The Run for the Roses (Part I).....

If it feels like my entries have been sports heavy as of late, it’s not a coincidence. The seven-week corridor from mid-March (the start of the NCAA tournament) to the first Saturday in May (the KY Derby) is my favorite stretch of the sporting year. Sandwiched in between those two marquee events are The Masters & the start of the baseball season - when even Cubs’ fans can feign optimism.

Life springs eternal.

Amidst this annual passageway, one moment stands apart. A zenith that brings me chills time and time again. That moment occurs on the first Saturday of May when twenty horses walk onto the track for the Kentucky Derby, and 150,000 fans stand in unison as the Louisville Marching Band strikes up, My Old Kentucky Home.

If you’ve ever been a resident of Kentucky, had ties to the Bluegrass state, or longed to own a t-shirt that says, “Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky,” this is your moment in the sun.

For me the song’s significance is a literal one: I lived in Louisville until I was ten years-old, before moving just across the river to Floyds Knobs, IN (hence the Chowder). Churchill Downs has always been an unofficial tertiary home.

Normally, I’m a couple mint juleps in by the time the horses arrive for My Old Kentucky Home (recipe for the julep: ice, sugar, sprigs of mint, water, Early Times KY bourbon -- heavy on the ET). Believe me when I tell you that a little Kentucky bourbon adds to the moment’s grandeur.

As Stephen Foster’s composition flows from the band, a sea of flower dresses on southern belles will rise in unison; party-goers in the infield will take a moment’s pause from the debauchery of the day; and the most athletic three year-old horses in the world will take one last gallop in preparation for the greatest two minutes in sports.

If I could allow myself to be encapsulated in a place and time, this would be it.

The Derby has come along way since 1875. Artisides won that inaugural affair. Since then the tradition has been renewed every year on the first Saturday in May. The horses have gone to the post in the face of weather and war, depression and floods. Not once in 132 years has there been a spring without a Derby.

Ancient names like Cannonade and Sir Barton, Gallant Fox and Whirlaway: all victorious on racing’s greatest stage.

Three fillies have been first to the wire: Regret, Genuine Risk, and Winning Colors. The last of which, Winning Colors, bested the boys in 1988 -- leading every step of the way.

It’s amazing how often champions come in pairs. Who is Navritalova without Evert, Nicklaus without Palmer, Ali without Frazier? Stardom means raising the bar and triumphing over illustrious competitors, not merely one or the other.

So it is with horse racing as well.

Storied rivalries like Swaps and Nashua, Secretariat and Sham, Affirmed and Alydar (with their mythical Belmont duel), and most recently Sunday Silence and Easy Goer – all part of the Triple Crown’s lore.

For my money I’ll take Sunday Silence, forever the underdog (also earns brownie points for racing after 1985). Easy Goer had the pedigree and the talent, but Sunday Silence outranked him in heart. Their Breeder’s Cup Classic will be etched in racing's memory forever: (http://youtube.com/watch?v=cKR3_shx7p4). Anecdotally, on a scale of 1 to 10, I’m giving NBC announcer Tom Durkin a 14 for his call of that race. Do yourself a favor: click on that link.

These legendary thoroughbreds will always be linked to the Twin Spires of Churchill Downs. Still, above all else, I think it's the people – and their fairytale relationships with these champions – which make the Derby so alluring and unique.

The Derby is about Penny Tweedy and her love affair with Secretariat, a horse she & her husband won via a coin flip before the champion colt was ever born: (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Secretariat).

The Derby is about Pat Day, Churchill Downs all-time leading jockey, and his 1992 Derby mount Little E. Tee. Day was 0-for-10 in the Derby coming into 1992, and Little E. Tee was an unknown longshot at odds of 18-1. Together they roared home in front to the delight of the hometown crowd -- easily defeating the heralded two year-old champion Arazi.

The Derby is about ten partners from Sackets Harbor, New York (population 1,386) who pooled $5,000 each to start a horse racing stable and ended up with a nobody horse turned Derby champion, named Funny Cide.

