everything about Laver, but was especially proud that we were both left-handed. Much later I would devour every word of Bud Collins' great book about Laver, The Education of a Tennis Player. Collins' description of Laver was perfect: a 150 pound left arm hanging off a 90 pound body.

Eventually my tennis progressed to the point where I could compete at a club level. I even won the singles championship at my tennis club one year; however, in the interest of full disclosure, I must say that I diligently searched the entire South Shore for a tennis club in which the talent pool of men's singles players was at an incredibly low level. I was able to find such a club and happily won the men's singles championship defeating (in order) Mike (The Midget) Moriarty (I lobbed him to death!) and One-Armed Al Appleton in a thrilling tiebreaker. If Al's prosthetic hadn't gotten tangled up in the net, he probably would have beaten me. Still, it remains one of my crowning athletic achievements.

Eventually, I turned tennis into a second career, teaching private lessons, coaching high school, and running the tennis program at Camp Androscoggin in Maine. I was able to teach Ada, Josh, and Matt about the game and there were many exciting family matches, most of them ending in tears for one unfortunate family member or another. Those idyllic summer afternoons at the old Weymouth Tennis Club watching the boys battle it out on the court and then taking their frustrations into the pool for a spirited game of Marco Polo seem like a very long time ago.

And then one day around 1999 tennis just stopped being interesting to me. I still can't figure out how an activity that had been so much a part of my identity for over 40 years could one day just cease to be of interest. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I had climbed the mountaintop in tennis when I defeated The Midget and One-Arm and there were no more peaks for me to ascend.

With retirement looming, Ada and I decided to give golf a try. We were moving to a golf community in New Hampshire and we were ripe for a new activity we could do together. We took some introductory lessons together, starting the all too familiar process of getting hooked on golf. My addiction (I don't use the term loosely) became obvious one day when I went to the driving range for about the thousandth time and was able to get most of the balls in the bucket airborne. There is a certain "nothingness" that accompanies a well-hit golf shot that I believe is the essence of golf's addictive nature. By nothingness I mean a lack of vibration or jarring; the club face, ball, and ground are all where they are supposed to be and the ball just soars majestically skyward with seemingly no effort on the part of the striker. This happens rarely even now and I'm pretty sure it's why I keep coming back for more. Ada was only slightly less obsessed with golf than I was and starting with our retirements in 2000 we pursued the game every chance we could. After our initial fears that we would be clogging up the course for everyone else, we were thrilled to discover that golf was the only game in which almost everyone who played it sucked! We were no worse than most of the people we encountered and were mindful of playing quickly and efficiently. Soon we got over our fears and started going on golfing vacations to the usual places like Myrtle Beach, Hilton Head, and Tucson. We became thoroughly involved in the golfing life at our home in Eastman and were lucky enough to have made many great friendships through this game. It was mainly Ada's Eastman golfing buddies who hovered around her offering equal measures of meals and prayers during her illness.

I'm forever grateful to golf for putting such wonderful people in our lives. I hope I meet a bunch more of them on the panhandle.

Be well and much love,
J

We're not in Kansas anymore...

...which became evident when I entered Sonny's Real Pit Barbeque restaurant in Kingsland, Georgia and discovered that I was the thinnest person in the place. When I told the waitress that I didn't want some of the extra side dishes that came with the ribs I had ordered, she had to ask the manager how to put through the request. It seems that no one had ever wanted less food.

Of course this got me to thinking. In my entire life I've never been considered thin. There are baby pictures of me in which it appears I have been inflated, perhaps so that I would float better. If in fact this was done to me, I have never been able to locate the release valve, and, while I am a spectacular floater, it's been a high price to pay. Throughout my childhood, my wonderful Aunt Minnie used to greet me by grabbing a handful of my ample cheek (facial! This is a family blog!) and pinching and squeezing it in delight. There are no military secrets that I would not have divulged to my sweet aunt during these greetings.

Is it possible that just by luck I have landed in a part of the country where I will be considered thin? Is this Gulliver's Travels with calories? This would be like being an adult and finding out you're actually adopted. (One of the greatest Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes by the way.) One's entire self-perception would have to change. I would certainly start living my life differently. I would actually order dessert for one thing. “Yes, I'd love some of that Key Lime Custard Crème Cocoanut Cheesecake. What's the harm?” I would tell the waitress. I would smile every time I walked past a health club and think, “Those poor people don't seem to be enjoying themselves.” When my doctor would warn me about the dangers associated with carrying extra weight, I'd be able to say, “Who are you kidding, Tubby? From the looks of it, you're going before me.”

