it's complicated with golf

I have conflicting emotions about golf. I'm married to a man who contemplated playing it at the collegiate level. We've spent many a Sunday afternoon on the sofa in front of the television, and I contend that some of my best naps have happened with golf commentary in the background. His beloved clubs have a permanent home in our tiny closet, and he squeezes in a round whenever free time and someone to golf with happen to appear at the same time. I'm glad he has a hobby he enjoys so much.

On the other hand, golf is an expensive and high maintenance sport. You can't play a pick up game in the street or at the park if someone happens to have a ball. It takes money to obtain the right equipment and access to a course. And that course? It takes up large amounts of space, and it has to be green. How environmentally responsible is it to build and water acres of lush grass in the middle of the desert?

My conflict was only heightened on Labor Day. Thanks to new friends with connections to the PGA tour, we scored a couple free tickets to the final day of the Deutsche Bank Championship (sponsors include the named big bank, BMW, and the Wall Street Journal; this just screams expensive luxury). Ian was excited for me to experience his favorite sport firsthand, and I was excited to spend a day outside.

We arrived at the course around lunchtime and started at the third hole to catch Tiger and the other leaders. Ian warned me about cameras and phones, but didn't know the exact rules. I scanned the fine print on our ticket, which informed me I was required to follow posted instructions regarding these devices. Not having seen any posted signs anywhere, I made sure no one was golfing nearby, pulled out my silenced iPhone, and tried to look up the PGA guidelines for photography and mobile devices. Almost immediately, an elderly volunteer with "mobile devices" emblazoned on a tag hanging around her neck told me in short words that I had to put my phone away.

I felt like I was 10 years old, chastised by the teacher everyone feared. She didn't even bother to tell me what rule I was breaking. A few minutes later, a gentleman pulled out a point and shoot digital camera with no attempts to hide it. She looked at him with condescension as she informed him cameras weren't allowed. "How did you get through security with that?" He apologized. This was his first golf event; he didn't know any better and no one in security had said anything. He offered to delete the photo and put away his camera. "Sure, you'll put it away until I turn around." Shaking her head, she escorted him to the far away place where cameras anxiously wait, without their owners, for the conclusion of the event.

And naturally, I was irritated. While this ban on phones and photography is apparently for the players' concentration (yes, it's rude for a loud ring to interrupt a putt attempt), she wasn't even allowing phones when no golfers were in the immediate vicinity. Not to mention television crews and media cameras were much louder and distracting than tiny cameras and phones in the crowd. Are "distractions" only prohibited when they don't interfere with the ability to make a broadcasting profit? I was suspicious that this photography ban was simply to ensure they maintain ownership of all images of anything semi-related to the professional sport. So naturally, I discretely snapped some photos of Tiger when the opportunity presented itself. I am confident I did not interrupt his focus as he walked toward the green.

Later, as we moved on to different holes in pursuit of Tiger's final round red polo and the other leaders, other volunteers were nicer, allowing phones between golfers and chatting about the current standings. There weren't visible leader boards in many places, so often phones were the only way to obtain this information. These nicer volunteers improved my experience, and I was slowly able to accept the first volunteer was a grumpy lady on a power trip.

After a quick break for snacks and a lemonade, we skipped ahead to the 18th tee, staking out the perfect viewing spot before the big names arrived. We stood right next to the walkway the golfers crossed as they arrived from the 17th hole, and it provided a direct line of sight to the golfers as they took their first swing on the final hole. Since I couldn't track the ball against the brilliant blue sky, I started watching the players' reactions to their shots, which provided much more information.

Then Tiger Woods arrived. And a large television camera and photography crew set up directly in front of us. And, for the record, I'm certain the golfers can hear the incessant paparazzi shutter clicks as they snap their shots with gigantic cameras. This is much louder than a silenced phone camera.

As Rory McIlroy and Louis Oosthuizen (who showed up as Oosthui on the leaderboard) walked down the fairway, Ian called his dad to give us a play by play of what was too far away for us to see. We waited along the crowd control ropes as Ian updated me (and the volunteers, who didn't care that he was on the phone because they couldn't see the final golfers either) on whether or not they would be back at the 18th to break a tie. No luck.

We trudged back to our rental car through a sea of polo shirts and neon colors (by this point, sighting Rickie Fowler fans in their orange Puma visors and garish apparel had turned into a modified punch buggy game for us) while I bemoaned that the PGA should be more concerned about the health hazards of the massive amounts of smoking and drinking that happens just yards away from professional athletes.

As we sat at IKEA enjoying a Swedish meatball and macaroni and cheese dinner (because where else do you go when you're hungry, south of the city, and in possession of a car?), Ian and I discussed the day. Did I have fun, he asked? Overall, yes. How do I feel about golf now? It's still complicated.

thankful list | August

01. camping in Vermont with Brett + Emily.
02. putting my new bike to good use.
03. my new bike bell (Olli the Octopus).
04. awesome community group co-leaders.
05. movie dates with Ian at the Coolidge.
06. discovering cheddar dill biscuits.
07. seeing The Dark Knight Rises (+ Skyfall preview) in IMAX for cheap.
08. new potted herbs from Wilson Farm.
09. a clean apartment.
10. an awesome Olympic-themed birthday party.
11. mint lemonade at Tatte.
12. surviving 15 miles biking around the city in one day.
13. West Elm swapping our "angry bird" (pokey) pillow inserts.
14. eight amazing years with Ian (we started dating August 21, 2004).
15. running 1.6 miles without stopping or dying (my time is an embarrassing secret).
16. clean bill of skin health at my dermatologist check-up.
17. Pomplamoose music.
18. empanadas + Arrested Development + good friends.
19. discovering the deliciousness of roast beef 1000 at Cutty's.
20. hanging out with two awesome friends and their happy baby.
21. a free tune-up for my new bike.
22. meeting an eclectic and interesting new group of people.
23. an awesome (and large) turnout for setup Sunday morning.
24. breakfast at Sofra.
25. laughs we get with all the crazy comments on Ian's durian video.
26. Pixar postage stamps (not just one but two sets).
27. seeing an iguana sitting on the handlebars of it's owner's bike.
28. the Pioneer Woman's chicken piccata.
29. the library.
30. Sweet Cheeks biscuits.
31. time to get rid of even more stuff so we can reorganize our bedroom.
32. a long weekend to look forward to.

