Turned 40 this winter.

As a kid, I remember thinking 40 was old. George Blanda old. The ancient Oakland Raiders quarterback/kicker from the early ‘70’s with the silver hair and the silver no. 16 on his back. I remember thinking guys 40 years old like George must know everything, or almost everything.

Maybe it was the Aqua Velva (or was it Skin Bracer?) after shave commercials George starred in that made me think he was so smart. My grandpa used Aqua Velva too and he was a smart guy.

So here I am, sitting on the big 4-0 and realizing I don’t have all the answers to life’s great questions.

If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop?

Do you suppose we’d be as crazy about golf up here in Minne-snow-ta if we

didn’t have the forced six month layoff each year?

Not even a splash of Skin Bracer by Menon can help me with these questions.

Perhaps by the time I turn 50 I’ll know.

A few things I am certain of:

I know for golf nuts up here in the great white north, there aren’t many things better than the first few rounds of the spring. Standing on the first tee, a million swing thoughts bouncing through your head. How am I going to hit this ball? Where is it going to go?

Only one thing I can think of better than that first round in the spring: a golf trip with your buddies in the winter.

The past three years for me its been a jaunt in the car in early March down to Kansas City. I know, not exactly Orlando or Phoenix, but along with my golf buds from Owatonna (Tim the dentist, Barry the foot doctor, Dave the hardware guy, Jason the banker and Lumpy, the audio guy) I’m always happy to be heading south on I-35. We knock off work Thursday, pile in a van and know that we’ll be getting in 36 holes Friday, 36 Saturday and 18 Sunday before zipping home.

You can learn a lot on a golf trip.

Stock tips for example. Tim’s new van had one of those fancy GPS touch screen computers on the dash. Amazing. Touch a few buttons and it tells, yes tells us how to find our hotel on the south side of KC. Dave the hardware guy liked the computer’s sultry female voice. Apparently Dave was also a fan of the ‘80’s rock band The Police. He named our GPS helper Foxanne (complete with falsetto voice on F-O-X).

“Make a legal U turn at the next light.”

Thanks Foxanne.

Each golf course we headed to, sultry directions were provided. I especially liked it when Foxanne would tell us, “you have reached your destination.” Foxanne should be in every car. Note to self: find out what company makes these things, then buy, buy, buy.

Stock tip no. 2: find out what company has the highest market share in the hotel sleeping cocoon market, then buy, buy, buy. What’s a hotel sleeping cocoon? Guess you haven’t seen the episode of 20/20 or Dateline where they go into hotel rooms and flash a black light around.

You don’t want to know what they find.

Barry the foot doctor studied entomology in college. Good thing, as he and Dave found themselves with a third roomie, a large creepy crawler, on one of the beds no less. On the positive side they were able to negotiate with the hotel. They proposed either the bug cough up for 1/3 of the room, or a free night. A free night it was.

What else did I learn on my golf trip?

I learned Bert Convy is dead.

Bert Convy? You remember, the old host of such game show classics as “Tattletales” and “Super Password”. Not sure how Jason the banker and I got around to the subject during one round, but we made a little wager. Five bucks on whether Bert was alive and well or pushing daisies. A quick cell phone call to a friend who Googled his way to the answer: dead, since 1991.

Jason’s five bucks richer. I mentioned he’s a banker, didn’t I?

After 36 holes each day our dogs were barking. Bugs or no bugs, a pillow and a bed were what we needed. Directly across from our hotel parking lot was a Hooters restaurant. We never even thought about eating there. Honest. Guess we are getting old.

Besides, we were pretty sure Foxanne would have squealed to the wives.

—

My wife just asked me what my column was about this week.

She asked me this on her way out to clean out the garage this swelteringly hot Memorial Day weekend. I on the other hand was on my way down into the cool basement to write my little golf yarn.

I told her I wasn’t sure exactly what my column was about, only that I had an angle I wanted to pursue and I wasn’t sure where it would lead me. So off she went into the heat and off I went into the cool.

Life is full of opposites.

There’s my angle actually, how the theory of opposites is so prevalent in the game of golf.

Think of all the truisms drummed into our heads over the decades by our golf teachers. If you want to get the ball in the air, hit “down” on it. To hit the ball far, swing easy. Recall the wonderful putting tip offered two weeks ago by Soldiers Field GC pro David Richardson in his column, “to hole more putts, care less about the results.”