Finally, the Derby is about Frances Genter who brought her first horse to the Derby seventeen years ago at the ripe age of 90. Genter had been in horse racing for years, but was never close to having a Derby entrant. Unbridled was her first and only shot.

Mrs. Genter was frail and could barely hear when she made it to Churchill Downs on that Derby day. Unbridled’s trainer, Carl Nafzger, stood next to Genter and called the race for her. ABC wisely put a microphone on Nafzger, allowing viewers to share in their moment: “Here he comes, Mrs. Genter!…He’s taking the lead Mrs. Genter!…Mrs. Genter, you’re going to win the Kentucky Derby!...You’re Going to win the Kentucky Derby!...I love you, Mrs. Genter!”

If that doesn’t choke you up, I don’t know what will.

All the more special because at the Derby it’s one and done. 3-year-olds only: a horse is too old at age four. One chance for the winner’s circle, one chance for the blanket of roses, one chance to hit the wire first before 150,000 screaming fans.

Perhaps this entry is overly sentimental. It has been known to happen. Regardless, my romanticizing comes with a request: tune into NBC’s coverage of the Derby and catch horse racing fever (Go Baby, Go!). We desperately need more fans.

Riverboat gambling and slot machines loom as ominous threats to the Sport of Kings. Perhaps not in Kentucky, but in other states around the country, where horse racing is more than a century old (Pimlico, Maryland -- host to the Preakness -- being the perfect example). Without a new generation of enthusiasts, blackjack and triple sevens may carry the day. I can’t let that happen – not without a rallying cry. We’re talking about 135 years of legacy, the long revered Sport of Kings, and my old Kentucky home.

Kings, queens (Elizabeth II is coming this year), families, and fans. Owners, trainers, jockeys, and stable hands. There’s room for everyone under the thoroughbred tent, especially newcomers.

Don’t be shy, you can say it out loud, “Go Baby, Go!”

(Editorial note from the Chowder: there will be at least three entries this week. It's Derby week, and I'll be trackside for most of it. Expect a look into Derby week happenings and notes from a gambler's underbelly on Wednesday. An entry with commentary on every horse in the race will follow on Thursday or Friday -- complete with trifecta wheels aimed at retirement.

Beyond this week, I've got enough ammunition to warrant multiple entries a week for awhile. I will attempt to post on Monday and Thursday but will acknowledge a potential caveat: my Derby winnings could justify a one-way ticket to Argentina. In pondering that possibility I can only say: Go Baby, Go.)

Dancing with the Stars......

I was on the couch last Monday flipping through a mediocre night on the tube. Then Clyde Drexler came waltzing across my screen (the latest ex-athlete contestant on ABC’s Dancing with the Stars). Drexler probably opted for Dancing after chatting with Emmitt Smith and Jerry Rice. He might regret those discussions.

My sentiments after Drexler's rumba: discontent.

His performance was lousy, but that wasn’t the issue. Rather, I was having trouble warming up to the idea of Drexler as an entertainer in a ballroom dancing competition. The Glide wasn’t the right draw for me.

But that just begged the question: who would be?

Then, like a seven-foot, 300-pound beacon in the night, it hit me. I would be willing to reprioritize everything in my life -- train schedules, meals, online poker tournaments, and breathing -- if Shaq was a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.

I might even break down and buy Tivo.

Imagine this scenario: Shaq finishes a mamba by swinging his 100-pound Russian dancing partner (we’ll call her Nadia) into the death drop, then holds her in the perfect “drop” position with his pinky -- all the while allowing his gleaming, pearly whites and canyon-wide smile to stare straight into the camera.

If that’s not good television, I don’t know what is.

For about one hour Reality Shaq, and the boost he would bring to Dancing with the Stars, was enough for me. A glorious prospect. But after that brief interval an inner-voice began to stir, wanting “mas, y mas, y mas.”

Now, a week later, I am all-consumed. The outside world is dead to me. My productivity (infer hours spent playing online poker) has ceased. And there are rumors of a stache above my upper lip.

