Tiger Woods breathes a sigh of relief

I finally did it.  I got my amateur status back after 17 years of being a professional golfer.  First as an “apprentice” in the PGA of America’s program, then a Class A PGA Member, then a mini-tour hacker (never made any real money at it).  I decided earlier in the year that while my (golf) skills are best suited for charity scrambles and skins games, I’m going to spend the rest of my summers chasing the amateur circuit.  While I may never qualify for the US Amateur or be on a Walker Cup team, I’m quite sure I’ll have a hell of a time playing in tournaments like The Cotton States, The Trans-Miss, The Rice Planters, The Azalea (the one in Tyler) and dozens of other great old amateur events at the best clubs in America.

Another day in Austin, Texas

Better Than Ezra

This shot here shows what kind of concert-goer I am.  My old pals from Better Than Ezra were in town for a show at La Zona Rosa last night, and all I could manage was a stop in at the 4:00pm soundcheck and dinner with them at Ranch 616.  Hell, their show started at 11:00pm, and while I’m sure there were plenty of drunk happy Longhorns and drunk pissed Red Raiders there, I’d been asleep for two hours when they cranked up.  Big thanks to Kevin, Jim, Tom, Michael and Brian for the beer on the bus.  Next stop for them:  El Paso, Albuquerque and on out to the West Coast.  A little-known fact I learned last night:  BTE frontman Kevin Griffin writes all their songs and is a very, very talented songwriter.  He wrote this.

A day in the life

I started this blog on the suggestion and encouragement of the talented team at Fosforus.  In terms of ROI, it has been a homerun.  Off the charts.  The only investment has been time posting entries, and I’ve had actual cash return.  So big thanks to WordPress and to Fosforus.  That said, I think I’ll join the rest of you bloggers out there who use these things to tell people about your day (no, I’m not making fun of you…I repeat, I join you).  Today started out with trip to the dump.  1-800-Got-Junk is not effectively marketing themselves if they’re not using an image like this with a caption that reads something like, “You’ll Never Get The Smell Out of Your Nostril Hairs.”  You think Hell has fire and stuff?  Mine has six inches of foul-smelling slippery grey mud.

Then, I drove back downtown.  Probably shouldn’t be snapping photos on a 70-foot flyover at 55mph.

I saw a bad wreck at the intersection of MLK and the I-35 access road.  I hope everyone was okay, and by the look of that Prius, I bet they are.  Astounding structural resilience.

I drove past the Capitol and thought about all the people I know who’ve worked there.

Then I saw this in a parking lot in Sunset Valley.

Then I drove back downtown and noticed how far along the W Hotel is coming.

When I got up to Congress, I saw a small herd of those Segue tour people.

And one of them wiped out.  I couldn’t help laughing.  Sorry.

Then I went south on Congress to shoot some of those traliers that sell food, but got there to find that they’re not open on Mondays.  Shit.

So I went home.

Oh, and today is my birthday.

Name that

Cash and prizes to anyone who identifies where this is.

Deeper inside

Here’s the main dining room in the clubhouse, which looks out across the first fairway and 40 miles of Hill Country up toward Sisterdale and Luckenbach.  They were beginning to move in the furniture while I was there.  You Cordillera Ranch members sure are going to have a nice place to eat/drink/settle bets/whatever.  Not sure, but I think Mike Marsh is responsible for this incredible building.

Inside

Here’s a peek inside the clubhouse at Cordillera Ranch.  More to come..

A new day at Cordillera Ranch

The clubhouse is almost ready to open its doors.  I’ve always loved everything about this place, but I had no idea how nice the clubhouse would be, and how well it wraps up the whole property.  I shot this one last Tuesday morning around 7:30 from the road coming in.

Confessions of a Cart Jockey

Cart Jockeys.  They’re called that, because most of the time they’re speeding around the property in golf carts, and they get so good at driving them, they look like true athletes.  They’re unmistakable.  Sweat-stained golf shirt, khaki shorts with a dirty towel hanging from them, one foot dangling out of the cart, accelerator on the floor, one hand on the wheel and the other on a walkie-talkie. It’s a tight-knit fraternity.  At least at Barton Creek in the early ‘90’s it was.  Twenty or thirty guys, the occasional girl, most in school at UT, ACC, or SWT.  Cleaning golf clubs, storing and fetching golf bags, parking cars, washing and prepping golf carts and shagging range balls for the who’s-who of Central Texas.  For a college kid hoping to break into the golf business and become a PGA Professional, it was a dream job.  That is, if you’re not talking about money.  Summertime pay was good, but when winter rolled around, you might take home less than $400 a month.  My share of rent at the two-bedroom apartment where five of us lived was $210.  Winter was tough.  But we got to play the Fazio course, something even some the richest men in town couldn’t do.  My pledge class included some who went on to become lawyers, publishers, doctors, PGA Tour players, drug dealers, millionaires and crack-addicts.  We worked under the magic spell of one simply called Mule.  Some of you know him.  A great motivator and one of the finest PGA Professionals I’ve ever met, yet rarely recognized by the very association he served.  Initially, we felt betrayed when Mule left us for bigger things, but we soon realized he was not unlike any of us.  We all wanted bigger things.

MEETING BEN (originally published in Austin Golf magazine, April 2003)

As I swung open the back door of the shiny black Range Rover in the parking lot of the Crenshaw Course at Barton Creek Resort, I knew this would be a good job.  Inside was a big black Buick golf bag with the name Ben Crenshaw stitched proudly upon it.  The feeling of multiple epiphany when it’s almost too much to take?  Seeing the bag was enough for me, but as the driver door swung open, I realized what was about to happen.  I was seconds away from meeting the one person who made me want to be a golf pro.  I’d grown up watching Ben, idolizing his game and his putting.  I thought to myself… What are you going to say? Don’t drop his golf bag. Don’t pick up his putter and start swinging it around like a madman. Don’t say something stupid. Don’t slam his fingers in the door.

As he came around back, he gave me a genuine smile, handshake and “G’Mornin, pods.  You’re new here, aren’t you?  I’m Ben.”  I felt like a schoolgirl.  Did he actually think he had to introduce himself?  I shook his hand and said, “Yes I am. First day.  It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Crenshaw.”  He replied, “Call me Ben, uh …….”.  I realized I hadn’t told him my name.  (Imagine Chris Farley interviewing a guest.  (Stupid, stupid!!!) I told him my name, laughed, and finished my job of setting up his golf cart, all without injuring anyone or breaking anything.  He waved and drove off toward the first tee.

I saw him several times during and after my stint as a cart jockey, but his kind, genuine demeanor that day is something I’ll always treasure.  They say you remember where you were when big things happen.  When Ben Crenshaw won The Masters in 1995, I was five longnecks deep in a smoky bar in Singer Island, Florida after missing another cut in a mini-tour event.  I somehow felt connected to him when he sank the final putt.  I cried with you, Ben.