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  • A little off the top (my 9/11)

    Submitted by raphael on Mon, 10/13/2008 - 16:12

    Walking around one crisp day last week, the sheer blue sky reminded me of waking on September 11. When I opened the curtains and saw the cloudless and bright autumn morning, I remember thinking This is the most beautiful morning we have ever seen.

    An hour later I was working on a book proposal that was about to get rejected anyway when my mom called, "Oh, okay, you're there." I turned on the TV set to watch helplessly like everyone else.
     
    After the second collapse I didn't know what to do. The idea of sitting in front of gruesome footage and eyewitness reports playing over and over like some interminable Super Bowl of catastrophe was nauseating. My phone didn't go out for a few hours, so I called my parents and then a couple of friends -- one of them who lived in Park Slope told me excitedly she was up on her roof taking pictures, like it was Matt Damon walking down the street, or the Grand Canyon.
     
    I was going through some personal turmoil -- the downturn was hurting me and my father's Alzheimers' was worsening. (A week later, when I met with him and some of his friends at his West Village apartment, my father was practically unaware. He knew something momentous had occurred just down the street, but his awareness seemed to deny the misery of it -- he said a couple of times, "It's just fantastic," using the word the way he often did, in its more British sense of "unusual," but mostly that afternoon he seemed pleased about the whole thing, since it had apparently brought his friends and one of his sons by for a party.) I had lived alone in Brooklyn for just six months, and despite the appeal of the quasi-suburban quiet and the patchwork of crumbling urban blight and Victorian-era charm of my part of Flatbush I wasn't sure whether I was living here on the rebound, or if this was it.
     
    So I decided to get a haircut. I needed one, and it was some kind of contact anyway. I certainly wasn't going to get closer to anyone else for a few days. Maybe it didn't make much sense, but what were the alternatives? Walk ten miles into Manhattan when a million people were trying to get out? Use the last few hours of phone service to call people up and say "how awful"?
     
    And I enjoy a haircut. Preferably at a barbershop, because they're quick, cheap, and relable. And a barber won't shrink at shaving your neck or snipping a rogue eyebrow hair. I like to become a good-tipping regular, because even if it ends up costing me close to $20, it's still less than half I'd have to pay at a fancy place.
     
    I'd had a hard time finding one in my new-to-me neighborhood. A Haitian guy around the corner had a martial aspect and halfway through I'd convinced myself he was an exiled Tonton Macoute, plus he did a lousy job. Then I tried a larger shop a few blocks down from me on Flatbush Avenue, but that turned into a racially-motivated haircut: the only barber in the place, apparently with better things to do, emerged reluctantly from the back, ill-tempered at having a customer. I guess he decided I was some kind of narc -- sour-faced, ignoring my instructions, he simply started buzz-cutting me roughly as his girlfriend sat in the next chair flinging threats and trash-talk at me. Vulnerable and knowing I wasn't going to get out without paying in any case, I endured the shearing doing my best to keep my mouth shut, and walked out looking like a fresh recruit.
     
    Finally I discovered an old mustached Ukrainian guy around the corner on Avenue I in a quiet old storefront with two chairs. It was one of the humble nooks of Brooklyn I had apparently moved out here for, a peaceable tonsorial parlor, staffed by a succession of immigrants probably since forever. In fact it was not possible but almost a certainty that Irish, German, Jewish, Italian barbers had taken turns there -- into that chain-flushing toilet in the back, George Washington might have pissed. The barber -- I think his name was Ivan, sometimes he went by John -- worked alone and said little besides, "Hello, my friend," when I entered and "Thank you, my friend," when I left. His English was only adequate and he didn't seem anxious to wear it out, which suited me fine, since a little barber wisdom goes a long way with me.
     
    So at around noon on 9/11, I walked to Flatbush Junction, usually covered with a swarm of pedestrians trying to cross but now deserted -- the few of us who weren't either watching TV or were just too frightened to be outside exchanged looks of dread, complicity, or a certain superstition, at times commonly held in this predominantly black working-class neighborhood, that most of the evil we are obliged to contend with can be traced to the White House. Crossing the Junction, I looked north up Flatbush Avenue, which culminated at the horizon in a pillar of smoke.
     