I drift back in memory to the summer of 1980. Hazeltine National Golf Club hosts an 18-hole exhibition match featuring four major champions from the ’79 season, David Graham, Lanny Wadkins, Hale Irwin and Fuzzy Zoeller.

Before the round, an instructional clinic is put on by the pros. 14 years old at the time with his heroes front and center, this golf writer was all ears. A question was asked by a fellow kid in the audience. “How do you make the ball hook or slice?”

PGA Champion David Graham was first to respond. Lots of technical advice comes from the stoic Aussie. Next up was Fuzzy, the ’79 Masters champ.

“If I want to hook it, I aim to the right. If I want to slice it, I aim to the left.”

Opposite logic in practice, Fuzzy style.

Ask any, I repeat any, golf nut to explain to you why he or she is so taken with this silly game and I guarantee somewhere in their reply you’ll find equal parts love and hate. Polar opposites. Yes, we love golf, but at times the game is so frustrating it makes us feel like chucking it, or even taking the most drastic step, to quit caring about it so much.

Observations from the links just this past week:

Our Saturday morning game. Bob goes off in the first foursome. Things aren’t going well. He quits after six holes and heads to the range for a lesson from the pro. So what does Bob do? He rejoins his mates on the 16^th hole, ready for more.

Don’t think the PGA Tour pros suffer like the rest of us? Think again. Case in point, Minnesota’s own Tim Herron. Winless for seven years on Tour, Herron captured the Colonial Invitational last week in Texas, then followed up by contending in the St. Jude Classic in Memphis.

“I’m not going to take it for granted,” said Herron. “I’m going to keep trying to play well because I just know how this game is. When it’s bad, it’s bad. When it’s good, it’s good. You might as well keep it as good as long as you can,” said Herron.

I hit the links for a quick early morning round one day last week. By the seventh green I had decided, I’d had enough, the clubs were headed for the trunk after nine. This game is too hard and I’ve got too much to do back at the office. Just not my day I guess.

But then.

A surprising long snaking birdie putt on the ninth, the hardest hole on the course. “Well, I suppose I could hang in there for a few more holes.” More crumby shots followed on holes 10-14. Finally on the 15^th fairway after another wayward approach shot, I dropped three balls from my bag in utter disgust. “This is ridiculous, let’s figure this out.”

First shot, yuck. Second shot, same. Third shot, aha!

16^th hole, birdie. 17^th hole, best drive of the day. 18^th hole, birdie. Left the course feeling in control. Couldn’t wait for the next chance to tee it up. Two days later that opportunity came. The result? Chop city.

Like Lumpy said, “when it’s bad, it’s bad and when it’s good, it’s good.”

How is it that our games can go from brutal to beautiful and back in the blink of eye? I’ve been playing golf for 35 years and this aspect of the game never ceases to amaze me.

I think Dr. Bob Rotella, noted golf psychologist and author, had it right with the title of one of his books, “Golf is not a Game of Perfect”. I’d expand this to “Life is not a Game of Perfect”. We vainly search for absolutes, our own “aha!” moments, when in fact the game of golf as well as life itself is best viewed as a journey, full of ups and downs and bends in the road.

Don’t forget the theory of opposites on your journey.

Things looking rough at work? Better days ahead. Stock market tanking, time to jump ship? Maybe not, might be a good time to invest. Wish your spouse would pay more attention to your needs? Perhaps it’s you that should look in the mirror first and then selflessly pay more attention to their needs.

And if your golf shots aren’t flying straight and the putts aren’t dropping? Hang in there. Tomorrow’s a new day. It can only get better, right?

—

I wonder.

“What would I shoot on a U.S. Open course, set up the way the pros are playing it, with super long rough, lightning fast greens and ridiculously tough pin placements?”

It’s something every golf nut has thought to themselves at one point or another, usually every mid June when the U.S. Open rolls around and we watch on TV as the world’s best players tangle with famous old courses like Oakmont, Pebble Beach, The Olympic Club, or this year’s site, Winged Foot West Golf Club in Mamaroneck, New York.

I used to wonder too. Now I know.

Two summers ago I qualified for the 2004 U.S. Amateur at Winged Foot West G.C. The United States Golf Association likes to take the Amateur to a U.S. Open venue a couple years prior to the Open coming, sort of acts as a dressed rehearsal. This way if any aspect of the course set up needs tweaking (i.e. if anything is too easy) they have time to make the necessary changes, add bunkers, move tees back, tighten fairways, plant big pine trees, etc.

