Q:Be.Do.

The sports talk radio shows, columns and blogosphere all took time today to focus on the USGA’s 18-hole playoff system for the US Open. I drove over the Bay Bridge to a meeting in Oakland and back again, listening to Gary Radnich, Jim Rome, and Dan Patrick on all of their respective shows tackle the issue. Two things stand out for me.

Foremost is the case everyone makes that an 18-hole playoff on Monday is somehow bad for fans. Did I watch the end of the tournament in real time? No. Does that bother me? Not in the least. I found it completely fascinating to finally be able to watch a round of professional golf, and listen in on all of the conversations between golfer and caddy. Tiger and Stevie had some extremely illuminating conversations down the stretch, with Stevie even jumping in and stopping Tiger to change clubs on one shot.

What amazed me was the level of analysis they pour into each shot, and Tiger’s ability to refocus after being pulled off of a shot. I also loved seeing the difference in relationships between both players and their caddies. Rocco Mediate and Matt Achatz look, and sound, like they are having a great time out there.

Lost in all of these discussions is what is best for the players. Simply because our culture has made sudden death playoffs the norm doesn’t make them the best way to settle the score. What would Rocco Mediate’s legacy be if he’d simply lost to Tiger in a one-hole playoff on Sunday? How would we think of this US Open vs. so many other tournaments that are decided in a playoff? Amex 2005, anyone?

For two competitors to go head to head, and slug it out for another 18 holes on one of the longest, most challenging, and still fairest courses in a US Open ever was a great opportunity for them to test their own mettle. For Tiger to see how he and his bum knee could hold up after five rounds of coming back too early, and for Rocco to see how far he could push Tiger.

Both competitors got to experience something neither of them has before in sport, and came away better for it. That should count for more than satisfying a fan base’s hunger for outcome on Sunday afternoon.

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It is extremely difficult to not focus on outcome in a sport that is so incredibly outcome oriented. I went out to Lincoln today to plunk down my money and play 9 holes, more if the course was moving quickly. I figured that anyone interested in golf who had the free time would be watching Rocco & Tiger duke it out for the US Open championship, and I was right. I managed to play all 18 holes in 3 hours 7 minutes, a new personal record at Lincoln.

I tried to focus on feeling the swing and not being interested in the outcome, but had a hard time separating the two. I let my own doubts creep in on hold #4, and wound up taking an 8 because of a series of bad shots, and a little voice saying “last time you blew up on this hole” in the back of my head.

I was trying a new focus on approach shots, trying to focus on being aggressive and knowing that I could reach the green. It resulted in a lot of tension in my wrists and forearms that completely threw my swing off. 100 yards and in was my weak spot today, until the #17th hole where I nearly sank an approach off of a drive that hit trees.

I did find that being confident on putts, and visualizing picking the ball up out of the cup yielded good putts. And a little anger seems to help my putts. But I’ve been putting for far longer than I’ve been playing the rest of this game.

Still, I managed to put together a solid round, shot 97 and took one stroke off of my previous PB at Lincoln. This also marks two rounds in a row under 100, a first for me.

Relevant stats:

Fairways hit: 9
Greens in Regulation: 2
Ups & Downs: 1
Pars: 1
Putts: 38
Handicap before round: 33.1
Handicap after round: 32.6

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Why is it that smoke detectors only start emitting their high-pitched, ear-piercing “low battery” warning beeps in the middle of the night? I cannot recall a single smoke detector that ever started BEEP!!!ing at me at a “decent” hour. Always in the middle of my sleep cycle, never mid-afternoon, or during breakfast, or even while watching movies at night.

It is as if there is a small microchip embedded in the device with the sole purpose of making sure it it wakes me in terror when the end of the battery’s life-cycle draws near. In the old days I used to chalk it up to coincidence (in the old days, I used to be able to sleep through it – never a good sign). Surely one of my smoke detectors must have started beeping during the day, right?

The older I get, the more apt I am to give in to conspiracy theories: microchip, motion detector, small logarithm, pre-set life expectancy, you pick your poison. Either way, Murphy’s Law seems to be alive and well.

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The initial success I achieved on the golf course with Gallwey’s inner game techniques have me all fired up to get out and play more. I’m probably not going to be able to get in a round of any kind before next week, but I did manage to set aside an hour to hit the range at the Presidio after a meeting two days ago.