All I can think about is pro-athletes and their “potential” on various reality TV shows.

Do not allow yourself to go down this path; never has there been a more slippery slope. Self-help groups are inevitable. I’m already muttering to myself, “I want to go back in time. I want to make it stop. I want to think about something else.”

But I can’t.

So check these out for crying out loud:

The Amazing Race with Terrell Owens & Retief Goosen (teammates)
You know how Retief has that glossed-over look whenever he misses a short putt or hits an errant shot? Well think about how many times you’re going to see that look during the season premiere. I’m already aglow envisioning the first, uncomfortably small rickshaw the two will climb into….and the subsequent discussion whereby Terrell decides that he’s best suited to handle the map.

Season highlight: During a mission in Botswana, Terrell meets with an elder who prophesies that Owens will be reincarnated as a York Peppermint Paddie.

American Idol featuring Ichiro Suzuki
The man hasn’t said ten words in public since he landed in Seattle. Unbeknown to everyone, Ichiro has been withholding the baritone voice of a lion.

Season highlight: Ichiro’s jaw-dropping rendition of Motley Crue’s Girls, Girls, Girls -- complete with a shirt ripping finale that has Ichiro sliding across the stage in a wife beater.

Simon Cowell’s remarks after the performance: “I think I have a mancrush.”

The Bachelor starring Felix “Tito” Trinidad
I don’t know if Felix is married. I’m not gonna check. Play dumb and work with me here because THE SKY is the limit.

ABC wisely offers Tito free reign on how he wants to be portrayed in the preview clips that will air on ABC. Tito decides on a clip which alternates between him entering a boxing arena for a big fight, and the twenty-five female contestants, who are seen waiting for him in the ring. Shocking every living cell in the galaxy, Felix picks Belinda Carlisle’s Heaven is a Place on Earth for his entrance music. The ladies in the ring go loca. ABC executives sense they might be onto sometime and begin the necessary legal steps to buy-out Jimmy Kimmel’s contract in order to replay episodes five nights a week.

Once the season begins, Felix opts for a pin-stripe suit AND his boxing gloves for every rose ceremony. ABC, playing off Felix’s lead, allows the female contestants to trickle into the foyer for each rose ceremony before blasting, “ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event, leeeeeeet’s get ready to rumble” over the house’s intercom. Felix instinctively begins to bounce and throw air jabs.

As soon as Tito picks four Hispanic women at the first rose ceremony, ABC realizes that previous seasons were operating with blinkers on, neglecting the cross-over audience on Telemundo. Casting directors are given new marching orders; token ethnic candidates are a thing of the past; ABC ends every episode with a montage of Tito’s dates accompanied by Besame Mucho.

Season Highlight: A steamy hot tub scene in which three contestants and Felix are talking about various sexual positions. Unfortunately for Felix, viewers instantly spot his “fake laugh” when more advanced positions are brought up. Word quickly spreads across the boxing community that Felix is a “missionary only” type of guy.

Somewhere in East Los Angeles, Oscar de La Hoya prepares for an early morning press conference.

The Bachelorette starring Michelle Kwan
Not an obvious choice. And yes, I have an Asian fetish. Ignoring that fact, how awesome would it be to the nine-time U.S. figure skating champion in this setting?

ABC producers, normally hesitant to show the “getting liquored up” footage, quickly realize that Kwan’s first keg-stand is “must see TV.” After two episodes Kwan does away with the contestants’ real names and begins referring to the men as various aerial jumps like “trip axle” and “double lutz,” as they rise and fall in her esteem.

Ratings improve.

Season highlight: The final rose ceremony in which Kwan turns down the marriage proposal of an Alaskan king crab fisherman. In tears, Kwan admits that in the wake or her heart-breaking defeat in Nagano she sought out female companionship, in the arms of Kristy Yamaguchi. Michelle “thought” she was over Kristy, but The Bachelorette has brought her to grips with reality: true love never dies.