The U.S.G.A. liked what they saw at Winged Foot West in ’04.

What did I find at Winged Foot? I found the hardest golf course I’ve ever seen, or likely will ever see. I found a par 70, 7,264 yard monster layout with 26-yard wide fairways, ultra long and lush rough immediately off either side of the skinny little green ribbons.

26 yards isn’t very wide. Sometime when you find yourself standing on the edge of a fairway on your course, pace off 26 steps towards the opposite side of the fairway. Now imagine having to try and blast 14 280-yard drives into that narrow space. Miss and you’re dealing with mid shin deep rough and/or towering old trees.

I found greens that words simply can’t do justice to. Sloped? Yes. Ridged? Yes, in every direction it seemed, plateaus everywhere. Yet they were amazingly small. I found greenside bunkers deeper than any I’ve ever seen. You could lose your firstborn in many of them.

I’m not ashamed to admit I was more than a little scared at the prospect of teeing it up on Winged Foot West G.C. for round one of the qualifying. No competitive golfer likes to post embarrassingly high scores. After my practice round on Winged Foot West I was worried.

80 was the target score I established in my head. If I could break 80 on this beast I’d be a happy golfer.

So, August 16^th, 2004 rolls around. I’ve got a late afternoon tee time, starting on hole 10. All morning I tell myself, just do the best you can, try not to make doubles, keep it below the hole, relax.

Then the U.S.G.A. guy in the blue blazer pulls out the bullhorn and says, “On the tee, from Rochester, Minnesota…..”

I step out from under the umbrella my father and caddy is holding. The rain falls lightly as I push my tee into the ground and set my Titleist on it, hoping no one notices  my hand shaking. Couldn’t spit right now if you’d pay me a million bucks, cotton mouth city.

“Ok, 188 yards, 5-iron, make a good swing.” Not feeling my arms at all, I swing and the ball pushes out to the right of the green into a long patch of rough. I hack a pitch up over the bunker to 10 feet and surprise myself by canning the downhill twisting putt for par.

No. 11, a breather 396-yard par four. Pulled tee shot, pitch out, bogey, one over. No. 12, 640 yard par five. Nice drive, poor 3-iron into the rough, hack another 3-iron out 40 yards short of the green, then a nifty pitch and putt for par, still one over. No. 13, a 214-yard par three. Not much of a target to shoot at. Each of the par threes on Winged Foot West are devilish. The front half of the green wasn’t very wide, maybe like two parked cars end to end.

I yank a 3-iron left of the green, then from the hay feather a pitch up to three feet for par. One over through four holes. No. 14, a 458-yard par four. Drove it into the rough, pitch out, pitch on, just miss, bogey. No. 15, 416-yard par four, hook a 4-wood left almost out of bounds, punch up short, can’t get up and down, another bogey.

No. 16, the hardest hole on the course I think. 478 yard par four dogleg left. I’m lucky to make five. So through my first seven holes I haven’t hit a green in regulation, I’ve hit only one fairway off the tee and I’m sitting at four over par.

Hole 17 is dogleg right, 449 yard par four. I drive into the left rough, catch a decent lie and hack an 8-iron to 25 feet. A birdie putt, what’s that? Walking up to the green I actually catch myself thinking this will be my first birdie putt of the round.

Plunk.

Now 3 over and inspired I rip a drive down the pipe on 18, the famous 450-yard closing hole and follow it with a 5-iron to 20 feet. Two putts and I’m around in 38. Feeling good. On to the front nine.

I played the next four holes in five over, just missing a few makeable par putts. My drive on the par five fifth hole finds the right rough. Waiting for the group ahead to clear, I’ve got some thinking to do. “The lie isn’t horrible. Just maybe I can chase a 4-wood up near the green and make a birdie. I really need one.” It comes off better than I hoped, sneaking onto the green leaving me a long eagle putt. Down in two to get back to seven over par.

Two pars follow, then a difficult three putt bogey on the 475-yard par four eighth hole. One to go, the 514-yard par four (yes, par four) ninth hole. I’m hanging by a thread at eight over par.

Worst drive of the day, way left. Then a miracle. Trying to slam a low sand wedge under a branch and then up over another tree, I hack away and hear wood. I look down and assume the worst, double bogey dead ahead. Amazingly, the ball somehow glanced out into the fairway where I proceed to thin an 8-iron up onto the front of the green.

60 feet left for par.