Maybe I'll become one of those best selling diet authors. I could call my work The Route 95 South Diet. Oprah would have me on as a regular guest. There would be a chapter entitled, "Feeling Bloated? Visit South Carolina". To help with weight maintenance, there would be suggestions like visiting Wal-Mart once a week or organizing a 5K fun waddle.

OK, I think I've strip mined this particular area thoroughly. Let's move on to music. I have been a music lover, primarily jazz, since I was 14 or so. That seemed like a nice thing to be until I boxed up my CD collection for the move and discovered that I had about 120 pounds of CD's to ship to the panhandle. Think about the weight of one CD and consider how many of the foolish things I must have to equal 120 pounds! The real question is how many of these CD's do I cherish. My guess is no more than half. I remember a time long past when buying a "record" was so important and so precious that I would weigh the decision for a week before making the purchase. And when I brought the album home, I would listen to it so intently that I would have all the "cuts" memorized within a day or two, jazz solos and all. That was then, this is now. Many of these CD's have barely been played. I would buy them just to buy them; much of the passion and the need to know the music was gone.

My mission will be to pare down these CD's to represent the music I really care about, digitize them in some fashion, and then sell them so that I won't have to lug them around any more.

Miles Davis and John Coltrane take one step forward. The rest of you lugs take off.

Much love,

J

...and he's off

Here are some scattered (and scatterbrained) thoughts as I make my way down Rt. 91 toward my first overnight stop: Closter, NJ, the home of the wonderful Razin family...

...How has it been possible to maintain a strong friendship with someone for almost 50 years without having had any serious disagreements? That describes the relationship I have had with Andy Razin, and, for as long as I've known her, Andy's wife Hil. I believe the answer lies in the phrase "mutual respect." For Andy and me the foundation for that respect was first created in the kitchen of his Woodruff Way apartment in Dorchester, MA sometime around 1962. It was there and then that we decided to find out which of us could craft the best BLT. This innocent undertaking might well have been the inspiration for "Iron Chef" and all of the other competitive cooking shows that fill the air on Food Network or The Travel Channel. We could have possibly called it: "Don't Tell our Mothers We're Eating Bacon." At any rate, over several years and in several different venues we challenged each other with the task of making the finest BLT possible. I know what you're thinking: What the hell is the difference between one BLT and another? You're absolutely correct. There is very little difference between the best BLT ever made (Modesty aside, I must confess it was made by me in my Esmond Street apartment in the spring of 1963), and the worst ever created (one of Razin's abominations; I have fortunately repressed the details). Still, to educated palates and serious BLT gourmands like Andy and me, it was a challenge, not to mention an opportunity to devour huge quantities of bacon. We paid particular attention to categories like thinness of tomato slice, amount of blood loss resulting from trying to slice a tomato too thinly, ratio of mayonnaise to lettuce, BCQ (bacon crispness quotient for the uninitiated), and perfect toasting shade. The one important area we decided to ignore was cleanup, which, if memory serves, resulted in the premature end to this hard fought series of contests, when one or both of our mothers blew a gasket. When a friendship is based on the desire to share bacon, there is no telling how far and how deep it can go.

...How I wish Ada were in her usual place in the passenger seat because that segment above is pretty damn funny and I would have loved telling her all that. OK, I'm done with the sadness, I just had to get that out there.

...There are about ten boxes of stuff sitting in Jeanne and Joe Gaffney's attic that I will pick up when I return to New Hampshire in June. Pictures and photographs of one kind or another comprise ninety percent of the contents of those boxes. Some of those photos go back to the 1940's. There are several of my father in uniform and a few of my brother and me as infants. Then there are literally thousands of photographs that I took over the years. If one were to categorize all of my photographs, one would utilize all the "normal" subtitles like family shots, baby pictures, vacation shots, special occasions, and the like; however, by far the largest category represented in the collection would have to be SUNSETS! I bet I have taken one sunset picture for every mile between here and the sun. I have put all the Kodak workers' children through graduate school with the profits derived from processing my sunset pictures. You could take all of my sunset pictures and display them at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, and you'd still need to rent a VFW hall to complete the display. AND HERE'S THE KICKER: They all suck! All of them. It's pathetic. You would think that just by luck I would have chosen the correct lens, setting, speed of film, etc. to have caught the special beauty and tranquility of a sunset. You'd be wrong. Probably half of them are out of focus which is curious because sunsets are not exactly speedy events. In many others it is hard to determine whether you are looking at the sun or a very dim, very distant light bulb. Wayward legs and arms adorn many of the other shots as do waves breaking too early or too late, uncooperative seagulls, clouds that missed the memo about dramatic shades of purple, too dark, too light, the list goes on. Having seen this overwhelming body of evidence attesting to my inability to take a good sunset picture, it would be reasonable to expect that I would just give up. Possibly I could purchase one in a print shop and try to cross out the photographer's name. No, that is not my way. I am as determined as ever to get that one spectacular sunset picture I have sought all these years. It is my Holy Grail. I will never give up. And now with digital photography, I can screw up much more cheaply than I used to. As a matter of fact, I hear the sunsets on the panhandle are terrific. If you're really good, maybe I'll send you all of my upcoming sunset pictures from the panhandle and we can sit back and enjoy them.

