I Have Yet Another Story and A Moral Therof

The PGA Tour Championship from Pointe Vedra, FL started normally yesterday.  By mid-round, it was announced that today’s round and the next few week’s rounds on tour would be played sans fans.  By end of the round, the PGA announced that the tour was stopping the event and the next three events on the schedule.

Four years ago next month the third round of The Insperity Open, a senior tour event that passes right by the backyard of BBR’s World Headquarters, was almost played sans one fan.  That fan would be this writer.

A bright sunny Saturday was the perfect opportunity to mingle with friends and family quite near the seventh green.   Quiet for the players turned into more than a stir as six carts, two of them bright, shiny red ones, made their way from hole #8 past the green at #7 and continued down the fairway in the opposite direction of the norm.

And, there they were!  In one of the red carts were the former FLOTUS, Mrs. Barbara Bush, and her driver.  In the other were the former POTUS, George Herbert Walker Bush, and his driver.  They were on a unique meet and greet the pro players mission.  In the other four were a cadre of men, some riding fireman style on back, all wearing dark sunglasses.  Hmm.  Secret Service?

I was on a mission as well.  It’s but a 200-yard walk from there back to the “office.”  Mother Nature called and so did another cold beer (Corona? Nah! Too soon?). As I walked that way the six-pack of carts pulled to the side deep into the rough as tee shots were “fixin to fly.”  Unless you are a resident, it’s a dead side of the course-it has no path to the next or previous hole.

Their rest stop wasn’t but a mere 15 feet from my back gate.  And quite suddenly, there we were. It was a bunch of former and current government workers and me.  The Bush’s were seated in their carts and about six of my new sunglass-wearing best friends were rapidly approaching me.  “Put your hands up!”  And I did, quickly.  “I mean no harm, I live right there, and am just trying to get into my gate.”

A VERY long two seconds passed.  “Ok, go ahead.”  Relieved and a bit emboldened I inquired, “Could I please shake (today we would have to elbow bump, social distancing being what it is.) President Bush’s hand?”    “No!”  That was all.  It was a flat out  “No!”

Hmm.  I decided to wave instead.  Only George’s smile was wider than Barbara’s.  I also decided that entering the gate was now past due.  And, I figured an invite inside for a round of cold ones was out of the question.

By the time I got back outside they were down the fairway shaking hands with the pros.  Hmm.

The moral of the story, you ask?  I guess it’s who you know, or who the Secret Service says you get to know.

Still, it was great to inadvertently get that close to them, and even better that I remained a free man.

 

 

 

I Have Yet Another Story and a Moral Thereof

BBR’s staff is taking a trip down memory lane in the mid south of the U.S.  Last night we decided to rest our dogs in the downtown Marriott Little Rock Hotel (formerly well known as The Excelsior Hotel).  The Excelsior is infamous as it was the hotel where Paula Jones claims then Arkansas Governor William Jefferson Clinton forced himself on her on May 8th, 1991.

But nearly six years prior on November 18, 1985, in the same hotel, another event lead to an infamous moment or three all be it on a smaller scale.  This writer was checking in on that Monday evening on business.  Earlier on the way to the NOLA airport, on 50,000 watt WWL 870 a local sports radio host spoke, as he did every football season Monday, with Las Vegas football betting guru Tony Salinas.  Tony’s Monday call in reviewed his picks from the week prior.   Late in the ’85 college season he was 25 of 33 against the spread on his announced on the show picks.  At 50k watts the channel had a big, multi state following.  It only grew larger as his picks hit and hit and hit.

As I entered the airport Salinas signed off and would be back for his usual Thursday spot to make his three weekly picks.  After a flight and a connector flight and a rental car I was checking in at the empty front desk of the hotel.  It was empty until a guy put his gaudy metallic silver briefcase on the counter down a ways from me and announced that he was checking in.  “Your name sir?”  “Salinas.”  “Tony Salinas.”  I swung my head to the left.  With a Dallas Cowboys Starter jacket, a metallic briefcase, and a watch bigger than his wrist stood Tony Salinas.

I had to, I just did.  So I did.  I introduced myself and explained how I knew him and had just listened to him a few hours earlier.  He laughed and said that we should meet for a drink and watch the second half of the Monday Night Football game as he had another radio gig till then.  “Sure.”

The Washington Redskins were playing the New York Football Giants.  I explained to Tony how big a fan many of my friends, biz associates, family members and other gambling degenerates were and that hung on his every word of gambling advice.  “Theismann, back to pass….”  SNAP.   Lawrence Taylor broke Theismann’s leg like a match stick effectively ending his career.  Wow.  “I took the Giants on the halftime line,” he boasted as Theismann was carted off.  Wow.

