Joe Moylan

Reflections of the BMW Championship - One Year Later

Joe — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 23:37:00 GMT

Why the beginning of Tigers remarkable collapse can be traced back to the 2009 BMW Championship

Few things excite me more than when the PGA rolls through my hometown for the third leg of the FedEx Cup playoffs at Cog Hill Golf and County Club in Lemont, Ill. I was fortunate enough to be there in-person a year ago as a sports columnist for the Bugle News and watching it on T.V. now conjures up memories about the amazing sites and sounds of last year’s BMW Championship; particularly in regards to one embattled golfer, Tiger Woods.

Woods strode confidently into the 2009 BMW Championship on the heels of wins at the Arnold Palmer Invitational, The Memorial, AT&T National, Buick Open and the WGC Bridgestone Invitational. However, Woods was not on the top of the FedEx Cup standings. His friend, Steve Stricker, stole the top spot just days earlier with his victory at the Deutsche Bank Championship.

Woods had his eyes set on reclaiming the top spot and was the heavy favorite going into the opening round - he had already won at Cog Hill four times in his career. But 2009 was supposed to be different. Cog Hill Number Four – Dubsdread – had just undergone a massive overhaul that took famed golf course architect Rees Jones two years and $5.2 million to complete. Frank Jemsek, owner of Cog Hill Golf and Country Club, promised that the new Dubs would be bigger, badder and burlier than ever before.

Woods posted solid scores of -3 (68) during Thursday’s opening round and -4 (67) on Friday, September 11 giving him a share of the lead with local favorite Mark Wilson and earning him a spot in the final pairing for Saturday’s third round. What happened next was nothing short of magnificent.

Woods opened up his third round with a bogey on the opening hole. He then posted birdies on 10 out of the next 17 en route to a round of -9 (62) and a new course record. This unbelievable achievement was only mildly overshadowed by another major Chicago sports story; the induction of Michael Jeffrey Jordan into basketball’s Hall of Fame.

I remember sitting in the media tent on Saturday afternoon listening to Tiger Woods interact with the other reporters. One of them, whose name and affiliation escapes me, asked Tiger if he had spoken to Jordan in light of both of their incredible achievements.

Tiger responded that he hadn’t yet and then continued to comment about their friendship, concluding with; “the two of us are good friends. In fact, I’ve always looked up to him like an older brother.”

The sound of those words stung my eardrums and made me wince in pain.

I am a native of Chicago and have not only been a life-long Bulls fan, but also a die-hard fanatic of Michael Jordan. Well, more accurately, Michael Jordan the professional basketball player. As a childhood fan, there was no one I wanted to emulate more on the basketball floor. Yet, as high as I, my friends and the rest of the world regard Jordan for his achievements in the NBA, I was always skeptical about Michael Jordan…the man.

Even as a child I remember hearing rumors that labeled Jordan as arrogant, tedious, childish and cruel; or worse, a womanizer and a cheat.

After commenting publicly that Woods considered Michael Jordan to be like an older brother, I knew that an eventual downfall was almost a certainty. I did not expect Woods to prove me right just two months after his last professional win.

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Monday, September 14, 2009 - The Aftermath

Joe — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 19:08:00 GMT

Just a week ago, I embarked upon a rare journey into the heart of Chicago Golf. Now, less than 24 hours after Tiger Woods’ dominant -19 victory at the BMW Championship and 48 hours since his record breaking 62 on a course that promised to be bigger, burlier and tougher than the Dubsdread I grew up on, I can’t help but feel sorry for the Jemseks and Chicago golfers everywhere.

Chicago always has been and always will be a working-class, blue collar town; no matter how flashy and out-spoken the elitist minority may become. The people who grace this city’s fairways do so almost exclusively on the weekends and fork over their hard-earned dough every time they get the itch to tee it up. When you speak to these weekend warriors, the stories they tell you rarely begin or end at places like Medinah, Olympia Fields, Bob O’Link or Butler National. More often than not however, their stories do take place at Cog.

It is as much our dream to host a U.S. Open as it is the Jemsek’s and I fear that Tiger’s masterpiece on Saturday has crushed our spirits. It’s not our fault. You have to be wired a certain way and a student of history to be a sports fan in a town that is home to the 1908 World Series champion Cubs, 1969 Stanley Cup champion Blackhawks and 1985 Super Bowl Bears. Bringing a U.S. Open to Chicago and hosting it on a public course like Cog Hill would rank right up there as a crowning achievement in sport, but right now it is not to be and we slink away from this weekend with the same painful aphorism tattooed to our minds; wait till next year.

But to my golfing brothers and sisters and displaced Chicagoans all over the country and all over the world, I say don’t give up. Renovated courses, as with brand new ones, need time to mature before its full potential can be realized. Even Tiger Woods is aware of this fact and remarked during the tournament that the greens were “probably a year or two from settling” and rolling the way Rees Jones intends. Zach Johnson echoed similar sentiments when he was asked if Cog could be tougher and host a national championship saying that the rough could be higher, the fairways tighter and the pins placed in more difficult spots.

Yes, the dream is dead…for now, but I believe that good things still linger off on the horizon and soon the day will come that our national championship is played at Dubsdread -the people’s course.