I dutifully bought my large bucket of balls and found an open mat that didn’t have too offensive of a tee angle. If you’ve never been to the Presidio driving range you’ll have a hard time understanding just why a simple driving range can evoke such hatred. The Presidio is my least favorite driving range because of the odd angles of the tees and the high cost of range balls. But when it is on the way home from a meeting, it is hard to argue against.

My goal for the practice session was to focus on feeling the swing, and start trying to let go of attachment to outcome. No easy task, that latter part, because it is the great catch 22 of golf: in order to hit good shots I have to focus on the swing, and not care where the shots end up. Using Gallwey’s “da-da-da-da” method on full swings, and a variation of “back-hit-stop” for shorter pitches/chips, I was able to start really feeling the swing.

On almost every hit I could identify where the clubhead was through the swing, and when I couldn’t feel the clubhead is almost always where I tensed up and focused on outcome instead of swing. I discovered that I was able to isolate breakdowns in my swing without getting irate at the poor results. At one point I was having a hard time with my 8-iron, and was consistently hitting poor shots.

Focusing solely on the feel of the club through the swing, I was able to identify tension in my wrists that was keeping the clubface open through impact causing fades and poor contact. Simply by recognizing what the tension in my wrists felt like, and then experimenting with different degrees of tension I was able to start hitting cleaner, straighter shots.

In fact, I hit about 75 or 80 clean shots out of 100 – a marked improvement for me. I’m getting to the point where I can hit different shots on command: fade, straight, or draw, with most clubs in my bag. I “played” a few holes at the range, experimenting with different tee shots, and having the most fun I’ve ever had at the range.

The next day my wrists and forearms were sore, as was my left leg/knee. Apparently removing tension in my swing is getting me to swing with a freedom I never have before, a freedom that is pushing muscles beyond the limits they are accustomed to with golf. I’m trying not to focus on the outcome, but I can’t wait to get out and shoot another 18-holes. Soon.

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The phone which earns me a 15% discount by not being used got a call today. This is an oddity, because no-one knows that number, not even me. The phone usually just occupies space on the Shelf of Discarded Technology(c)(tm), but I recently charged it so that Ryder could play with it.

When answered, there was a pre-recorded message on the line declaring that “the manufacturer’s warranty on your car is about to expire. In order to remain protected in the event of a roadside emergency” yadda, yadda, scam, scam. I stayed on the line to talk to a human, but at the last second, had a great brainstorm. Instead of tearing into the person on the other end, I opted to play along:

Telemarketer: Allied Protection Services. What is the make, model and year of your vehicle?

Me: 1972 Volkswagon Beetle.

TM: Oh, we can no longer offer coverage on that vehicle.

Me: Really? Aw, man. Are you sure?

TM: Yes, we’re sorry.

Me: Are you sure? Absolutely sure? The thing keeps breaking down on the side of the road, I can’t get to Kragen and back without having to push start it at least once.

TM: No, we’re sorry. You have a nice day.

Brilliant. I’m going to try this approach on everyone, except the psuedo-survey idiots.

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Lately we’ve been giving the recommendation machine over at Netflix increased credence.  If Netflix’s computer says that we’d give a certain film 3.8 stars, we’re more likely to queue it. 4.2 stars or higher, and we’re even more likely to watch it. I’m simultaneously thrilled and appalled when a computer can predict my taste so accurately.

It was this very machine that led us to Shortbus, written and directed by John Cameron Mitchell (who also wrote, directed and starred in Hedwig and the Angry Inch). Thankfully, I did no research on the film beforehand, thinking that the description explained enough of what the film was about. I was wrong, but in a wonderful way.

The film opens with a lot of sex, straight and gay. And it becomes pretty obvious pretty quickly that this isn’t acting, merely bumping uglies sort of sex. It’s the real deal, “for a minute I thought that guy only had one arm” sort of stuff you’ve heard about but probably never seen. If the words “dildo,” “filch,” “tossed salad,” or “gay three way” offend you stay very, very far away from this movie, because the actual acts will probably rupture that vein in your temple that bulges out when you get all riled up.

But if you live in San Francisco, Hollywood or New York, odds are this will feel more like a documentary of a scene, possibly even a scene that you are familiar with. There is one character, Justin Bond – played by himself, who obviously occupies a very similar space in real life. Justin has some of the best lines of the film while gazing out over the orgy before him:

“It’s just like the ’60′s, only with less hope.”

and:

“I used to want to change the world, now I just want to leave the room with a little dignity.”