“Tony, before I go, can I get the best of you best picks this week?”  “Walt, not only will Pittsburgh cover the seven, they are going to beat no. 1 rated Penn St. straight up.”  Wow.   I couldn’t wait to share this scoop with one and all.  Tony actually shared the story of us meeting in Little Rock on air as he made his picks on Thursday to the “common people,” not “insiders” like me.  I was riding high on what is called today “street cred.”

In fact this was so big that a Saturday night party was in order to watch the game and celebrate our winnings.  Come one, come all.   Bets for big dollars (back then) were placed with great confidence by one, by all.  The anticipation of big winnings, laughter, and the smell Salem Lights and Jack Daniels filled the house.

Penn St. blocked a punt and returned it for a touchdown late in the first half to go up 21-0.  “Don’t worry, Pitt will come back.”  At least thrown popcorn and peanuts don’t hurt much.  Ten more points in the second half  added to the drubbing that the Nittany Lions put on the Panthers.  The final was 31-0.  I considered entering the witness protection program if only it could be offered to me.  My fifteen minutes of fame was long gone as was my street cred.

Oh.  What’s the moral of the story?  There is no sure bet, so don’t.   And, if you do, pay off your gambling debts so that no one snaps your leg in two like Taylor did to Theismann.

 

 

 

I Have Yet Another Story and a Moral Thereof

Over the course of a business life that involved flying to US destinations almost weekly the greatest words that you can hear are “the flight’s on time.”  However packing, parking, walking, TSA, waiting, boarding, taxiing, runway, cruising altitude,  leveling off, seatbelt sign is on, small bathrooms, landing, rental cars, checking in, and unpacking wears on oneself.  That said, any and all of that is better than the dreaded words, “we are delayed due to mechanical reasons.”

It was one nondescript Tuesday morning many, many moons ago, when we were boarding for Milwaukee when the dreaded announcement came.  It was time for an undetermined amount of time to deplane.   Off to the United Flight Club room I went.   George Bush Intercontinental Airport was and is dominated by United Airlines.  And, like all major airlines that fly to and from hubs, either there are plenty of folks in the AM to fly, or if all of the flights have gone there are few.   Therefore,  the club is either packed or empty.

The terminal B club was empty.  A diet coke and a toasted bagel in hand I headed to one of the many living room/smaller areas to settle in for the wait.  As I entered I paid no attention to the only folks in the area, a couple seated one couch over from me.  As I got out the trusty laptop and booted up I looked over.  This was no couple, and the club was empty-almost.  Empty it was, except for one world famous golfer, his assistant, and now me.  There I sat ten feet from Gary Player.  Gary Player.

I decided then and there to get on AL Gore’s internet to refresh my understanding of just how big of a world renown athlete that he is.  Gary Player won tournaments the world over.  He won the Grand Slam (all four of the Majors).  He won nine majors in all.   He designed and help create over 400 golf courses the world over.  He authored or coauthored 24 books.  His foundation has helped thousands of children.  Hailing from South Africa, it is estimated that he has flown over 16 million miles.

Suddenly I felt very small.  I’ll keep to myself and answer some emails, or so I thought.

“What brings you to Houston?”  Yep.  He initiated the conversation.  I looked up.  I stammered.   “I, I, live here.”  “Oh, then why are you in here?”  “Flight delay headed out to Milwaukee.”  “I see.”  “Where in Houston do you live?”  “Um, The Woodlands.”  “Great place, I’ve done some work with them.”  “Ah yes, your golf course that you built, the one with your name on it.”  He laughed deeply.   And it was on.

And on our conversation went for a good 45 minutes off and on, but mostly on.  He excused himself as his assistant reminded him that he had a radio show interview to give.  His answers were articulate, direct, and well thought out.   Mesmerizing.

Boom Boom always told me that “everyone puts their pants on one leg at a time.”  The Black Knight, aka Gary Player, could have been the exception.  Small in stature, he is indeed much larger than life.

As the interview ended he picked right back up with me.   Sorry I took so long.”  ” No worries of course.”  “Family?”  “Yes, two kids.”  And on it went as if we were old buddies catching up.

After about an hour the desk announced that the delayed flight to Milwaukee was ready to board.  Mr. Player heard this as well.  He leaped out of his seat.  “Nice to meet you,” he said first to me.  Shouldn’t it have been the other way around?  Mesmerizing.  World class.

Oh yea, so what is the moral of the story?

Maybe Boom Boom was right.  Everyone does put their pants on one leg at a time.  At least the humble, great one, Gary Player does.  Mesmerizing.