The End

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Sunday, September 13, 2009 - Final Round

Joe — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 18:58:00 GMT

When I went to bed on Saturday night, Tiger Woods had a net score of 197 (-16) and led by seven strokes after three rounds at the BMW. Barring a heart attack, an unexpected volcano eruption (fyi-Chicago doesn’t have any volcanoes) or an alien invasion, it was obvious that Woods would be hoisting the BMW Championship Trophy by Sunday afternoon. As such, I didn’t wake up until the crack of noon and arrived at the course shortly after the final pairing had already teed off.

I stopped in the media center first to fuel up on Pepsi, Klondike Bars and fried chicken. I took my time because there was no reason to rush. The tournament was already over; there was no excitement in the atmosphere outside and nothing vaguely interesting to look forward to.

As expected, Tiger Woods cruised through his round without incident to claim the BMW Championship. It was his fifth title at Cog Hill, his 71^st career victory - two behind the great Jack Nicklaus - and the win earned him the top spot in the FedEx Cup rankings going into the Tour Championship at East Lake Golf Club in Atlanta.

To be continued...

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Saturday, September 12, 2009 - Round 3

Joe — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 17:56:00 GMT

Tiger’s course record 62 squashes any hope of luring a National Championship

I woke up sometime after sunrise and made my way over to my older brother’s house on the morning of round three. My brother jumped in the car and after pleasantries were exchanged, we made the bulk of the 45 minute trip in silence. Finally, my brother spoke up.

“What’s with the flashing red light,” he asked looking at my dashboard?

“It’s a service notice,” I replied. “The passenger airbag is off and I need to get it fixed.”

“Oh,” he said.

“But don’t worry,” I mumbled. “If anything happens, I’ll be fine.”

We arrived at Cog Hill Number Four in time to catch a couple of the early pairings. We walked the course together for a few hours and then retreated to the media tent to fill up on Pepsi and Italian Beef sandwiches before heading out to the first tee to follow the final pairing of Mark Wilson and Tiger Woods.

Tiger opened his round in mortal fashion, scoring a bogey 5 on the par four first. What ensued over the next 17 holes was nothing short of a masterpiece.

Woods bounced back with birdies on holes 3, 6 and 8 before taming the 610 yard par five ninth with an eagle for a 31 at the turn.

Not even the cruel elevation changes of Dubsdread’s back nine could slow Tiger as he roared through the second half of his round with birdies on 11, 13, 14, 15 and 17; posting back-to-back 31s for a third round total of 62 and a new course record.

It was the single most thrilling and terrifying experience I had ever witnessed. It was thrilling in the sense that I was watching the greatest golfer in the world bring a tough golf course to its proverbial knees. It was also terrifying because any chance of Cog Hill hosting a U.S. Open had literally been crushed under the weight of Tiger’s course record 62. The U.S. Open selection committee never bestows the prestigious honor of hosting a national championship to a course that nearly allowed a double digit round under par, regardless of who happens to post it.

The curse of Len Ziehm, as I anticipated, had come true in the most brilliant and heart wrenching way possible. Tiger’s 62 not only squashed any short-term hopes of luring a U.S. Open to Cog Hill, but also gave him a commanding seven stroke lead going into Sunday’s fourth round; eliminating any chance of final round drama.

By the way, Mark Wilson was able to post a humble even par round of 71; neither losing nor gaining ground in the shadows of Tiger’s masterpiece. He will be nine shots off the pace when the final round commences tomorrow morning.

To be continued...

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Friday, September 11, 2009 - Round 2

Joe — Fri, 10 Sep 2010 17:26:00 GMT

Whether you are a casual golf fan or a die-hard fanatic, chances are good that you have seen a tournament on T.V. If you have, chances are better that you have heard someone off camera yell, “get in the hole!”

Although these painfully annoying screams can be heard by the audience watching from the comforts of their living rooms, the networks never give these rubes the satisfaction of putting their faces on T.V. Therefore, the identity of this particular demographic of golf fan has always been a mystery to me. By some stroke of luck, Frank Jemsek, owner of Cog Hill, was about to inadvertently point me in their direction.

I ran into Jemsek as I entered the grounds on the morning of the second round, but I didn’t know who he was at first. Jemsek is a tall man and he was thanking his patrons for coming to Cog Hill on the morning of the second round. As I made my way through the gates, I could hear Jemsek off in the distance. As I approached, I could see that the black band wrapped around his straw sun hat read Cog Hill and his name tag said Frank. I put the two together and walked over to him for a quick, impromptu interview.

“Hey Mr. Jemsek,” I said. “Joe Moylan with The Bugle. Do you have a second?”

“Sure,” he replied.

“Good, this won’t take long because I’m really only interested in one thing,” I continued. “I know that bringing a U.S. Open to Cog Hill was the primary motivation behind the Rees Jones renovation and we know from what some of the players have said this week that they think it is possible. However, there is a lot of buzz about Cog Hill hosting an event for the 2016 games if golf is accepted as an Olympic sport and Chicago wins its bid. Hypothetically speaking, if an Open does not come to Cog, would hosting an Olympic event be any consolation?”

“We’d be happy and honored to host both events,” Jemsek replied and turned away to greet more fans walking in.

“I can understand that,” I replied, regaining Mr. Jemsek’s attention. “But, I’m asking, in the event that an Open doesn’t come to Cog, would hosting the Olympics be good enough to fulfill your father’s legacy?”

“Luring a U.S. Open was the primary reason why we brought Rees in last year,” Jemsek replied. “And it continues to be our main goal. If Chicago wins its bid for the 2016 games, we would be honored to host a golf event. But, I would rather have one in the hand than two in the bush, if you know what I mean?”