There were some moments that had us completely busting up, including a rendition of The Star Spangled Banner that would make John Waters blush.The credits list everyone having sex in the background of the film as “Sextras,” a brilliant summation of their roles and a blunt statement about the reality of the film. Intrigued, we opted to go back and watch the special features tonight.

The film is interesting, but not just for the sex. Porn it’s not. Oh, I’m sure you could get turned on by it, but that’s not the point. The story is pretty interesting, and manages to weave a nice thread that culminates (oh come on, “climaxes” would have been way too easy, and obvious) in conjunction with a citywide power outage.

But what really makes the film interesting is the process by which they filmed it. They cast first, then used improv workshops to fine tune the story. In some cases, people who met at casting hooked up, became couples, and got cast as couples. The documentary of the process is equally interesting as the film itself.

Oh, and the woman who can orgasm almost on command on camera? She makes the special features truly special.

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Driving home from today’s family adventure, I spotted a neighbor’s car with the vanity plate: “VEGAS 71.” My first, and best guess, is it is the city and year they were born in.

Which immediately led me to wonder just how much action I’d get if I drove around San Francisco with the city and year I was born in on the back of our car:

MIAMI 69

Aw yeah. Now *that* would go over well with the boys in the Castro.

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I just got back from a business trip to Denver, and even though I didn’t need my laptop I wish I had taken it with me. I would have been able to make the three or four posts I wanted to, instead of piling them all into one big post here, now.

I flew into Denver on Friday, and had a round of golf scheduled that afternoon. Last week I purchased The Inner Game of Golf, and by the time I checked my golf bag and set foot on the plane I had completely committed to giving Gallwey’s methodology a shot.

Gallwey’s premise is simple, but powerful: we operate with two “selfs” at work. Self 1 is the inner voice that tells you how to get stuff done. Self 2 is the self that gets stuff done. More often than not, Self 1 is a hindrance, especially in golf. Gallwey has a simple exercise for learning how to tune out Self 1 on the golf course, and lays it out in his first chapter. From there, he goes into great detail about the ways we best learn, and how best to learn how to play golf.

I was going to have little practice time before our 3:20pm tee time at Red Hawk Ridge in Castle Rock, Colorado. I was nervous, but figured any help shutting out my Self 1 would be a big help. My inner monologue is brutal, vicious, unrelenting, and often spirals out of control when allowed to tap into my fount of anger. One bad shot can ruin a whole round for me, when I brood, explode and then go thermonuclear.

Over the years I’ve also found that I perform at my best when I can not think about what I’m doing. I remember a high school wrestling match where I was whipping up on a guy, all the while thinking about what movie I was going to watch that weekend. And the inverse is true, as well. If on the tee I think, “Don’t slice” I’ll probably slice. If I try to focus on “coming from the inside out” I have a 50-50 chance of doing it, depending on how far along my inner monologue is that round.

Gallwey promotes feel, and feel I understand. So I’ve opted to follow his teachings. Making a change is always easier in concept than practice. And so I discovered that my first hurdle with Gallwey was simply drinking the Kool Aid. What he teaches sounds too good to be true, but requires some major buy-in.

My first task was to let go of focusing on outcome, and start learning to focus on feel instead.  No small feat. But Gallwey’s introductory method for this is to simply replace all swing thoughts with a proclamation of “da” at four crucial points in the swing: takeaway, complete backswing, once the ball has been hit, and at the completion of the follow through. “Da. Da. Da. Da.”  Not to be spoken as verbs, mind you, but nouns. Announcement that the takeaway has started. Announcement that the top of the swing has been reached, and so on.

I managed to hit a wee bucket of balls before the round, and found that the “da da da da” was working for me. As long as I could keep my mind focused on that, and not worry about what might happen, I hit clean shots at the range. Some epic shots, in fact.

The round of golf turned out to be one of the most enjoyable I’ve ever played. My hosts, Suzanne, Bill and Chris were great company. Red Hawk ridge is a beautiful, challenging course, without the same shot twice. But the best part was how much fun I had once I shut my inner monologue down. Never given a chance to get started on the tee, I never got rolling on berating myself for bad shots. By focusing on feel instead of technique, I could feel when I got a little too excited and tried to do too much off of the tee and could let it go at that.