Watching from home 1984 Olympic champion Scott Hamilton makes a desperate lunge for his defibrillator. Every figure skating choreographer with a pulse begins to salivate at the prospect of Ravel’s Bolero for two women.

Dancing with the Stars featuring Shaq (with Bill Raftery as a permanent judge).
Remember that scene in Dirty Dancing when Patrick Swayze and Baby (not a big enough star, gotta use her movie name) are practicing on the fallen tree over a ravine. Keep that scene in your mind, but replace Swayze with Shaq (note to readers: at no point in this “new scene” does Baby/Nadia say to Shaq, “don’t worry, I’ll catch you if you fall.”).

Trees everywhere begin to rethink decay.

Season Highlight: Raftery’s boisterous assessment of Shaq’s Waltz: “I’ll give you a 9. Plenty of spring off the pavement. A few nickel-dimers when you were dancing in themantoman. Get the puppies set before you lift her. A little ricochet romance is right around the corna’. I see nothing here for the vegetable cart. The big fella can do it all: the mamba, the waltz, and the cha-cha. Let him into the band!!!”

So You Think You’re Smarter than a 5th-Grader featuring PacMan Jones.
Okay, it’s not reality TV per say. Accept the slight divergence and note the perfection of the setup. Plus, Jeff Foxworthy can trade in his patented “you know you’re a redneck” jokes for a barrage of hum-dingers starting with “you know Pacman’s at the party if…”

Season highlight: In a live-broadcast season finale, PacMan does away with the cue cards, solves pi, and then disappears forever. Rumors are immediately afloat that PacMan and Bobby Fisher will resurface and challenge Garry Kasparov and Deep Blue to a best-of-15 match of Chutes and Ladders.

So You Think You Can Dance featuring Emerson Fittapaldi and Roger Federer
In the Us Weekly development of the decade, Fittapaldi and Federer arrive at tryouts for the show and admit they are father and son (check out Fittapaldi in 1985; prepare to be amazed). After this staggering announcement, the twosome breaks into an Abba dance tribute. Both father and son adorn glittering, lycra disco pants.

The speechless judges wisely ignore the duo's dancing prowess (the hereto impossible square root of -1) & welcome them to Hollywood. Elsewhere, Skip Bayless passes a kidney stone.

Season Highlight: Federer convinces his buddy Tiger Woods to join him (and dad) on an episode for an improbable dancing scene set to House of Pain’s Jump. As the three stars jump around for long enough to make everyone at home exceedingly uncomfortable, a startling reality becomes apparent: Fittapaldi’s vertical leap is easily best. Days later, Fittapaldi appears in the first of many ED commercials.

Project Runway with Randy Moss, Bronson Arroyo, Joan Benoit Samuelson, Men Nguyen (Men the Master), Justine Henin-Hardenne, and Dog the Bounty Hunter
Henin-Hardenne arrives on day one with her own needles and thread; bettors insert her name in the dictionary next to “the chalk.” Arroyo seems optimistic about his design strategy -- trench coats only -- but veteran viewers know that “one-dimensional” does not lead to Fashion Week. Dog lands in New York eager to prove he belongs in the ranks of “pro-athletes.” Still, after meeting his housemates Dog can’t resist the urge to call his wife -- instructing her to run Moss and Arroyo through their “normal channels.”

Surprisingly, all the judges take to Moss whose sporty bandana reminds them of “Jay” from Season One. Workers at Nike begin scouring the video vaults for old footage of Moss and Jason Williams knitting together, hoping to produce a sequel to their “Dukes of Hazard” commercial.

Nguyen & Dog team up for an improbable win in the first challenge: making a belt for Banana Republic. Dog’s advocacy for “alligator skin” is viewed by judges and viewers to be the differentiator. Nguyen, wanting to taste the victory, calls on his oldest friend: bourbon. Hours later in a drunken state, Nguyen makes a prank phone call to Mike Matusow asking him for advice on their next design: “orange jump suits.” Viewers at home sense that human cruelty has been taken to a whole new level.