“I certainly do,” I replied. “And it looks like you have done an amazing job. Where would you recommend I go to catch the best action?”

“Number 12 tee,” he replied. “There’s a hill right there that should give you a great view of the green.”

The first groups were just teeing off. Robert Allenby, Brandt Snedeker and local favorite Mark Wilson were leading the pack off of number 10. I decided to walk with them until we reached the 12^th hole and then parked myself on the hill Jemsek had told me about next to the tee box. Without paying close attention to my surroundings, I took a seat on the grass in front of a small group of guys that were more appropriately dressed for a construction site than a golf course. Wilson was up first and as soon as he completed his follow-through I heard it…GET IN THE HOLE!!!

The sound was deafening due to my close proximity and the shear volume of the man’s voice pierced my eardrums. I turned and scowled at the group, but they paid no attention. They were already deep in the bag and money was changing hands.

The 12^th hole is a degenerate gamblers dream; long, difficult and a challenge to get the ball close to the pin. This 221 yard, downhill par 3 had historically been the most difficult “short hole” on the course and was even more so now that Rees Jones had deepened the bunkers flanking each side of the green and had recontoured the putting service. The slopes in the new green were so severe that they were visible to us fans more than 663 feet away.

My new “friends” were gambling heavily, each one taking a golfer in the approaching group and betting on which one would hit his shot the closest to the pin. What embarked after each swing was a series of screams for the ball to “GET IN THE HOLE!!!” One of the gentlemen behind me lost a good string of bets in a row and eased his pain by becoming more inebriated. As the afternoon progressed, the loser added a scream of “GET IN THE BUNKER” every time one of the opposing players hit his tee shot. It was classy in every sense of the word and the rest of the fans seated in the vicinity began to grumble.

Finally, one man had had enough and approached the group. He was a big guy, much larger than any one of the gamblers, but collectively they could have beaten him to a pulp. He approached anyway and very casually informed the gentlemen behind me that he was there with his elderly mother and two children and if they could tone it down, he would appreciate it.

“If not,” the man continued. “I’d be happy to shut all of your mouths for you.”

With that, he walked away and peace and quiet had been restored.

Let that be a lesson to everyone out there. Yelling “GET IN THE HOLE” is wholly unoriginal, painfully annoying and terribly unnecessary. Save it for the privacy of your home; Chicago golf fans have had enough.

Mark Wilson left me behind at the 12^th to go on and shoot an impressive -5 (66). That coupled with his first round score of -2 (69) put him in the clubhouse with a share of the lead and earned him a spot in the final pairing for Saturday’s third round. His playing partner? Tiger Woods who shot first and second round scores of -3 (68) and -4 (67) respectively.

To be continued...

Reflections of a Guest Tester: A Legendary Wreck

Joe — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 17:30:00 GMT

As the week progressed, the eight guest testers casually fell into the ski test routine along with the pros. For three days, we were like one giant, well-oiled machine. Unfortunately, the machine had to be taken down and its parts sent to different parts of the globe. SKI had staggered our arrival time one day after the pros to give them, I imagine, at least one day of amateur-free testing. When I walked into the lodge for breakfast on our fourth and final morning, the atmosphere was not as energized as it had been the previous days.

The mood was somber, almost sad. The friends we had made were gone. In just a few short hours we would be heading back to reality as well and this wonderful experience would be nothing more than a memory. Despite the change in scenery, we pressed on. Outside waiting for us were blue skies, 11 inches of overnight fresh, and an entire category of skis just waiting to be tested.

I was the first to reach the top of Sterling Express. This was going to be my 37^th run and I was deeply entrenched in my own routine. I skied down to my usual starting spot, tightened up my boots, and secured my clothing. I stood motionless for a while listening to the unending barrage at Park City and staring longingly at the perfectly groomed lines that seemed to go on forever. I was tempted to stay there perpetually, daring anyone who approached to poach my lines.

A small group was congregating off to my right as I soaked in the sun and took in the crisp mountain air. In the middle of the pack was Wayne Wong, the freestyle skiing pioneer of the "Hot Doggin" 1970s. Until that moment, the "Wong Banger" had only existed in movies and on the pages of SKI Magazine. Suddenly the untracked corduroy didn't seem as important. I skied over to talk to him.

"What's happening Wayne?"

"I'm sorry," he replied. "I forgot your name."

I was wearing the jacket SKI Magazine provided for the tests and it was obvious that Wayne had mistaken me for a pro. Rather than go into a complicated explanation, I decided to run with it.

"No worries," I replied. "It's Joe Moylan; we met a few years back at Beaver Creek."

"Well, how you been Joe?"

"Not bad," I said. "You guys about to do a burn?"

"Just about," he replied. "I can't believe how good it is this late in the season!"

"Me neither! You mind if I join you for a couple of turns?"

He nodded his head and with that, we were off. I skied half of Birdseye with his group then decided not to tag along for too long. He seemed to be entertaining the group or in the process of starting a lesson and I didn't want to intrude. I raised my pole in appreciation as I passed and incited a similar reaction from Wayne in return.

I made my way down leaving railroad tracks in the fresh cord behind me. As I approached the final pitch, I noticed some ungroomed and untracked fluff near the tree line. It wasn't much, but it was still too enticing to pass up. As I skied in, my right plank buried and vanished out of sight. I ejected immediately, tumbling head-over-heels for roughly 300 vertical feet. I came to stop and wiped the snow from my face just in time to see the Wong Banger, laughing as he skied past.