...Sooner or later we were going to have to get to the Red Sox. You knew that and yet you kept on reading. You're a blogger's dream, that's what you are! I love the Red Sox. I have loved them since 1954 when I first heard Curt Gowdy say, "Hi neighbor, have a 'Gansett." I have loved them since my father used to take me to Boston Park League games in Fields Corner and fool me into thinking that the poor schmuck playing left field was Himself (Ted Williams). I have loved them since I read My Turn at Bat co-written by Ted Williams and John Underwood. I have loved them since my days at Boston Latin School when I would sneak out of Mr. MacNamara's last period English class and walk over to Fenway to catch a day game. I'd look for Walter, a custodian at Latin who moonlighted as an usher at Fenway. If Walter recognized you, you got to sit in the serious boxes. In those days (1964) there were rarely more than 10,000 or so diehards at a weekday afternoon game. I have loved them since the magical summer of 1967 when Tony C got beaned. I have loved them since 1986...'nuf said. And of course I have fallen even more deeply in love with them since 2004 when they came back from 0-3 against the team that must not be named and proved to the world that I, Joel Getman, was not a loser. That's right. The Red Sox comeback in 2004 was undertaken specifically so that I could feel better about myself. And it worked! Since then I have become funnier, kinder, more patient, and have made great strides in sunset photography. (Raise your hand if you knew that was coming.) I have made arrangements through MLB.com to have all of the Red Sox games "telecast" on my computer so I will be able to follow them pitch by pitch this summer. I may even trek the 500 or so miles from the panhandle to Tampa to watch them defeat the Tampa Bay Rays in May.

But why? Why does a 63-year-old man who is known for being a pragmatic, sensible, stable type of individual allow himself to be drawn in year after year? Why does this game and especially this team still dominate my daily life, my ups and downs, each year from April to October? I guess it's because there are huge chunks of this 63-year-old man that are still just nine years old, thrilled that he can make a world-class BLT and hoping for just one more at bat by The Splendid Splinter...

... and thank God for that.

Much love,
J

One's Stuff

It's really quite amazing the variety of stuff one can accumulate over the years. I've been thinking about that lately as I go through the condo room by room, drawer by drawer, and decide what goes with me to Florida, what stays in New Hampshire for a June pick up, what goes with the auction guy, and what gets thrown out. Sometimes the decisions are not as easy as you might think.

For example, what should I do with the three homemade score sheets from three different Celtics games circa 1960? I found them in a little-used drawer today and marveled at the names and the memories they evoked. Here's a little trip down memory lane for you old time NBA fans: Hal Greer, Al Bianchi, Dick Barnett, Dolph Schayes, Paul Arizin...not to mention Celtics like Gene Guerillia, Frank Ramsey, and Jim Luscotoff. I used to listen to the old Celtics' broadcasts on radio (WHDH) and keep score in bed using my own system of circles and x's and lines. Just looking at those surprisingly well-preserved pieces of 50-year-old notebook paper, I can hear Johnny Most's ridiculous growl and I can see Bill Russell's graceful leap as he plucks yet another rebound from the grasp of the hated Wilt the Stilt. These papers are definitely going with me. They are unassailable proof that there once was a time in my life when the Celts' winning or losing was all I really had to worry about.

In the same drawer were three Masterlock combination locks, the three-number codes long since forgotten. What did I own of such value that necessitated the purchase of these anti-theft devices? Why did I need three of them? Did I forget the combination to the first one which necessitated buying a second one? Then did I forget the combination to the second one which necessitated buying a third one? How long did this process take? Is there a locker somewhere in the greater Boston area which contains all the "valuable" possessions that these three locks were supposed to protect? Now that I think of it, I've never been robbed of anything, ever. The only significant financial loss I've ever suffered has been the cost of three Masterlock combination locks. Out they go!