    In the shop my barber was dozing in one of the chairs. All that I had gleaned from him in a few months was he was married and sometimes fished off the dock in Sheepshead Bay. Often he was content to play the radio -- sports talk or some kind of religious station broadcasting pre-recorded sermons and meandering inspirational homilies. Today, silence. As I walked in he roused himself from his chair. "Hello my friend." Dazed and mournful, I shot him a grimly acknowledging glance -- not so much because I felt moved to remark about the World Trade Center as to get it out of the way -- one of us would say how terrible a thing it was, the other would agree, and silently and inwardly we would both yield to the great inward relief of old men, the secret joy of peace and quiet.
     
    But when he failed to pick up on my dark look, and said not a word about the morning's toll, I realized he had no idea. He had probably gotten to the shop at 9:30 or so, seen no customers, and had no cause to walk to the corner of Flatbush Avenue where he could have seen the ribboning plumes. Probably had no cellphone. Very little had happened in his day -- probably nothing at all except a bus ride on a crystalline morning.
     
    Should I say something? But what? We both preferred quiet anyway. I decided, a little perversely, to enjoy this bubble of innocence. There was an uncertain moment when he switched on the radio -- maybe that would blow everything -- but it was a prepackaged sermon about thrift and parenting, I think, Clear Channel's robots complicit in my campaign to let this worn-down elderly barber enjoy another half-hour of not having to share in the calamity, the advertisements of the calamity, the discussion of the calamity, the true life stories of friends' and their childrens' lives destroyed by the calamity, the cost and the threat and the dreadful new era created by the calamity, the recriminations unspoken and not, the greed and torture and greed again unleashed by the calamity, the dent in our lives the calamity would make. I did feel a twinge of guilt -- when he did find out and realize that I had known and said nothing, would he be provoked? I paid him the $9 plus my customary $5 tip, and I'm sure the look I gave him as I left bespoke awkwardness and apology.
     
    A month later I visited him again and found him brushing off another neatly-trimmed customer. This time I couldn't help but look him straight in the eye with curious guilt. He noted my glance, and as far as I could tell found nothing to forgive me for.

  • U.S. -2 5/8s

    Submitted by raphael on Wed, 09/17/2008 - 12:09

    We golfers mark our lives by Ryder Cup matches. Our early-90s memories of The War by The Shore are bathed in autumnal tones, Mark Calcavecchia's horrifying collapse obliterated by Bernhard Langer's 6-foot miss. Dave Stockton wading in the ocean dazed and happy, looking like a tipsy beachcomber who just stubbed his toe on a treasure chest sticking out of the sand.

     
    Eight years later, one of American golf's best moments, Justin Leonard's incredible 45-foot putt, was followed by one of its worst, the invasion of the green by U.S. players and wives in a melee of bad apparel and sportsmanship.
     
    If you care, watching the Ryder Cup makes you feel like you have an edge over sports fans who don't. It's like watching history, a front-row seat at the parting of the Red Sea.
     
    Most everyone is relieved Tiger won't be there, even people who won't admit it, mostly because he just hasn't been very good in the Ryder Cup. Most American golf fans forgive Tiger, however begrudgingly.  He considers it his job to pound American golfers, not to help them feel more patriotic. So you are forgiven if you've suspected that as far as the endeavor of putting the fear of God into Phil Mickelson and friends is concerned, Tiger considers the Europeans friendly rivals.
     
    Very likely the situation wasn't that different for Jack Nicklaus, who, astonishingly, on the subject of Ryder Cups has always betrayed a certain um, softness. Astonishing -- and to me, refreshing. Once again: since the Europeans joined the Brits, the mental process for their side has been about a bunch of guys from different countries coming together -- which has proven out to be stronger for team morale than one nation in a defensive posture.
     