"All-Star wreck," he yelled!

I looked back up the mountain to see both of my skis, my poles, my hat, goggles and one glove were littered all over the run. It was a yard sale in every sense of the phrase and people were raining down hoots as they rode the chair above. One lady asked if I was ok. I put my hands up and waved to show that I was. Thunderous applause followed. I pushed myself up to my feet and took a bow before making the long march back uphill to fetch my gear.

I should have been humiliated for wrecking like that in front of so many people, but the fact that the Wong Banger had taken notice filled me with a deranged sense of pride. There couldn't have been a sweeter ending to an already amazing week.

Results and Deer Valley 2010

That afternoon the eight amateurs congregated for the final time to talk about the day's category and compile our data. I think SKI brought us in to provide a fresh perspective that its primary demographic could relate to. After all, the vast majority of SKI Magazine subscribers are not professionals. Were we successful? I'd like to think so. Within just a few runs we were all speaking the vocabulary of the job, could verbalize the different mannerisms of each ski, and were quick to separate the obvious dogs from the clear stand outs.

It is interesting to note that a handful of skis in each category fell into the good graces of both amateur and pro. To some, that fact may be surprising given the huge disparity between our skills, but not to me. Though a pro may pick one ski and an amateur may pick another, their reason for doing so are one in the same; the ski feels good. It shouldn't be surprising, then, that the winners "felt" the best to both groups of testers. In my opinion, a well manufactured ski should appeal to a broad market and if I had the means, I would focus on the skis we all liked when shopping for a fresh set this fall.

I'd like to close this nonsensical account by saying our process for data compilation was wholly unscientific, which is why it was so much fun to collect. In all honesty, this was a dream come true and the single greatest experience of my young adult life. If you had the opportunity to participate, but passed, feel free to take a moment and kick yourself. For the rest of you learning about this for the first time, all I can say is do whatever it takes to be here next season. Just keep in mind you will be competing for at least one less spot. Nothing short of a restraining order will keep me from Deer Valley in 2010. - Joe Moylan

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Thursday, September 10, 2009 - Round 1

Joe — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 01:10:00 GMT

Lemont is one of the few towns in the metro area that the people of Chicago can relate to. It's rich in history with the first Irish immigrants settling here in 1837 during the construction of the Illinois-Michigan Canal. They stuck around, establishing farming communities, once the canal was complete in 1848 making Lemont one of the oldest municipalities in Northern Illinois.

Lemont is a tough town, from its residents right down to the bedrock. Long before Lemont became famous for its golf, it was celebrated for its particularly hard variety of Limestone; known throughout the world as Lemont Yellow Dolomite.

Upon completion of the Illinois-Michigan Canal and after farming communities were established, immigrants continued to flock to Lemont to work the mines and harvest the precious stone. The town quickly came to appreciate Lemont Yellow Dolomite for its fire retardant characteristics. Chicago's Water Tower, the only building to survive the Great Fire of 1871, is constructed entirely from Lemont Yellow Dolomite.

The golf in Lemont, just like the bedrock that is Cog Hill's foundation, is tough; especially after a $5.2 million renovation at the hands of famed course architect Rees Jones. Frank Jemsek, owner of Cog Hill Golf and Country Club, brought Jones in last year to overhaul Dubsdread in an effort to make it U.S. Open worthy. The top 70 golfers in the world were about to be tested by the new design for the first time ever. No doubt, this weekend was going to be a monumental moment in Chicago golf.

As I loaded the car and made my way from my Wrigleyville apartment to Lemont, I began to contemplate the assignment at hand. Was I going to simply report on four days of championship golf? Probably, but I was more interested in the same question that was weighing on the hearts and minds of golfers all over the metropolitan area. Is Cog Hill Number 4 - Dubsdread - after a $5.2 million Rees Jones facelift, now poised to host our country's national championship?

Sunday's final scores would almost certainly give me the answer I sought, but I needed to hear it come from the mouths of the best players in the world, namely, Tiger Woods.

I arrived at Cog Hill on a beautiful Thursday morning. These grounds are hallowed for me as I claim it to be my own. I parked my car in the rough on the first hole of the neighboring Blue Course and walked through the main lot toward the media center to claim my credentials. As I made my way, I noticed something peculiar about my surroundings; the lot was filled entirely with BMWs.

"What gives," I asked a man who looked like he may have been in charge? "Is the auto industry in this much trouble? Are you trying to incite some impulse buys and move a little merchandise?"

"What do you mean," he replied?

"What's with all of the B-Mers?"

"Oh," the man chuckled! "This is the BMW Owner's Lot."

I thought about it for a moment.

"So, if you own a BMW, you get to park right next to the course; no cost, no questions asked?

"And we'll wash it for you while you are at the event," he chimed back!

It seemed excessive to me that BMW was catering to its already spoiled clientele. These people live a lavish and privileged lifestyle, hence their expensive driving machines. Are they really entitled to the best parking spots in the house simply because they have the means to obtain an over-priced automobile? It didn't seem fair, but this wasn't my golf tournament. Even so, I had a tough time trying to shake the irony of the whole encounter.

No more than a week earlier, I was approached by a stranger who wanted to trade his silver, 1979 BMW 320 with 165,000 miles for my 2006 Volvo S40 plus $1,900. It was a bold and interesting offer on his part, but I tactfully declined. In hindsight, rolling into the BMW Championship on the shoulders of a burly 320 would have made this experience that much sweeter because of the close parking spot. But I would have surely regretted that decision when it came time to cover the Goteborg Open; Sweden's prestigious national championship sponsored by Volvo.