“Just try to get it up there close. Probably three feet of break, left to right. Two putts and you’re under 80, mission accomplished. Trust it.” I give it a healthy whack….rolling….rolling….rolling…turning…slowing…oh my god…could it?

Plunk.

Now I know. 78 is what I can shoot on a U.S. Open course under the toughest conditions. My dance for that day with Winged Foot West was over. It was scary, it was exhilarating, it was frustrating, it was awesome, it was challenging, it was unforgettable.

It was Winged Foot West.

Greg Peterson is the Post-Bulletin golf columnist. Peterson followed his 78 on Winged Foot West with a 70 on Winged Foot East to qualify for match play in the 2004 U.S. Amateur. Back on Winged Foot West he won his first round match, then fell to eventual champion Ryan Moore in the 2^nd round.

—

Its’s hard to talk with a lump in your throat.

This writer found that out a couple years back on an October evening in St. Peter, MN. The lump in my throat? It was Leann Womack’s fault. The country artist’s “I hope you Dance” song was to blame. I had purchased Womack’s CD with this particular song years before and had listened to it countless times, often times en route to golf tournies around the state.

The song always made me think of our two daughters. Scary how fast our kids grow up right in front of your eyes, isn’t it? So that Saturday evening as I sat and watched the video presentation showing this old duffer and other graying Gustavus soccer, basketball, football and hockey honorees and Womacks’ “I Hope you Dance” played, I lost it.

Up on the screen were pictures of a skinny 18-year old kid that I used to know. I thought of earlier in the day, the two-hour drive back to campus, where I met my wife, a Rochester girl. Now we’re coming back to the old stomping grounds, with our two daughters in the back seat. The lyrics from Womack’s tune tugged at my heart.

“Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along. Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder, where those years have gone.”

Somehow I choked out a few words of thanks when it was my turn at the podium. Since then I’ve thought many times about what in retrospect I wished I would have said. So, here goes:

“First, to old teammates Terry and Jack in the audience, thanks for showing me in our one year together what it meant to be a Gustie golfer. Terry, despite being from the frozen tundra of Roseau, MN, you were the toughest competitor I’ve ever met. You also taught me that golf can be a team sport. I’m sure you have no idea what I’m talking about. Let me explain.

It’s our team’s first appearance at the NCAA Div. III National Tournament, Rochester, New York, Monroe Golf Club, May 1985. After a pair of 78’s in the opening rounds this writer was feeling down. Just not scoring. Same thing in round three. Through 12 holes I’m 5 over par, going nowhere fast. Feeling sorry for myself. Walking off the 13^th tee my dobber was down.

You came over from the 12^th hole and asked how I was doing. “Not good,” I said. “Come on, get it going,” you replied/demanded. I swear it was like a light switch clicking on. Three birdies coming in for a 74, followed with a 72 the next day and our team placed 5^th.

Jack? What can I say about old Jack. He had a swing only a mother could love. Jack played golf with his heart, not with his clubs.

Our squad still hadn’t earned a trip to Nationals when we arrived in Des Moines that May for the Drake Relays Golf Tournament, our last chance. A 36-hole day at the venerable Des Moines C.C. started the 54-hole event. We needed to play well to earn an invite to the big dance. It was raw, cold and very windy, a tough day for golf. All of our five team members fought hard, but struggled that opening day, save one. Jack.

The “Hawk” carried the Golden Gusties on his back that blustery day in Des Moines. The next day, with nothing left to give, Jack struggled, but we picked him up at Hyperion C.C. and punched our ticket to the team’s first trip to Nationals. It’s a trip the team has made each of the last 21 years now. In 2004, the boys won the National title, making all us old Gusties proud.

So there you go folks, a little peek into what it was like way back at the beginning. I am proud and honored to say I was there with these guys. And the reason it all came together? To that, we all owe a tremendous “thank you” to the man that introduced me up here a moment ago, coach Whitey Skoog.

Coach, thanks for being a mentor, teacher and friend to each of us Gustie golfers over the years. You built something very special here with this program, something that has positively touched the lives of hundreds of young men.

I don’t see Terry, Jack or coach much these days. Maybe once a year at our annual alumni tournament in early July. One thing about guys though, we can not see each other for years, but when we do get together, it’s like we never missed a beat. We compare notes, how old are the kids? Anything new at work? And we drift back to the days when the future stretched out lazily ahead of each of us. Confident, hopeful, scared. Yep, we were all those.