Season Highlight: In a pivotal episode leading up to Fashion Week, Bravo fashion consultant Tim Gunn suggests to Moss that executing on a design is more like running a marathon than a sprint (winking at Samuelson in the background). Moss laughs contemptuously, wanting no part of Tim’s silly metaphors, and then sets his sewing-machine to “ludicrous speed.” Moss’ finished design, a sleeveless (camouflage) turtleneck, doesn’t cut the mustard. Moss is “out.”

Moss’ attempt to say “auf weidersehen” to Heidi Klum goes double platinum on YouTube within the hour. Bravo announces plans for a second season of Runway with athletes; Flozell Adams, Summer Sanders, & Ronaldinho are rumored to be in.

Big Brother starring Ricky Henderson
I know he’s retired, but 24-hour access to Rickey talking about himself in the third-person? So fantastical I might implode. In other words: stock the fridge, give Rufus some water, and hook up my I.V.: I see no reason to leave the couch for the duration.

Season highlight: In week nine Henderson calls CBS Chairman Les Moonves and leaves this message, “Les, this is Rickey, calling on behalf of Rickey. Rickey wants a little brother.”

Mike Gallego phones in from Walnut Hills and references his availability.

AND LAST BUT CERTAINLY NOT LEAST……

The Real World (Back to Vegas) with: Dice-K, Marvin Harrison, Venus Williams, Bodie Miller, Kerri Strug, Ron Artest, and Jeanette Lee (The Black Widow).
It’s possible that MTV would immediately recognize this as the greatest convergence of unknowns in the history of the world and send this straight to pay-per-view. I’m not sure there’s an upper ceiling for much I’d be willing to pay.

I think these are ordinary happenings: Strug’s late night reenactment of her winning, Olympic vault using Artest as the springboard. Harrison’s confessional that he’s harboring ill-will towards Lee because she always uses the last of the milk (which we see straight through and recognize as pent up sexual frustration). Dice-K, Harrison, and Miller going to the Pimp N’ Ho Ball dressed as N.W.A. (with Dice-K wearing a short, curly-haired wig to portray his childhood idol, Eazy-E). The Black Widow’s unlikely tutelage of Artest on a diverse set of topics like: “counting cards in blackjack” and “The Great Lakes which border Michigan.” Regular coverage of Miller walking around in his pajamas: a skin-tight, Spiderman ski suit. Strug’s cameo on Entourage as a Caribbean Stud dealer which leads to an improbable, real life hook-up with the guy who plays Turtle. The ritualistic Courvoisier that Miller and Dice-K share every night in complete silence. Venus’ daily call with her father in which they recite Dostoevsky in Russian.

Alright, so it’s definitely going straight to pay-per-view.

Season Highlight: Dice-K, thinking he’s alone in the suite, breaks out the karaoke machine and sings a wrenching version of Moon River – longing for his native Japan. Venus, playing keno in the next room, hears Dice’s crooning and instantly falls under his (gyroball) spell. A million-to-one courtship is set into motion, and sports radio hosts everywhere begin to speculate on the size, shape, and planetary origin of any offspring.

That's it. Estoy terminado. Very fun but exhausting. The worst part: I’m still contemplating different lineups. I want appearances by Erin Andrews, Tony Stewart, Sammy Sosa, Rebecca Lobo, Ray Lewis, Danica Patrick, and Karch Kiraly.

Wait a minute. Those would qualify as seven strangers. Can you say: “Real World (Topeka)!?!?!” If it comes together, MTV should “accidentally” furnish the house with only six beds, and then make sure that Erin & Danica arrive last just to “see what happens.”

And just like that, the vortex has pulled me back in.

It’s now official: I need group therapy.

When the Stars Go Blue…..

Sometimes words are immaterial. Perhaps inappropriate. Today this forum is my means of coping. I grieve with words, whether selfish or not.

At least 33 people are dead today in Blacksburg; many more are wounded. Numbness and devastation. The orders of the day.