 

 

 

I Have Yet Another Story and a Moral Thereof

Michael Phelps was the third ever American athlete to capture gold in four consecutive Summer Olympics in the same event.  Carl Lewis became only the second American to do so from 1984 through 1996. He won nine golds in all, but four consecutively came from the long jump.  But do you know who the first American was to win and in what event in four consecutive games?  If you just said Alfred “Al” Oerter, Jr. and the discus throw, without googling it, go directly to the medal stand to collect yours.

Al Oerter began his Olympic career in the 1956 Summer Olympics in Melbourne.  As a not well-known underdog he threw a then career best 185 feet in the discus competition.  In 1960 Oerter set an Olympic record of 194 feet for his second gold.  In 1964, hampered by neck and rib injuries he skipped his last throw due to the pain but tossed his second one nearly 200 feet, good for gold number three.  In 1968, as a 32-year-old big underdog, Oerter came from well behind with a third and final hurl of 212 feet for his fourth and final gold.

His discus career had an almost mythical beginning.  While running on his high school track (Oerter began his track and field career as a miler), an errant discus, which weighs four and-a-half pounds, nearly hit him and fell nearby.  He tossed it back further than from where it came.  He immediately was asked by his coach to switch events.

After the ’68 games he retired to pursue life in the business world.  That world was not suited for him (especially the suit part) and by 1976 eyed a comeback in the sport he so loved.  He tried out for the 1980 Olympic team and threw a personal best 228 feet, but failed to qualify finishing fourth.  Amazingly, he was a young 43 years old then.

He also was suffering from high blood pressure that plagued him throughout his rewarding life.

Almost getting hit by the discus and suffering from high blood pressure were not known to this writer in 2003 when Al addressed a several hundred strong contingent of eager listeners, and told his remarkable story at our sales meeting.  His tale was riveting.  His passion pure.  His intensity extreme.  What was known was that a few social beverages consumed by a not to be named coworker and I prior to the speech made us thirsty for more as soon as another presenter stopped droning on post Al’s address.  Sitting by the back door of the amphitheater we bolted for the post meeting poolside party bar.  Beverages secured, we saw Al ready to mingle with the masses.

“Let’s go talk to him.”  “Sure, what to say?”  “Come on, we’ll think of something.”   Al was sweating profusely in the night air.  Blood pressure was the culprit, I suppose, now that I know.  After a quick bit of small talk (and a bit more of our refreshments) about how great the speech was and how proud he must be, I decided I had to ask.  “Al, you’ve seen the video of that guy running track that accidentally gets skewered by the javelin throw?”  “Huh?”  “You know, like the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat?”  He nodded affirmatively in silence, but with a furrowed brow.

“Well,” I went on.  “Well I was just wondering if you ever hit anyone about the cranium with the discus when you were practicing.”  “Are you serious?” He asked with some anger.  “Um, yes.”  “I traveled all the way to this meeting for you to ask me that?”  He seemed to not like my question much at all.  “Um, yes.”  “NO!”

With that Al turned faster than the whirl of a good discus throw and was off to talk to some other folks that might hold his interest and slow his escalating heartbeat.  Who knew?  Not I.  Well, it was time to head to the bar for another.  Maybe you “had to be there,” but at the time it was funny as hell.

Al died four years later in 2007, at a too young 71, of cardiovascular disease.  He refused a suggested heart transplant telling doctors that he “was going out with what he came here with.”

Oh.  What’s the moral of the story?  It probably is important to know your audience before you address them.

He did.  I did not.

 

 

 

What’s Important Now?

Al Davis, the unconventional owner and GM of the Oakland Raiders from its first days in the Sixties, until his last days in the New Millenium, coined the phrase “Just Win, Baby!”  And his Raiders won and won.  Two Super Bowl wins and two more appearances with several coaches and ever-changing personnel in an ever-changing league bears that out.

Of course his baby son, Mark Davis, now principal owner and GM of his dad’s beloved Raiders might be the biggest winner in Raider Nation.  His dad turned a 50k investment in a fledgling upstart American Football League into an icon valued at well over 1.5 billion dollars.   That’s billion with a “b” if your 2.0x readers are around here somewhere.

Nick Saban, the six-time NCAA championship winner, and arguably(is it even really arguable?) the greatest coach in college football history, coined the phrase “focus on the process and the results will take care of themselves.”  His focus is such that his overall w/l record is 233-63-1.  His Bama record is 141-21 with six of the losses coming in year one as he quickly rebuilt the Crimson Tide.  His coaching tree is now a coaching forest and sprouting new saplings yearly.

Tyrone Willingham, the one time head coach of Stanford, then Notre Dame, and finally Washington, coined the acronym “WIN”.  He has gone on to explain that it stands for  “What’s Important Now?”  Of the three men, Davis, Saban, and Willingham, Tyrone has by far the most modest accomplishments.  He lost more games at the helm 88, than he won, 76.  Though, we point out that coaching at three fine universities is in and of itself success.