    Which brings us to the PGA, which hovers over the Ryder Cup like a goose over a golden egg, dressing it up, promoting it, shining it, sitting on it. Over the years the corporate end of the PGA (which also represents perhaps the most valuable, humble, underappreciated and frequently underpaid people in golf, teaching professionals) has helped ratchet up the pressure on American golfers in a way that certainly hasn't helped us win.
     
    And while you don't hear the players complaining out loud, it's hard to imagine that they see the machinery of pomp and privilege surrounding the matches as anything but a failing distraction. In the current Golf World Nick Seitz quotes Johnny Pott quoting Ben Hogan, not exactly a hippie malcontent, on the PGA's uniforms:
     
    ...the subject was team attire. "He said, 'They've given us all these fancy clothes. I was never comfortable wearing someone else's clothes. Mr. Sanders, if you want to dress like a peacock, that's fine with me. I just don't want my name on that trophy as losing captain.'"
     
    It's a far cry from the cheer-led, fashion-frenzied world of the Ryder Cup of the 21st century.
     
    Then there's the PGA's aversion to boat-rockers. I could argue that the PGA leadership's narrowminded, reactionary mindset has disposed them towards choosing Ryder Cup captains who display more loyalty of a certifiably red-state variety than certifiable leadership ability, and that they're is a prime example of managing to be your own worst enemy. But that might be perceived as unpatriotic.
     
    Having nattered my negativism, let me say that Paul Azinger could be the best captain we've ever had. It would be hard for me to imagine almost any athlete with political opinions more diametrically opposed to mine -- and yet he's always commanded more respect from me (and from other golf writers) than any golfer I can think of. Though he is serious but good-humored, and a keen listener and eloquent debater, what suits him best for this role is sheer caginess. He is a natural leader, and someone who should be encouraged to trust his instincts -- just the kind of poker player for whom an impulsive gamble will wind up looking like it was a sure thing all along.
     
    In the blue corner, we have Nick Faldo, who has commanded as much dislike as respect from his colleagues. Faldo is a keen psychologist who used a contemptuous attitude to superb advantage as a player. It seemed like announcing had softened him, but the captaincy has reawakened his pricklier side, and it will be interesting to see whether his arrogance will bring out the best in his squad.
     
    Captaining the Ryder Cup is a strange job, requiring good eyes and ears and a gentle but firm touch. He dwells in the margin between irrelevance and inspiration: his ego must cater to circumstance, yet the hunch must be followed implacably, and uncertainty is the only certain thing.
     
    It should be fun to watch.

  • Guaranteed to have the time of your life

    Submitted by raphael on Mon, 04/14/2008 - 14:00

    I was eager to go to Opening Day at Shea last week was to see the Citi Field construction. Checking out the blogs during the winter was tantalizing -- at first it was hard to tell from the photographs exactly what was missing. Until I saw references to a demolished "Passarelle Extension." Only one thing could have such an idiotic name: that big cylinder with the spiral staircases beneath the ramp from the Willets Point subway station. If you ever took the 7 train to a Mets game you'll remember feeling trapped in this cage -- like a figure in a little model in Robert Moses' office, circa 1960, or like a rat in a maze.

    The Passarelle Extension embodied the pleasure and the pain of Shea. The walk down the ramp from the subway gave you the thrilling view of the bright green outfield grass -- before they rebuilt the station, and the massive scoreboard, you could actually stand there and watch the game, or most of the left side of it. 
     
    At the end of the station ramp, you followed the circular staircase down the cage to the exit turnstile like a marble rolling down a plane and spinning through a funnel. The Passarelle Extension spit you out, dizzy and late in almost the worst possible spot: foul territory outside right field, about half a mile from home plate. From there, unless your seats were above the Mets' bullpen, getting to your section required a obstacle run around the park through concrete security barriers, decorative obelisks, scalpers, and fellow fans milling excitedly in an orange-and-blue hajj. You had a good chance of running into someone you recognized, or knew from the ballpark -- a scalper, a beer vendor, that deranged-looking elderly woman dressed in orange and blue and carrying matching Met bags. Or witty exchanges between Ranger fans and Islander fans.
     