I would love to be in the deterministic camp – believing that everything has a purpose – that’s it all part of a master plan. Unfortunately, I am not. I think these innocent students were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A tsunami arrived in Virginia: swallowing the vitality of our youth.

I hope these youthful souls are bound for heaven’s magnificent embrace; bound for an infinite and brilliant time.

In the coming days we will learn about the specifics. Where the weapons were bought. Characterizations of the gunman. Guesses as to his motivation. All variety of blame.

In the end the sum of the parts will add up to nothing at all. His actions will still be unfathomable. No one could have predicted his coming. Nothing could have disarmed his venomous rage.

If there’s a silver lining it might be this: we live in a world with over six billion people and this type of occurrence is a rarity. 99.99% of the world’s populace lives together in a harmonious state: respectful and helpful to thy neighbor, hospitable from the first day to the last. Not bad in the bigger scheme of things.

But a silver lining isn’t enough. Not today. Not even close.

Today I make the phone ring. I call those I love and those I miss. Those who have disappeared from my grasp, needlessly so. It is the ultimate day for perspective. All of yesterday’s problems are now infinitely petty, instantly obsolete.

And then I will pray. Pray even though I’m not always one for prayer. I pray for the starless night in Viriginia, for that which cannot be explained in earthly terms.

My thoughts belong to those who have lost their own, and those we have lost. May St. Peter greet you with open arms. Let there be a band of angels hovering at his feet.

Masters Wrap-Up, TNT, Mints, and R. Kelly...

Little bit of everything tonight. Don’t be expecting Pulitzer material. I’ve watched over twenty hours of Masters coverage since my last entry. I’ve been to church. I’ve eaten Arni’s pizza. And I’ve been within a furlong of Churchill Downs.

For me, this is the equivalent of sensory overload. Bear with me.

Well, Tigger couldn’t pull through on Sunday at Augusta. Not shocking by itself. Here’s the overlooked byline from my vantage point: Tiger is 0-for-28 in majors when he trails coming into Sunday. When he has the lead, he wins. But he has never come from behind. For a man with 56 career PGA wins, 12 majors, and a 10 – 1 record in playoffs, I think this is a notable statistic. If not a hole in Tiger’s armor, perhaps a visible chink.

Adorning the Green Jacket, we have Zach Johnson. What a performance. Keep in mind, Johnson wasn’t even the #1 player on his high school golf team. Four years ago he was playing on the Nationwide Tour. Now he’s a Ryder Cup veteran and The Masters champion -- having persevered through some of the most brutal conditions in Augusta's history, and a Sunday show-down with Retief and Tiger. All this from a self-described “normal-guy” from Iowa city.

Sorry Zach. You may think you are normal. In actuality, all evidence is to the contrary.

In other golfing news, 102 year-old Elsie McLean of Chico, CA became the oldest person to ever record a hole-in-one last Thursday. McLean aced the 100-yard fourth hole at Bidwell Municipal Golf Course – where she’s been playing for more than seventy years. "My shot hit the green on the fly,” said McLean. “It didn't bounce on a rock or roll down a hill or anything,"

Now this is the type of human interest story I love. A fountain of youth candidate who is defending the validity of her shot at age 102. That’s how it should be. Congratulations Elsie. Here’s hoping there are many years at Bidwell Municipal still ahead of you.

Moving on……

I caught the The Pelican Brief and Cast Away on the tube recently thanks to Ted Turner (TNT: we know drama). Both are going on my Top 10 list of most underrated movies. I don’t know what else belongs in this category right now, except for Midnight Run.

Here’s what I like most about The Pelican Brief: it’s a lawyer movie without a heavy emphasis on lawyering. No momentous, courtroom show-downs (“you can’t handle the truth”). No Matlock “ahah moments.” Just a semi-plausible brief written by a law student, a bunch of suspenseful scenes, and good acting.

I’m ready for the sequel.