Here's a snow-day calling list from Hingham's South Junior High School, circa 1980. I wonder how many of these phone numbers are still valid? (If you feel like it, say that last sentence like Andy Rooney.) One of the few drawbacks to being a retired teacher is you lose the thrill and drama associated with snow days. Basically, when you're retired, every day is a snow day. It just doesn't have the same juice. Anyway, I'm moving to the Florida panhandle. What do they know about snow days? Out goes the Hingham calling list.

In the bottom of another drawer I find a tool. Normally, I would keep any tool I happen to find on the odd chance that one day I will become handy; however, this tool is a mystery tool with no obvious purpose. It is plastic, about the size of a fork with a kind of notch on one end and a curvy piece on the other end. There must have been a time in my life when I used this tool to accomplish something, or, more likely, when I tried to use this tool, got frustrated, and stuck it in the bottom of this drawer. I can only assume that whatever didn't get fixed didn't really have to get fixed...

...or, its unrepaired remains lie in the bottom of some other drawer, yet to be discovered.

The tool is out and whatever was broken will be out too if I ever find it.

Finally, here is a day planner from several years ago. Most of the spaces are blank. The few that are filled in have nothing more than a tee time noted. I could keep this and hope that a year is soon coming which matches up with the days and dates of this book. Of course a leap year may pop up unexpectedly which will make waiting for the years to match interminable. I think I will just toss this planner and continue with my time-tested strategy of never having a day that necessitates the use of a day planner.

So much stuff.

Love to all,
J

goodbye dinners (or is it "goodbye, dinners"?)

Leaving Eastman is one of the more difficult tasks I've ever undertaken. Fabulous friendships forged on the fiery furnace of Eastman's fairways will now be stretched out over a 1500 mile canvas. Some of them are bound to fade away. Knowing this makes leaving painful; however, the biggest problem I'm having revolves around dinner: bombarded by so many invitations to farewell dinners, how do I choose? Whom should I offend? What are we having? Will there be broccoli?

What did I ever do to deserve this gastronomic generosity which has been particularly flush of late? I'm not being coy here; I really wonder what causes the people of Eastman to be so kind and giving especially when it comes to me and my family. Ada's terrible illness and her brave, stubborn, beautiful fight brought out the best in quite a few people, and that "best" has been transferred to me for whatever reason.

I'm not worthy...but if you promise to stay away from the cauliflower family, I'll grace you with my presence for dinner.

Oh, and I'm not a big fan of fish...eggplant...squashes of all stripes...cold soups...beets...I can live without asparagus, lima beans, and, well, the list goes on. Really, when you think about it, I'm a food toddler. A large food toddler.

Once I get to Fort Walton Beach on March 1, the food fun should really start. I have no skills in the kitchen, none whatsoever, and until I meet a few folks and find out which ones are broccoli people, there won't be any dinner invitations. Here's how bad I am: when I am in the frozen food section, foraging for sustenance, I won't buy anything unless I am convinced the cooking directions are within my skill set. If there are extra "flavor pouches" that need to be added partway through the process, forget it. Too complicated. As a matter of fact anything that has more than one step is automatically eliminated. Essentially this leaves certain frozen pizzas and ice cream. Sad, I know, but true. Of course I realize that this void in my life can change; with a little guidance and a big dose of confidence, maybe one day I'll be able to prepare an actual meal with more than one moving part. Hey, maybe once I overcome this deficiency, I'll feel good about myself and take up the subject of home repair, another area in which I am currently not what one would call a man. Anything is possible, right? There are plenty of resources on the internet for a guy like me. Wait, what about cars? I could delve into that area too.

Or not.

The golf club that I will probably be joining in Florida, The Club at Hidden Creek, has a restaurant facility called The Tuscan Grill. I like that.

First, it has my second favorite restaurant word in the title: GRILL! (My most favorite word is Barbecue; in third place is Grille, which is a little more pretentious than the earlier word , but still hints at a carnivorous experience!) I'm a sucker for any restaurant with any of those words in the title. I'd even patronize a restaurant called "The Beet and Brussels Sprout Grill" if any brave entrepreneur wanted to give it a try.

Second, they have a $10 special every Wednesday night, and, having perused their website very thoroughly, I've been impressed with the last few Wednesdays. No matter how hard I looked I could find no evidence of any objectionable vegetables. I think this will be a good match.

That just leaves six other nights. Surely there must be six restaurants in greater Fort Walton Beach with those key words in their titles. If I had to, I'd be willing to add the word "Diner" to the list; that might go for "Pub" also.

Yes, I think we're going to be just fine. Maybe next week, I'll tackle breakfasts.

Be well and much love,
J