Editor's Note:

In an interesting twist during the BMW Championship, Mercedes Benz owners were being rerouted back down Archer Ave. toward Kingery where they were loaded onto barges stationed at the Illinois-Michigan Canal just off Highway 83. From there they steamed through the Great Lakes to the Eastern Seaboard. Upon arrival in New York City, the Mercedes Benz owners were loaded onto cargo ships for a journey across the Atlantic. Their destination? Scotland for the 2009 Dunhill Links Championship, the European Tour's version of our Pebble Beach Pro-Am, played each year at St. Andrew's, Carnoustie and Kingsbarns.

I was able to catch up with one of these poor, unfortunate souls via cell phone and was amazed at how upbeat he was about his change in fortune.

"Really, the jokes on them [BMW]," Tim Richards told me in an exclusive interview. "I mean, a free trip to Europe to watch the game of golf played in the Holy land! Getting the opportunity to walk the fairways at St. Andrew's is the chance of a lifetime! How could it get any better than this? However, no one has told us how we are getting home and now that I think about it, I don't have my passport."

Indeed.

I entered the media center to claim my credentials. After proving my identity as the famous sportswriter from The Bugle (no autographs, please!), I received my press pass for the week and was free to roam the grounds.

One of the liaisons gave me the lay of the land, leading me on a tour of the media center and the two adjoining tents; the bathroom and the dining room. I have to admit, this was the swankiest port-o-potty I had ever seen. Real tile floors, cherry wood cabinets and doors and green granite sinks highlighted the interior of the mobile structure. It would definitely be a comfortable place to kill some time.

The dining room was also a treat; not that the interior was anything special, but it was stocked with all of the Pepsi products, ice cream and catered food I could handle. As wonderful as the luxuries were in each of these side rooms, I have to admit that the main room, the "War Room" as I came to call it, was the most impressive and intimidating sight I had seen in a really long time.

It was a perfect rectangle painted a sterile white. Hanging on the long wall before me was a gigantic leader board with the names of the 70 participants arranged in groups by order of tee time. PGA Tour staffers stood by at the ready, waiting to update scores with their little black and red numbers.

Six rows of tables were lined up one on top of the other, each one housing 20 of the world's best sports writers. Every station contained private internet and land line hook ups and there was enough information wires running through this building to coordinate a tactical, nuclear strike. All was quiet at the moment, however. With the tournament still hours away from starting, the brilliant minds that lay before me were busy checking their emails, updating their Facebook status or just casually surfing the internet. They were, after all, the absolute cream of the sporting press.

In the corner of the war room, a small news stand had been brought in containing free copies of the Chicago Tribune, the Sun-Times, the Herald News, the Daily Southtown and USA Today. I grabbed one of each and decided to grab a spot in the dining tent to catch up on what I had missed during the two previous days. I started with the Sun-Times, it being my least favorite publication of the bunch, and turned to an article entitled "Olympics in Cog Hill's future?" by Len Ziehm. Below is a short excerpt from that article:

Cog Hill could be in line for bigger and better things, Tiger Woods said.

Asked if the recent Rees Jones renovation made the Dubsdread course suitable to host a U.S. Open - the dream of late owner Joe Jemsek - Woods said, "I think it can." But Woods was more emphatic about the under-consideration golf competition at the 2016 Olympics coming to Lemont, assuming Chicago's bid is accepted.

"It would be great," Woods said. "You'd have to have it at a public venue just because of what the nature of the Olympics is about. Certainly this golf course is stand-alone in public venues in the Chicago area. I don't know another golf course that could rival this one as far as difficulty [among] public courses."

My blood ran hot, my eyes caught fire and I was dangerously close to spontaneous combustion. I couldn't believe what I was reading. Len Ziehm, that rotten sneak, had beaten me to the punch and did so in the most amateur of fashions by not having the journalistic integrity to wait until the tournament had actually started before asking such a profoundly loaded question.

Ziehm could now stroke his ever-increasing ego knowing he had succeeded at being the first to bring his readers exactly what they wanted to hear; that in the eyes of the world's number one golfer, Cog Hill was poised to host America's most prestigious tournament.

As a Chicago sports fan, I have to admit that I believe in curses. Just look at those wretched losers from the North Side; my Chicago Cubs. They haven't won a championship in 101 years and I have suffered through 28 of those personally. Ziehm's actions of the previous day conjured up memories of the Goat, the black cat, Steve Garvey and Bartman. In his selfishness, Ziehm doomed Cog Hill before Dubsdread even had the chance to flex its muscle and I could feel that something spectacularly ominous was looming on the horizon. I was sick to my stomach, so I forced myself outside to take in some golf.

It didn't take long, but after spending some time at the driving range and the putting green, I began to get a sense of the mounting pressure. It was palpable in the air and stung my eyes as the beads trickled down from my forehead. Suddenly, the importance of this third leg of the FedEx Cup Playoffs began to make sense.

I could relate to what these players were going through. I am a two-time veteran of tournament golf having earned my first-ever weekend cut at the Mid West Amateur held annually at Sydney R. Marovitz golf course; the crown jewel of the Chicago Park District nestled between the shores of Lake Michigan and the towering apartment buildings on the city's North Side. I backed up my play there with another weekend appearance a few weeks later at the Indian Boundary Club Championship, one of the many golf courses managed by the Cook County Forest Preserve. PGA Pros have never seen courses like these, but I digress and will have to save my personal golf exploits for another time. I was in the company of professionals and it was my job, nay my duty, to cover them.