    After the game -- trapped again! No matter how cleverly you navigated the ramps to get closer to Gate E, there was no place to go thanks to a brick wing sticking out of the south end of the ballpark built sometime during the Giuliani administration, whose sole seeming purpose was to pinch the foot traffic -- between the edge of the ballpark and traffic headed out to the Grand Central Parkway through which you and the rest of the rabble need to squeeze through -- through a gap about ten feet wide. Slowly fleeing a loss -- say, yet another of the most horrific end-of-season collapses in New York baseball history -- inching through the Passarelle Extension in a close-quarters conga line made for an agonizingly uncomfortable Metsugee evacuation.
     
    Shea is a scrapbook of patchwork fixes. After it started to decline in the seventies, forcing Leon Hess to move the Jets to Jersey, each year's opening day brought some new bandage or botox injection. It still looks naked to those of us who remember the cheerful orange and blue sheet-metal squares fastened to the exterior structural cables. They seemed to float magically, like pop-art confetti celebrating the return of National League baseball, in contrast to the somber cornice decorating Yankee Stadium. Those panels got taken down somewhere around the time the Serval Zipper sign got replaced -- or was it during the Mazzilli Restoration Era? -- probably because rust and wind threatened to rain them down for real.
     
    Even the signature Mets blue has changed over nearly half a century. Caps and helmets were originally a shade of sky blue, but somewhere around when the neon outlines of a pitcher and a batter went up on Shea's eastern facade, the park was painted a vibrant cobalt, and hats and jerseys soon followed. Some of the defects found novel ways to endear: as distracting as the jet noise was, when you're the one in the plane flying over Queens, Shea is unmistakeable, looking like a giant birthday cake decorated with garish blue icing, a big greedy slice cut out of it.
     
    Crumbling concrete, out-of service escalators, and flooded bathrooms were the reality. But the dream of the Mets sparked Shea to life and made it loveable. For us Met fans, winning for was never anything like a birthright -- given the departure of the Dodgers and Giants, the Mets were lucky to be alive. Shea was the cheap development house where we got to enjoy our toddler crawling and making a mess.
     
    Part of what's hard about giving up the old park and all the things we loved to hate about it is giving up the idea of the Mets being a brand-new expansion club and perpetual, lovable underdog. It's a plotline that's gotten old -- not especially useful for a frontrunner, judging from what happened last September. Taking a long walk around the new park on the way back to the subway was a great way to get rid of the taste of the Mets' disappointing loss. Standing by the western edge of Citi, you could glimpse what looks like a monumental but intimate interior, lying in wait for the memories.
     
    And by the way, a big part of Shea's old ratty feeling is already gone -- the Passarelle Extension has been replaced by a nice, wide set of staircases a few hundred yards from what will be the rotunda entrance to Citi Field.
     
    Let's go Mets! -- out of our old house with our heads held high.
     

  • Flattery by Imitation

    Submitted by raphael on Sun, 07/01/2007 - 12:55

     

    Knowing your history is no substitute for inspiration -- many studied architects have created many a studied golf course -- but when knowledge of the great golf courses of the past inspires a great architect, a Ross, a Tillinghast, or a Dye, great things can happen.
     
    Architects Golf Club in Lopatcong grew out of the shared passion of designer Stephen Kay and writer Ron Whitten for the old boys, the wise old men of golf. Starting with Old Tom Morris on hole #1, and proceeding chronologically to the mid-20th century, Architects honors 18 or so designers (Donald Ross gets two holes, Alison & Colt count as one, and C.B. MacDonald, naturally, bullies a footnote out of Seth Raynor). You can just imagine Whitten and Kay comparing notes, debating, one-upping each other during the design phase.
     
    The problem with tribute courses is you mostly notice how inferior the copy is -- as Whitten says, "every replica of the 13th at Augusta is dead flat, and you go there and you realize it's a big banked turn, and it's really totally different." It's kind of like going to a tribute band show -- you'd like to find a way to appreciate the effort without actually having to be there. The genius of Architects is that, by creating new conceptions of par just as the masters would have, it pays tribute to their vision and style, not just the same hallowed holes.
     