Cast Away, on the other hand, has the carpe diem quotient: it makes me want to get off my ass and do something with my life. Love it when that happens. Seriously, this film has it all. Hanks at his best, an unlikely yet believable relationship between man and volleyball, a solid love interest (Helen Hunt), and a great ending which leaves Hanks, representing everyman, at a literal & metaphorical crossroads (TNT: we know everyman).

In olden days, I would have gone straight out for a run after a movie like Cast Away. In olden days, I was a semi-serious runner. This go-round the motivation was something less rigorous: calling an old friend. Still a valuable addition to my week. Thanks TNT.

And now a random assortment of closing notes….

1) The Cubs' WGN announcer, Len Kasper, cannonballed into opening day coverage at Wrigley Field yesterday with these words, “welcome to game seven of championship season.” Note to Len: the last time the Cubs won a World Series none of these items had been invented yet – frozen food, insulin, the tommy-gun, stainless steel, band aids, and the zipper. Amidst a century long drought, referring to this as “championship season” might be a little premature…and ignorant…..with or without your zipper.

2) I think I’d be more of a church-going guy if normal Sunday services resembled Easter. Easter services are hopeful, joyful, reflective, and stockpiled with good hymns. The Easter service I attended even got trumpets and a tuba into the mix. Brass goes along way for me.

3) Has anyone noticed that downtown restaurants and lounges are diversifying their selection of bathroom mints? It used to be that traditional red and white was your only choice (advanced citizens might call this peppermint). Then restaurateurs starting offering gum and other candies. Now, I’m seeing regular appearances by yellow and white, and orange & white, mints.

I think this is a great development and wholeheartedly endorse the orange & white mint with its tangy, yet refreshing, overtones.

4) Driving home last Thursday I caught R. Kelly’s new song, I’m a Flirt, on the radio. I about had to pull the car over from laughter. Check out these lyrics:

She Lookin At U When I Walk By
U Turn Yo Head, She Wink Her Eye
I Can't Help If She Checkin For A Platinum Type Of Guy
She Be Callin Me Daddy, And I Be Callin Her Mommy
She Be Callin U Kelly, When Yo Name Is Tommy
I Don't Know What Yall Be Thinkin
When U Bring Em Round Me
Let Me Remind U That I Am The King Of R&B
Do U Know What That Means
That Means If U Love Yo Chick
Don't Bring Her To The VIP
Cuz I Might Leave Wit Yo Chick
Just Keepin It Real
It's A Playa's Feel

Cuz, Wit and Yo (meaning your): these are the things I miss out on by being white.

A Tradition Unlike Any Other......

At my house the second weekend in April is “Masters Weekend” not “Easter Weekend.” I get how the resurrection of Jesus, Lord & Savior, is worth weekend naming rights for a lot of families. Just not ours.

At this point in my life there are only a handful of contemplations that give me goose bumps of the “kid-at-Christmas” variety. The list would include the far-fetched hope of loving a woman forever (admittedly, noting my current prospects, “forever,” might be a shorter interval than its eternal connotation). Spending winters in Buenos Aires. Being a father. Owning a horse with Kentucky Derby prospects. Going to Augusta with my family for The Masters.

For a golfer, there is nothing comparable to Augusta.

In addition to watching every broadcast for the last twenty years, I’ve been mentally playing the course in family backyards since I could hold a club. I know the undulations on the greens and the holes which play a club longer than they should. I can tell you about every shot in Nicklaus’ supernatural back-nine in 1986 (shot in 30) en route to his sixth green jacket. And I can tell you without reservation that Phil Mickelson’s career began in earnest when he sank a downhill birdie putt on the twelfth three years ago, with my mom yelling, “YES!” in the background, to get into contention on Sunday (Mickelson would then birdie four of the final six holes to win his first Masters).

CBS' ads say it best: The Masters is, “a tradition unlike any other.”

No other tournament wields one-tenth the tradition of Augusta. From the entrance on Magnolia Lane, to the concession stands filled with pimento sandwiches, to the par-three tournament on Wednesday, to the week’s conclusion with the presentation of the Green Jacket: everything about Augusta is ritualistic. Or perhaps said better: nothing at Augusta happens by chance.