The next shot would usually be a wonderful recovery from that. Or at least unencumbered by the psychological baggage I’d throw on top of a bad shot.

Coming into the last hole I had an honest chance at shooting my best round ever, and I knew it. Standing on the tee of the magnificent par-5 closer, I let my inner voice speak, and the fucker doomed me. Out of bounds off of the tee, approach shot into the lake, second approach shot missed the green, chip on, two putt.

But I still shot a 99, one stroke off of my personal best. And most importantly, I had the most enjoyable round of golf I’ve ever played. It is amazing how much fun that walk in the park can be when you choose not to spoil it with over analysis.

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If I were a stand-up comic, I would focus my “differences between men and women” routine on men’s addiction to outcome. Or, at least, my own personal addiction to outcome. There aren’t a lot of sporting events I plan on sitting down to take in: Golf’s Majors, Cal Football (until the 3rd quarter, when they inevitably choke), the Superbowl, maybe some final games of the NBA championships.

There also isn’t a contest I can easily turn away from, once I’ve become interested in the outcome (i.e. caught three minutes of it on TV). There is a deep-seated need to know what happens that I can’t shake. Case in point: last week, I’m doing my morning stretching routine at my mother in law’s house, and ESPN is broadcasting the Scripps National Spelling Bee live. Holy shit! Who knew? Tia Thomas has read the dictionary seven times and been to the National Finals five times? Well, now I have to know.

I had to turn the TV off shortly thereafter, when Ryder came in the room. He still doesn’t watch any TV except Mark the weatherman on the morning news. Ryder’s interest in and obsession with the only movie he’s ever seen are all the indication I need to keep him away from the land of shiny, flashy imagery.

But I spent the rest of the day wondering if little Tia managed to pull this one out. I mean, the way she nailed “ptarmic” – a word that even my spellchecker can’t get right – was spectacular. She totally had that thing dialed in from the get, but she took her time, asked her questions, determined origin and usage, and then nailed it. It was impressive. The display of a true champion putting on a clinic.

At one point during my event that night I even browbeat myself for not setting my mother in law’s DVR to record the finals that night. After all, who wouldn’t want to watch a lovable bunch of insanely focused, pre-adolescent uber-geeks fight it out for the title of most useless skillset ever?

Flipping channels on the couch later that night, I was happy to catch the highlights on SportCenter – the land of outcomes, and savior of my need to know. Little Tia took third, she misspelled opificer. I’d be heart broken for her, but I have to find out if Urijah Faber was able to defend his World Extreme Cagefighting Featherweight title against Jeff Pulver…

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My golf handicap has been hovering at well over 30 for a year now. I’ve broken 100 just twice in the three years I’ve been playing, and both of them were rounds played at Lincoln – a course with only one par 5 and a total par of 68. This has been frustrating for me, to say the least. I am used to achieving a higher level of mastery than this in a shorter period of time when picking up most any other sport or recreation.

For example: I began playing disc golf in earnest in 1997, competed in my first tournament that year, and by 2001 I was California Amateur State champion. I took up playing volleyball my freshman year of college, and made it to the final round of cuts for the J.V. team the following year.

So I keep feeling like I’m about to turn the corner with my golf game, that consistently shooting in the 90′s is just around the corner. I know how to make good shots, and I just need to learn how to make them consistently. That all I need is to get a few more rounds under my belt, and I’ll be there.

The last round I shot in Calabasas was telling. 53 on the front, and right when I was on the verge of getting my act together on the back, I blow up two holes in a row to take myself completely out of any chance of breaking 100. This very same round I hit my longest drive in a round, had some of my best approach shots, and put my second shot five yards shy of the green on a par 5. In other words, I keep hitting shots that give me hope, but then dashing my own hopes.

I made the decision after that round that I am going to stop shooting in the 100′s. That I am going to take control of my game, and get my act together. That I am no longer going to let a single shot derail a hole, or a single hole derail a round. That I am going to start working on my mental game as well as my physical.

To help me down this path, I picked up a copy of Timothy Gallwey’s The Inner Game of Golf, considered by many to be the first and finest golf psychology book ever written. I’m committing to reading his book and attempting to put his advice into practice.

Short-term goal: break 100 consistently. Long-term goal: lower handicap to 15 by end of 2009. That gives me too much time to make it happen, but I need the cushion these days.

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