Whenever I stop to think for a moment of all the wonderful people I’ve met in my life through the game of golf, guys like Terry, Jack and coach…I’m amazed.

A tournament in Dallas, TX will keep me from attending this year’s alumni tourney next month, so I won’t get an opportunity to wish Whitey a happy 80^th birthday. So coach, from all the guys, happy 80^th and thanks, thanks for everything.

Ok, better quit now, getting hard to type with this lump in my throat.

—

I have a feeling we’re going to remember the summer of ’06 for a long time around here.

Been hot enough for you? We’re running out of adjectives. Playing golf in these positively steamy conditions for such a long sustained stretch of time has been interesting. On the plus side, it only takes about two or three swings on the practice range and we’re fully loosened up and ready to go.

Our creaky golfing buddies with arthritis have been loving it.

Other positives? Let’s see, beverage sales are up I’m sure at all area courses. I’m guessing soap sales at Target, Walmart and other stores are up also. Lots of salty golfers heading home for showers after nine or 18 holes in this heat.

A final positive? It’s been much more pleasant stepping on the bathroom scale lately. I don’t even have to feel bad about the Nordic Trac sitting in the basement I haven’t used for three years.

Linksters learn to drink plenty of water while playing under these conditions. Although, even fully hydrated, the intense heat can get to you. It got me last Friday. I’m not talking heat stroke, been there and done that, no fun. No I’m talking about a different kind of heat related incident.

Our 12:30 pm tee time maybe wasn’t the smartest as its around 3:30 and approximately 95 degrees as we climb the steep hill to the 14^th green. Beads of sweat are a rolling. I mark my ball. Got about a 12 footer for birdie. I kneel down behind the ball and line up my putt. “Looks like a bit of break from left to right, maybe just outside the left edge, ok time to knock one in.”

I begin to rise from my crouch. I see my summer flash before my eyes.

Realizing I’m a bit lightheaded from the heat, I decide to go with it. The birdie putt can wait. Here’s what I see:

June 18^th, Northfield, MN ~ playing the second round of an annual two day, two-man tourney with Tim, an old golfing buddy of mine from Owatonna. We’ve played in the event for at least 10 years. Kinda sad this time though, as we realize next year we’ll have to break down and rent a cart like every other team in the field. Seems like the Spanish armada zooming up and down every fairway with all the carts.

When did riding carts become ok for tournament golf?

Guess I’m just old school. I’ve got no problem with carts in general, just don’t think they should be used in tournaments.

June 18^th, Rochester, MN (later that evening) ~ last round of the U.S. Open. I purposefully didn’t listen to radio on the way home, didn’t want to spoil it. Got a tape waiting for me. Can’t wait to watch my guy Phil win his third major in a row.

Ouch. Felt so bad for the guy I even had trouble falling asleep that night. Then I reminded myself he’s a zillionaire with a great family and already has won three majors.

But still, all you needed to do was make a bogey Phil.

July 10^th, Dallas, TX ~ I arrive in big D to play in a week long tournament. Never been to Dallas before. I left a friendly dock on a northern lake for this? 100 degrees every day with strong south winds. Played crummy. 14 ½ hour car ride home waiting for me.

Did learn one thing in Dallas though. Learned those handheld laser yardage tools are the future of golf. I was against them in principle, until I tried one for 18 holes that is. Totally cool. Speeds up the game too. No need to pace off yardages any more. Only problem is they don’t work too well from the middle of the trees. Note to self: try to stay out of the trees more often.

I arrive back in Minnesota thinking it will be cooler. Wrong. Golfing buddies accuse me of bringing the heat back from Texas. Nice. I plead innocent. Talk to Randy Brock or Ken Quatrin I say.

July 16^th, Byron, MN ~ last round of the Nationwide Tour event out at Somerby. I had followed Brandt Snedeker’s group for 10 holes on Friday. Looked like a winner to me then. Guy swings like a machine, beautiful tempo. Needing eagle on the 72^nd hole to force a playoff, he comes through. Mr. Clutch earns a cool $99K.

July 24^th, Waterloo, IA ~ 36 hole U.S. Amateur qualifier at Sunnyside C.C. 80-some guys playing for 3 spots. Not good odds. Temp running in mid 90’s again. First round going great, even through 12 holes. Pull a 6 iron left on the 13^th hole…next came the sound no golfer wants to hear.

B-O-I-N-G.