a man and his walrus

The man in a black t-shirt looks like an older Ray Romano, the skin of his cheeks beginning to lose it's foothold against gravity. He wears a black iPod nano snapped into a black velcro watch band, with a slender cord trailing up his arm to his headphones. He adjusts a small brown pillow between his shoulder and head. But it's not quite perfect. He adjusts again, and a tusked smile with whiskers peeks over his shoulder. He closes his eyes, cuddled up with his small stuffed walrus.

A few more stops, and he gives up on the nap. He slides out a copy of the day's paper, folded in half, and holds it in his right hand, adorned with a simple gold band on his ring finger. His brown eyes peer down his narrow nose and he begins reading as he smacks his gum. After a few minutes he pauses to check the walrus, now resting calmly on a small grey toolbox in the seat beside him.

Tucked at his feet is one Trader Joe's brown paper bag, perhaps dinner tonight. I wonder if it's clam chowder.

Vermont Sun

A couple weekends ago, we went camping in Vermont to watch Brett compete in a triathlon. He's pretty good. As in finished 1.5 minutes ahead of second place. I suppose that's what happens when you're a professional (officially).

On the eve of the race, we ate dinner at a local pub before heading back to the campground for dessert. We experimented with s'mores filling as Ian taught Emily and I how to achieve the perfect balance of melting chocolate and browned marshmallow (Brett demonstrated extraordinary self control and abstained in the name of his Olympic dream). We watched the grill handle glow white as forgotten residue burned away, it's wire coil sagging in the heat as we soaked in the quiet. It's been too long since we've inhaled the earthy smell of leaves and fallen trees collapsing into the ground, seen the night sky splattered with more stars than you can count.

Vermont is nothing like Kansas, yet everything like Kansas. Earlier that afternoon as we wended along the highway through the mountains, we saw naked and weathered tree trunks, remnants of last year's flooding, presiding over breathtaking views of the lush river valley. Back home this summer, wheat fields shriveled as temperatures soared and farmers scrambled to harvest before the sun claimed the crop. Both are tranquil and resolute, tied to the whims of nature in all it's beauty and cruelty.

The next morning before the race, we dropped Brett off to warm up then went in search of breakfast, which came with some local color in the form of a gigantic bathing suit clad she squirrel. Which naturally calls for a fist-bump photo. We headed back to the state park with plenty of time to see the start of the race. Brett was the bathing cap 2.5 minutes head of the rest.

While Ian and I are not likely to make appearances in future triathlons, we're happy to show up and cheer Brett as he aims his sights on Rio. Thanks to Brett and Emily for letting us tag along!

July 4, 2012

A month later, and I finally got photos up from the Fourth. Lame, because Independence Day is kind of a big deal in Boston (I still can't imagine why). For the past couple years, we've been fortunate enough to attend a church with people who love the Fourth, and wake up at hours that shouldn't even exist in order to lay claim to a front row view on the Esplanade by way of a 600 square foot tarp, to which they then invite the [REUNION] community.

But for the Fourth this year, being a Wednesday, we didn't think we could manage the late night affair followed by hours of squeezing through the T with millions of other people and still roll into work the next morning. Thankfully, we now have friends who live in MIT student housing directly across from The Barge. With the promise of a great view AND air conditioning, we signed up for the party.

We slept in before turning on the TV for some all day coverage. We just caught the blue angels fly over on screen before hearing the roar out our window. I am sometimes still surprised to find that we're in a city the broadcasts it's own news, as opposed to news from 1.5+ hours away. We took a break for some JP Licks, before returning once again to air conditioning. It was humid.

Before it started getting dark, we rode our bikes to Cambridge to make our later homeward journey more expedient.

Ryan and Kelly are fantastic hosts, and we sat around chatting with lovely people as the local event coverage continued in the background. A few songs before the 1812 Overture was scheduled to begin, we peered out the window to a strange sight. It felt like we were in a zombie apocalypse movie. Large masses of people were shuffling away from the river, filling every large open area. A quick look to the television and we discovered there was a severe storm delay and they were asking spectators to take cover; people at the hatch shell evacuated to the Storrow Drive tunnels.

After another 30 minutes of moody clouds, distant lightning, and settling for the televised NYC show, the storm blew over and Boston started up again. They cut out the 1812 Overture, which always feels like a secret treat for locals since it isn't televised nationally. I was a little bummed, but excited to finally see fireworks. As the first shells exploded, filling the apartment windows with twinkling lights, it finally began to rain, and we again thanked Ryan and Kelly for sheltered fireworks viewing.

We saw some new fireworks (we've heard the industry premieres new fireworks here in Boston) like cubes and lines of red dots that looked like LED strips floating in the sky, along with the perennial favorites like kamuro shells (the gigantic ones that seem to hang in the sky forever).

After the show ended, we said our goodbyes and biked home, weaving through clusters of people, enjoying the rain-cooled night. Until next year, Boston.

Click here for more photos, and click here for past years: 2010 | 2011