I bounced around the holes in no particular order, putting myself in position to snap photographs of all my personal heroes. I didn't even realize that Rory Sabbatini and Steve Marino had galloped out of the gate with scores of 66 (-5) and a share of the first round lead until I returned to the War Room late that afternoon.

Rush hour was dawning upon us and since Ziehm had already sucked the fun out of my would-be story, I decided to get into my car and beat the traffic home.

To be continued...

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Wednesday, September 9, 2009 - 47th Chick Evans Memorial Pro-Am

Joe — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 23:20:00 GMT

On the day before the start of the BMW, the Western Golf Association, in partnership with the Evans Scholars Foundation, holds its annual Pro-Am. I didn't have a lot of interest in covering the event, but I would have liked to check it out and walk the course prior to the actual tournament starting. Instead I was in PGA limbo, still unsure if I would be granted press access to Cog Hill.

I woke up that morning with more of an anxious excitement and repeated the routine of the previous morning. Again, there was no message in my inbox.

I gave my editor some breathing room, confident that he wouldn't forget about me, but by 1:00 p.m. I was a wreck. My dream of covering the BMW Championship, now almost 48 hours old, was slipping through my fingers. Since text messaging had become my editor's preferred mode of communication, I decided to forego the phone call and email.

Success! He had come through. Hopefully I would be hearing from Sara soon...

Hi Joe:

Your credentials have been approved. Please stop at Will Call to pick up a package in your name, which will contain your gate entry pass and parking pass for the week. You will need to stop in the media center to get your permanent credential.

Thank you.

Sara

I was on my way to beautiful Lemont, Ill.

To be continued...

Reflections of a Guest Tester: The Tests

Joe — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 22:10:00 GMT

Not surprisingly, I was the last guest tester to arrive at breakfast the following morning. When I did, I was presented with a stack of comment cards we would use to rate each ski and briefed on what to expect in the coming minutes. We had four categories of skis to test, a dozen skis in each, and four days to get them all in.

We were confined to the runs in the immediate vicinity of the Sterling Express lift, which not only contributed to an impartial testing environment, but also maximized our time. We were expected to have all of our skis done by lunch. There was, after all, free skiing in the afternoon, an unfamiliar mountain to explore, and chutes to be had.

Testing every ski before lunch meant we would only have one opportunity to get to know each pair. This was an unexpected wrinkle I had not prepared myself for. I was going to have less time to find my ski legs than I originally hoped.

The rookies and I made our way out to a little fenced-off area next to the Sterling Express lift, which was to serve as our ski corral. There, two binding technicians and a dozen skis in the All Mountain Expert (AME) Free category were waiting for us. I grabbed my first set of sticks, Atomic Savage Ti's, if memory serves me correctly, clicked in and made a red-eyed, foggy-headed skate over to the lift line. I passed the Pontiff of Powder on my way.

"How's the altitude flu," he asked?

"I can't tell," I replied. "I'm too hung over."

"How else could you do a thing like this righteously? Want to take a run?"

"Not a chance," I replied. "I need to find my legs first."

I made my way to the loading zone and hopped on a chair. During my ride, I decided the only way to get over this anxiety of not skiing in two years was to tackle the problem head on. I would take my first run down Birdseye; the trail directly under the lift.

When I reached the summit, I skied a little ways down and stopped. I looked over the terrain as far down as I could see, took a deep breath, and pushed off. The first couple hundred feet were all about momentum, then I tried to work into my first turn. I got real tall and stiff, put some pressure on my right ski, and leaned into a left hand turn. My right ski went flailing into the air as I nearly fell on my side. Amazingly, I was able to regain my balance. I peeked up above and could see some of the pros scattered among the dangling chairs. Their eyes were fixated on me, or so I feared, watching my every move. I did what any self-respecting skier would do in this situation; straight-lined the rest of the run and snow plowed into the ski corral.

"How did it feel," Tom asked as I glided in?

"I didn't ski her," I replied.

Tom looked perplexed as I put my head down and skated back to the lift.

When I reached the summit for a second time, I skied to the same spot and looked over the run. I took in two deep breaths and pushed off. As gravity set in, I exaggerated my stance, bent my knees, and made my upper body as big as I could. The side cut swept me away as I leaned into the start of a big, smooth carved GS turn.

"Oh yeah," I thought to myself! "This is how it's supposed to feel!"

I touched my downhill pole to the snow, stood up, and leaned into another; my knees bending and my stance growing wider as I rode the vertical. I linked another big turn and then another until I was hogging the entire run, going end-to-end at speed, as if no one else was on the mountain.

I pulled into the ski corral to see Tom was in the same place as before.

"How did it feel," he asked hesitantly?

"That was fun," I replied!

I clicked out, grabbed another set, and jumped back on the lift. I spent the next three hours skiing laps. With each run my technique became more solid, my confidence grew, and before lunch I felt like I had been skiing all winter.

I hammered though the rest of the category and went inside to join my fellow guest testers to refuel. I was anxious to see how everyone's morning went and to find out how people felt about the category. We all agreed there were obvious dogs and obvious winners. In some cases, you knew whether you were going to enjoy the ride within the first couple of turns.

To be continued...

The Chicago Flag: A Fifth Star?