Off the cart path, out of bounds. Proceed to chunk provisional into a pond. Two putt for a quadruple bogey. Now I’ve got 23 holes to go and basically have no chance. Sure glad I got up at 4 am to drive down here now. Just then I remember a favorite saying of our youngest daughter: “Dad, cry me a river, build me a bridge and get over it.”

Smart girl.

“Hey Pete, it’s your turn to putt, you ok?” I hear a playing partner ask as I begin to regain my senses on the 14^th green, the blood returning to my brain. “I’m good,” I reply weakly. I replace my ball, take a practice stroke, then pull it left of the hole and tap in for par.

I wipe the sweat off my brow and move on to the next hole.

—

I was going to wait.

Wait with this particular column, until early next month, as the five year anniversary of that fateful day, September 11, 2001 draws closer. But I don’t see much point in waiting now, not with the events that unfolded in London last week and with Oliver Stone’s new flick “World Trade Center” opening in theaters last weekend.

Not sure if I want to see the movie. I know I don’t need to see it to help me remember. Who of any of us will ever forget that day?

It was an absolutely beautiful early autumn day, a Tuesday. Not a cloud in the sky, pure sunshine. I found myself in the car driving towards the twin cities, a trip like so many others over the years, to yet another golf tournament, this time the USGA Mid-Amateur local qualifier.

The new Troy Burne G.C. just across the border in Hudson, Wis. was the site. Probably 80 some guys playing for three qualifying spots. My tee time was slated for 8:30 am. I’d done well in a tourney at Troy Burne earlier that summer and was hopefully about my chances of qualifying.

I was on the road heading north on Hwy 52 by 6 am or so, in time to get to the course, hit some balls and a few putts before my tee time. Once I passed Cannon Falls I flipped the car radio over to 92.5 FM, KQRS to catch Tom Bernard and the morning crew. Funny stuff.

I hit the 494 loop and headed east. A few miles short of reaching the I-94 East exit to Hudson, I noticed something odd, two cars pulled off the highway, nothing seemingly wrong with their cars. The drivers had got out and were just standing there.

Then the funny stuff on the radio stopped. Someone cut in and mentioned something about a plane hitting one of the World Trade Center towers. They mentioned smoke and confusion. An excited voice was heard next shouting another one had hit.

“This is no accident,” Tom Bernard said.

A few minutes later I was in the Troy Burne parking lot. I grabbed my sticks, threw my golf shoes on and made a B-line for the clubhouse. On a fancy new plasma screen in the pro shop I saw the twin towers ablaze. Three or four of us stood there silently watching the CNN reports for 20 minutes or so.

I skipped the practice range and wandered to the putting green. A few strokes later it was time to head to the first tee. One guy scheduled to play in our threesome wasn’t there, just me and another guy for the eeriest 18 holes of my life.

I’ve never felt like that on a golf course before. Empty.

The first few holes went by, a few pars a few bogies. Walking the fairways all I could think about were the folks on those two planes. I knew there would be families, mothers and fathers sitting with their kids, heading home or setting out on vacation, maybe to visit grandma and grandpa. I knew there would be businessmen and women, flying off on the next sales call, having just kissed their spouse and kids goodbye hours before.

Unspeakable, heartbreaking personal tragedies.

We came to the ninth hole, a long par four. I hooked my tee shot into the rough. Walking towards my ball I overheard a loud radio from a home construction site across the street. Something about the Pentagon.

Troy Burne has a bit of a hike from the ninth green to the tenth tee. We stopped in the snack shop to see if they had a TV. Around the corner was my old friend Giles, an elderly gentleman that helps out on many Minnesota Golf Association events.

“Giles, what’s going on?”

“The towers fell.”

“What?”

“They both fell, and the Pentagon is on fire. Another plane hit there.”

Stunned, my playing partner and I walked to the tenth tee. On the way we agreed there was no way around the fact that in one form or another, our country was now at war. How would this affect the lives of our children, and their children someday? Not the kind of things I was planning on thinking about that day.

We numbly trudged on through the back nine, more pars and a few more bogies. I signed my card for a 76 when done and sat for a moment at the scorer’s table. What would tomorrow hold? Would things ever be the same?

The hour and half car ride home was like slow motion. After a while I had to turn the radio off. I needed some quiet to think. All I wanted to do was get home and hug our daughters.