Most PGA tournaments are run by a conglomerate of corporate sponsors, municipal representatives, local golf professionals, and designated volunteers. The Masters, on the other hand, is run solely by the members of Augusta National Golf Club. A group so influential and hands-on that legendary sports writer John Feinstein coined them, “The Lords of Augusta.”

The Lords say what happens when, without interpretation or variation. They are not a group which endorses change.

A coke at the 2007 Masters will cost you $1, approximately the same as it did twenty years ago. Snacks are still $.75; a beer is $2.00. At every other PGA tournament a player can hit as many shots as he wants in a practice round. At Augusta, there are signs on the 1^st and 10^th tees which read, “Practice rounds, use one ball only.” A rule somewhat ignored by players, but which nonetheless underscores a point: Augusta is different.

Different and, with the Lords of Augusta at the helm, unyielding.

During the 1994 Masters, CBS golf analyst Gary McCord remarked that the 17^th green was so fast it hadn’t been mowed, but rather, “bikini-waxed.” McCord's off-the-cuff comment about the Augusta greens didn’t sit well with the Lords. After the 1994 tourney CBS was given an ultimatum: either McCord goes or CBS goes.

CBS decided to keep their broadcast rights; McCord hasn’t covered a Masters since.

The Lords are content accepting less money from the networks (for the last 52 years, CBS) in order to ensure control over every aspect of the tourney -- including sponsors and commentators. In 2002 Marth Burk led a group of demonstrators in a campaign to disparage Augusta National and corporations which sponsored The Masters for disallowing women to become members at Augusta National. The Lords’ response: pay for the anticipated commercial revenues out of their own pocket rather than change their policies or allow their sponsors to be criticized. CBS' weekend coverage is now nearly commercial free (four minutes an hour).

For a viewer this means unconscionable access to golf’s shrine. Shot by shot coverage of every hole. Occasionally you even get to see someone other than Tiger Woods. It’s mind-boggling and incredibly satisfying. All the more remarkable when you consider, “the tournament doesn’t even begin until the back-nine on Sunday.”

I don’t know who first said those words, but it’s a quote you’re guaranteed to hear at least a thousand times between now and 3:00 pm on Sunday. For me it’s up there with, “the half-way point of the marathon is mile 20,” as one of the most irrational, yet markedly true, utterances in sports. If by chance you’re one of the select players in contention on Sunday, the back-nine is exactly when the tournament begins.

No other closing nine in golf compares. Each hole has intricacies and nuances that can determine the outcome of the tournament. There is water. There are swirling winds. There are par fives that produce eagles and double-bogeys. There are fairway bunkers which actually come into play. There are greens that slope off the face of the earth. There is history. And there is an unprecedented amount of pressure.

Every year, a player will shoot 32 on the inward nine and finish near the top of the leader board. Another player will shoot 40 and forever remember those nine holes as the missed opportunity of his career. It is disheartening, joyful, invigorating, and awesome to watch.

Simply put, I can’t wait.

How appropriate that most years The Masters is decided on Easter Sunday, when life springs eternal. Miraculously, the azaleas and dogwoods seem to bloom amid Masters week every year. Overall, the Augusta grounds are so pristine and immaculate (the course is only open six months a year to ensure perfect condition for the Masters), it feels like you’re amidst a heavenly arena on earth. Throw in a little irony, the most crucial holes on the back-nine (the 11th – 13th) are commonly known as “Amen Corner,” and I have but one conclusion: divine influence is at hand.

The best part is that I get to share every moment -- every pan of the cameras to the azaleas, every bird chirping in the background (supposedly dubbed insertions by CBS), every decisive shot through Amen Corner, and every crucial putt on eighteen -- with my family.

With my brother off and married, being together for the holidays is no longer a guarantee. Instead, Masters weekend is our annual rite. Without deliberation we circle this week on the calendar and head home to watch the splendor that is Augusta. There are few givens in life, but this is one.

For us, it’s a family tradition unlike any other.