Joe — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 23:01:00 GMT

Over the years, ideas for a fifth star have been voiced, but none have ever come to fruition. The first recommendation came during the 1940's to celebrate Chicago's coming into the nuclear age. Other recommendations include one for Harold Washington, the first black Mayor of Chicago, or another for the Great Flood of 1992. A fifth star would have been a certainty had Chicago secured its bid for the 2016 Olympic Summer games. Unfortunately, as we all know, those plans were abandoned when we were beat by Rio de Janeiro.

2^nd Best of Flag of all American Cities

The North American Vexillological Association (NAVA), a 450-person organization that is apparently dedicated to Vexillology, the scientific study of flags, held a public survey to decide which American cities boasted the best flags and which cities had the worst. Flags were judged on five criteria:

Keep it simple (the flag should be so simple that a child can draw it from memory)
Use meaningful symbolism (the flag's images, colors, or patterns should relate to what it symbolizes)
Use basic colors (limit the number of colors on the flag to three, which contrast well and come from the standard color set)
No lettering or seals (never use writing of any kind or an organization's seal)
Be distinctive or be related (avoid duplicating other flags, but use similarities to show connections).

On October 2, 2004, NAVA published the results of its survey. Out of a total possible score of 10, the Chicago Flag earned 9.03 points and came in second place. The flag flying above the streets of Washington, D.C. took top honors (9.17 points).

Sources:

Bowers, C. & Barr, J. (1973). Here is Chicago. Chicago, IL: University Pub. Co.

History of the Chicago Flag. (n.d.). In Wikipedia. Retrieved November 3, 2009, from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flag_of_Chicago

North American Vexillological Association. (n.d.). In Wikipedia. Retrieved November 3, 2009, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_American_Vexillological_Association

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Tuesday, September 8, 2009 - Official Practice Round at Cog Hill

Joe — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 20:51:00 GMT

I woke up giddy with anticipation and turned on my computer. It was just after 8:00 a.m., which is a little early for me. Even my computer was sluggish at that early hour as it seemed to take longer than usual to boot up. Finally it did and I quickly set to work navigating my way to my Hotmail account. There were plenty of new messages, but nothing from my new pal Sara.

With nothing else on the schedule, I decided to spend the rest of the day confined to my apartment; pacing around my living room/office, pausing at my computer every few minutes to click the "refresh" button.

Finally I received a response from Sara about mid-afternoon. It read:

Hi Joe:

A problem has come up in processing your request. Could you have your editor contact me directly? Tell him to use a business email. Thanks.

Sara

It had not previously occurred to me that the road to the BMW might somehow be thwarted due to my asking for press credentials via a personal email account, but I had no other option. I am, what is referred to in the newspaper industry as, a stringer. You civilians might call me a freelancer, which is also fine and correct, but it just doesn't have that same sexy ring to it, so I typically refer to myself by the former. Anyway, as a stringer, I have no official ties to the newspaper and therefore, do not possess a proper email address with the company.

It was obvious that if the BMW Championship was in my future, the request would have to come from the top. I forwarded Sara's email to my editor and asked if he could make a request on my behalf.

The sun was beginning to set and I had still received no new words from either Sara or my editor. I decided to call him at the office; no answer. I called his cell phone; he didn't pick up. Finally I sent him a text message saying: READ EMAIL!!!

My editor responded: ON DEADLINE. WILL CALL TOMORROW.

Call tomorrow? Call whom; me or Sara?

I had no business making the assumption that my editor would remember to contact Sara on his own; this was too big of an assignment for me to lose. However, I had to concede that, at least for now, this was out of my hands. I turned off my computer, picked up my tackle box and went fishing.

To be continued...

Reflections of a Guest Tester: Park City

Joe — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:21:00 GMT

Park City

Figuring out how to get to Deer Valley had preoccupied my mind so heavily, I forgot to think about what I would do once I arrived. Though I was reared on the streets of the City of Broad Shoulders, I was fortunate enough to spend some time in Colorado. In the six years I lived there, I averaged about 100 days a season exploring her winter playground. I would, therefore, consider myself a fairly capable skier. But a move home earlier this decade saw my slope side days nose dive to zero. In fact, I hadn't made a turn in well over two seasons.

The "job" description the people at SKI sent me was straightforward enough; get myself to Deer Valley, test the latest and greatest from the world's top manufacturers, and swap turns with some of the best talent in the country. Though I had a pretty good idea of what to expect, I couldn't help but fly into Utah with a handful of concerns.

Two years away from the sport suddenly felt like an eternity. How long would it take me to find my ski legs? Was I good enough to tell the slight differences from one ski to the next? How would the pros feel about eight amateurs encroaching on their territory, not just on the slopes, but off them as well?

I received my first taste of ski test hospitality when Tom, seven guest testers from all over the country, and I just happened to park ourselves in the same restaurant as the pros on our first night in town. Of course we didn't know it until the waiter arrived with a round of Patron shots. I had a touch of the altitude flu and was trying to take it easy, but was forced to man up when the woman sitting on my right said she couldn't stomach tequila and the man on my left told me he didn't drink. I took their shots, as well as my own, and was cruising in no time.

The festivities continued long after dinner as we double-backed to the hotel for boat races and all the liquor I could handle. My team won the first couple of relays, but I was definitely the weak link. Jackson Hogen, who you may know as the Pontiff of Powder, was decent enough to tell me so, saying that I "drink beer like old women sip wine!" A reality I can't defend, but blame largely on a narrow throat caused by my crane-like features.