My next round of golf wasn’t until the following weekend, a round with an old buddy in Owatonna. As I drove west on Civic Center Drive heading out of town, I came upon the HyVee grocery store, still old Barlow’s to me. Across the way, rippling in a stiff southerly breeze was the giant American flag flying above Perkins restaurant.

I realized I’d never noticed it there before, proud and strong, down, but not out. Old Glory. Guess there were a lot of things we all took for granted before 9/11/01.

Do we still?

—

I love this gig.

Writing about golf, are you kidding me? That’s like telling your six year old kid their “job” is to unwrap those presents sitting under the tree, or to blow out the candles on their birthday cake. Tough stuff.

It’s coming up on 10 years now I’ve been spitting out these golf columns for the P-B. First one I wrote ran on May 30, 1997. It featured Ron Craigmile, a golf fanatic from Wabasha who carded 363 rounds the previous season, a state record at the time.

Part of the fun on this end is deciding what to write about. For my last column of the ’06 season this week I had been planning on an ode to Tiger Woods. What else can be said about the guy? He just put the finishing touch on the greatest 10-year run of golf the game has ever (will ever) see. 52 Tour wins, 12 majors.

But, as has happened countless times over the years, the focus of my planned column changed directions on a dime. Actually on an egg roll.

Monday evening, the family is sitting down to dinner. I took credit for the meal since I was the one who phoned in the order to our favorite Chinese restaurant. So we’re devouring our assorted fried rice, sesame chicken and egg rolls when my wife asks a question.

“Can I have one of your golf trophies?”

I stop short my forkful of rice already en route. I’m apprehensive as I ask why. The smile on her face belies an unkind fate awaiting one of my prize possessions.

Actually, I should clarify here, I’m not one who polishes and shines old trophies to display on the living room mantel. Hardly. In fact my sordid collection resides in the closet of our downstairs bathroom. Yes, it’s true. At least they are together. Who knows, maybe they share old war stories when I’m not around?

Ooh, this could be fun.

1996 Great Lakes Amateur Cup: “Hey, did you guys hear? The old lady (the trophy talking, not me) wants to take one of us and turn us into a gag office gift. One of her co-workers is retiring or something. They want to put a pink hula skirt on one of you guys and sling a little guitar around your neck…I guess to commemorate the time the guy retiring sang “Love Me Tender” at an office function.”

“Any volunteers?”

1999 Owatonna Invitational trophy: “I’ll walk the plank. She’s never liked me anyway, always calling me “Pewter Man”. Besides, I think pink is in now, all those European guys wearing it. Paula Creamer on the LPGA Tour too.”

1985 NCAA Division III 10^th Place trophy: “Heck, I’ll volunteer. I’ve been sitting around for 21 years now with no clothes on. Can anyone tell me again why the NCAA thinks it is a good idea to have naked athletes on all their trophies? Seriously, when was the last time anyone played golf naked?”

2001 Resorters Championship Flite trophy (a carved wooden duck): “Quit your whining there nude dude. At least folks know you’re a golf trophy and that you’re a dude. You’re swinging a club and everything, quite a sight by the way. People look at me and figure Peterson must be a hunter. What a joke. The guy wouldn’t know the difference between a decoy and a duck blind.”

2004 MGA Team Championship 2^nd Place trophy: “Hah, good one.”

1994 Great Plains Amateur Champion trophy: “Who gave you permission to talk? You’re not even one of us, sitting out there proudly on the bathroom vanity like you have for two years now, all artsy fartsy. Pyramid shaped black marble. Get over yourself.”

1994 Rochester All-City 3^rd Place trophy (acrylic rectangle): “All right, settle down everyone. Let’s not lose our cool. We’ve all had our ups and downs. Heck, look at the big gouge on my backside. I remember it like it was yesterday. The first All-City tournament. It was dark as play finished. Peterson gets his trophy, sets me on top of his old silver Mazda 323, forgets and drives off. Black top and acrylic don’t mix. But do I hold it against him? No.”

1985 Shoreland Cup: “I admire your ability to forgive. But you’re acrylic, it’s your nature to forgive. See these old burn marks in my cup? They’ve been there 17 years now, since July ’89. Peterson’s bachelor party. What a bunch of geeks. None of them smoke, but they decide it would be fun to sit around smoking stogies, talking smart. Lucky me, I got to be the ashtray. Am I bitter? What gave you that idea?”

Actually honey, you can have whichever trophy from the closet you want.

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These stories originally appeared in the Rochester Post-Bulletin. Reprinted with permission.