Why might we refer to Willingham, who stands in the shadow of these two unrelated but both hugely successful men, in the same post as them?  It’s because we feel like WIN-What’s Important Now is a clean, clear, and simple to use “words to live by.”  And live by them we try daily.

This writer was fortunate to hear the impressive Willingham speak well over a decade ago.  Meticulous in his dress, he meticulously outlined what WIN meant to him.  In short after he establishes a goal or goals for himself he asks what it takes to accomplish them.  From there he writes them down. Then he organizes them from which are the most important down to the least.  And, he revisits the list daily, resorting after either accomplishing some or evaluating others, in the ever-changing world that we live in.

Note, this list isn’t what is urgent in others minds.  Failure to plan on your part does not create an emergency (urgency) on mine.  Separating what is perceived as urgent from wha tis important seems critical.  Heck it sounds one heck of a lot like “focus on the process.”

Does this sound rather simple? In theory we think it is.  In application it requires dedication and passion.  Oh, and most of all it requires the “how.”  Once the “when” to do and “what” to do, are organized the “how” separates us.  The “how,” is Saban’s process.

Getting things done through others can be tough.  But if you don’t know what’s important now then they won’t either.  If they don’t, the agenda has no direction and the urgent replaces the process.

Willingham may not have been the most successful, but for us one evening, and to this day, he was the most inspirational.

Who doesn’t want to win?

WIN-What’s Important Now?

 

I Have Yet Another Story and Two Morals Thereof

Riding high off of the 2003 BCS National Championship, LSU football ended 2004 on a down note.  Nick Saban announced that he was taking his talents to the NFL.  He left behind an energized fan base, a stable of future NFL players, and a small (due to the 85 man total limit) but promising 2005 recruiting class.

Holliday enjoyed a 6 year, 6 team NFL career. He holds many Denver Broncos special teams records.

Enter Leslie Miles.  He quickly made the appropriate rounds and said the appropriate things to the recruits who were soon to sign and to their families as well.  Only one scholarship remained to be awarded.  After some deep thinking (just pretend) by Miles he offered an 11th hour scholarship to a spark plug named Trindon Holliday.  He stood all of 5 foot 5 inches tall and weighed about 155 lbs.  Oh, and Trindon could run.   In his 2005 senior high school year Holliday posted the nation’s fastest indoor time in the 55 and 60-meter dashes. He led his team to the state title by winning the 100 meters and 200 meters and was second in the long jump. Holliday was a four-time state champion in the 200 meters and a three-time 100 meters champion.   In fact, Trindon made the 2007 World Championships and had realistic hopes to make the 2008 USA Olympic team.

In other words Trindon and my best friend in the world Joseph Roy Miller, Jr. have absolutely nothing in common.  Nothing.   Big Joe stood 6 foot 4 inches and tipped the scales a biscuit shy of roughly 260 lbs. in early 2005.

Joey and I decided that a trip to Baton Rouge to join about 7500 other fervent LSU football fans for the early February, day long recruiting bash was just what we needed for some food, football, fun, and a wee bit of Makers Mark.

Not long after our arrival we hit it off with the then president and editor of my favorite recruiting website.  As the afternoon rolled on our insatiable thirst for Makers was quenched again and again.

The stage was set (literally) for the 5pm appearance by the Fighting Tigers Marching Band, the AD, and finally the new head coach who would give the football hungry crowd the low down on the newest sensations signed that morning.  Three foot wide placards with the signed recruits name, high school, height, and weight hung to one side of the otherwise empty stage.

I sensed that the crowd had grown restless and should be entertained.   I wondered aloud with the webite prez if he could get the three of us brief access to the stage.  He liked the dumb idea almost as much as I did.  He asked and we somehow were granted a brief opening.  Once we walked onto the stage the crowd (also enjoying a few adult beverages) noise diminished an octave or two.   Quickly, I grabbed Trindon’s placard for the photo opp.  I placed it in Joey’s hands and asked him to hold it out right in front of him.   “Ladies (a few) and gents(term used loosely) meet Trindon Holliday,” I said.  And then I said it again, only louder.  There was no way that this was happening.  Surely they knew that Joey was no Trindon.  One clap from the crowd turned to many which turned into darn near a standing ovation for the (not so) young lad.

Unfortunately the photos from that day are lost much like the recruiting geeks were for clapping.

What’s the moral of the story?  There are two.  One, people who tell you that they know all about their favorite team’s recruits, don’t.  And two, have lots of fun.  Life is short, like Trindon, not like Big Joe.