    View of #3 from the fairway
     
    Kay got the idea in the early 1980s. "My mother worked for I.M. Pei as an executive secretary, and I remember her telling me about a retrospective exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art about twentieth-century architecture, featuring Frank Lloyd Wright, Philip Johnson, all the big names. And I remember thinking, 'If you were going to have an exhibit of golf architects, showing pictures isn't going to be enough, because a picture isn't going to give you the idea of how a golf course plays and feels.
     
    "And I thought what would be neat would be to build a golf course where you do the style of all these architects, and you did it in chronological order and the golf course was the museum. Because in golf, you really need to play it."
     
    Kay contacted dean of the dirt Ron Whitten, and together they worked out a deal with developer Ron Turco. Kay was onsite once or twice a week, while Whitten made monthly visits.
    The Walter Travis hole
     
    Whitten clearly enjoyed the challenge of getting inside the head of his heroes. "The easier bunkers are the Raynor/MacDonald ones, the more geometric ones.
     
    "Tillinghast was tough, because every course is different. And so we said, 'Let's throw it all in" -- and so [the 7th hole is] a hodgepodge -- we've got what we call a Bethpage bunker, a Winged Foot bunker, some Shawnee bunkers, and some Dolomite mounds whatever those are.
     
    He takes pride in Architects. "Stephen and I wanted to do something different -- it's hard in golf, to come up with something that's truly original. And we were proud of the idea, and I think the finished product worked out pretty good."
     
    There is something altogether spooky and vain about the profession of golf architect: you come and change the landscape, leaving it to posterity as a sort of living testament to your godditude, "by the hand of Muirhead." By successfully mimicking Travis, Tillinghast, Ross and company, Kay and Whitten have created a little metaphysical miracle which manages to conjure the spirits of these extraordinary characters. The Mackenzie 12th isn't just a wry little parody of an Augusta National hole, it almost seems to convey a sensibility that could only be described as boozy obsessiveness.
     
    For Whitten, Architects fulfilled a dream. "I wanted to be an architect in the worst way, back when I was a kid. And to the extent that now that I'm in my fifties, I get to live out my dream, it's very exciting. But I'm not going to quit my day job, this isn't the kind of economy where you want to go out and hang up a shingle." To avoid the appearance of conflict of interest, no course he works on is eligible for consideration for Golf Digest honors, which he says has cost him projects. Not that it bothers him. "I'm not interested in building a hundred courses. I'm interested in building ten courses in my life that are very distinctive, that maybe broke some ground."

     

  • Golf & Jews, I

    Submitted by raphael on Wed, 06/27/2007 - 00:00

    I've come across some fascinating documents while researching New York City's golf courses for a Met Golfer story. This paragraph from an 1899 survey of Met-area golf courses in an upper-crust magazine called Outing titled "Golf in Gotham" manages to describe the Century Club in tones that effectively praise with faint damnation. On first reading I was healthily offended, but looking at it again, there is almost a sense of enlightenment amid the patronizing generalizations. Certainly odd, if not remarkable.

    The nearest neighbor to the Country Club of Westchester is a new organization, 'The Century Club.' It is well supported, it has an excellent club-house, and excellent links running down to the Sound, but that is not its peculiarity. Its distinction amongst the clubs of the metropolis is that it is the one club of Hebrews devoted to outdoor sport. The Jews in all nations and times have produced, and never more so than to-day, more than their share of leaders in art, in drama, in literature, and in law, in fact, in all those walks of life in which intellectual acumen and close application to books, and to the study of mankind, is the main force; but they have hitherto, as a people, shown little apititude for, or application to, the sports of the field and of sustained interest in outdoor recreation. The members of the Century Club have somewhat broken away from tradition and recognize the value of the adage that though 'all work and no play' does not always make a dull boy, at any rate the more settled conditions resulting from their civic and religious freedom in America demand, as a corrective, more attention to the corporal upbuilding which comes from systematic outdoor exercise and relaxation.

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