My first night in Deer Valley eventually came to an end with my ego slightly bruised, but my excitement for the coming morning still well-intact. I stumbled back to my condo at 2:00 a.m., just six short hours before I needed to report to the Silver Lake Lodge for breakfast and a morning briefing. As I left the party, I remember thinking, "if these guys ski as hard as they party, this week is going to be heavy on fun and light on lucid memories." I was right on both fronts.

To be continued...

The Chicago Flag: A Brief History of the Stars

Joe — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:55:00 GMT

As a native of this great city and a Chicago history buff - so to speak - I thought it would be fun to research some of the people, places, things and events that have shaped this town from its humble beginnings as a military fort on the banks of the Chicago River in 1803 to the industrial, architectural, ethnically diverse and economically prosperous powerhouse that it is today. It is only natural for me to start with the flag that flies throughout our great city.

The Stars

William Rice's initial design consisted of just two red stars with six points. Two more stars were added later, creating the flag as we know it today. Interestingly enough, the stars as they appear today do not follow in succession from the time they were added. For example, if you are looking at the flag from left-to-right, the two original stars occupy the middle; the third star to be introduced is on the extreme right and the fourth and final star is on the extreme left in "first" position.

(Why this is the case is a mystery to me, but I will try to track down an explanation soon.)

Each star symbolizes an important event in Chicago history and even the six points have their own special meanings. They are, from left-to-right:

Fort Dearborn: In honor of a military fort built on the banks of the Chicago River in 1803 at present day Michigan Ave. and Wacker Dr. Fort Dearborn is famous (or infamous) for the Fort Dearborn Massacre during the War of 1812 in which 500 Potawatomi Indians ambushed 148 soldiers, woman and children trying to evacuate the fort; killing 86 of them.

The Fort Dearborn star, despite being in first position, was the last star to be added to the Chicago Flag in 1939. Its six points represent transportation, labor, commerce, finance, populousness (in other words, being heavily populated) and salubrity (favorable to or promoting health).

The Great Chicago Fire: The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 burned from Sunday, October 8 through Tuesday, October 10. It killed hundreds and destroyed more than four square miles of the city. Although the Great Chicago Fire was one of the worst human disasters of the 19^th Century, it is not memorialized on our flag to remember the tragedy, but to honor its citizen's perseverance. Without it, Chicago would not have been rebuilt into one of the largest and most economically prosperous cities in the country.

The star representing the Great Chicago Fire is one of the originals from Wallace Rice's 1917 design. It occupies the second position and its six points represent the virtues of religion, education, aesthetics, justice, beneficence and civic pride.

The World's Columbian Exposition: Created to celebrate the 400^th anniversary of Christopher Columbus discovering the new world. Chicago outbid New York, Washington D.C. and St. Louis for the honor of hosting the fair in 1893. Also known as the Chicago World's Fair, the Columbian Exposition showcased a number of new and exciting inventions that hurled Chicago into the forefront of innovation in the areas of architecture, the arts and American Industrialism.

The World's Columbian Exposition star was part of the original 1917 design. Its six points refer to the different political entities Chicago has belonged to and the six different flags that have flown over Chicago since the start of American Colonialism in the 16^th century; France (1693), Great Britain (1763), Virginia (1778), the Northwest Territory (1798), Indiana Territory (1802) and Illinois (1818).

The Century of Progress Exposition: The Century of Progress Exposition was the second World's Fair held in Chicago during 1933-1934 to celebrate the city's centennial and mankind's technological innovation. The Fair's motto was "Science Finds, Industry Applies, Man Conforms."

The star representing the Century of Progress Exposition was added to the Chicago Flag in 1933 (the same year as the fair) and its six points essentially represent the city's bragging rights; the United States' 2nd Largest City (became 3rd largest in 1980 census when passed by L.A.), Chicago's Latin Motto (Urbs in horto - City in a garden), Chicago's "I Will" Motto, Great Central Marketplace, Wonder City and Convention City.

Still more to come...

Reflections of a Guest Tester: Getting There

Joe — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 18:37:00 GMT

We woke up on our final morning of testing a little sore and a bit tired. More than thirty of us had spent the last three days skiing the very best K2, Rossignol, Kastle, Fischer, Nordica and many others had to offer. As we made our way to the ski corral, the pains and the fatigue quickly melted away. A storm had raged all night, but now the skies were blue and 11 inches of fresh snow awaited our arrival. I clicked into my first set and loaded the chair. I could hear bombs exploding at nearby Park City as I floated above 1,300 vertical feet of virgin corduroy. I couldn't help but laugh out loud as a giant smile came over my face. Could it get any better than this?

Getting There

About a month earlier I was at work, getting very little done as I scrolled through articles on www.skinet.com. Tucked somewhere between the latest "Musings from the Pontiff of Powder" and the "Green Skier" blog was the headline, "Be a SKI Magazine Ski Tester." I clicked on the link and discovered for the first time in more than 25 years, SKI Magazine was inviting eight amateurs to test the latest in ski technology alongside former Olympians, US ski teamers, World Cup Champions, and the magazine's editorial staff. An email explaining why I would make the perfect guest tester was all they wanted to see.

I put off my morning duties for a few more minutes and whipped up a quick email for this guy named Tom James, who appeared to be the brainchild behind this experiment. I assumed the hundreds, if not thousands, of people vying for these eight, precious spots would write at length about their skiing expertise, which may or may not have exceeded my Midwest skills. I decided to take a different approach.

I told SKI Magazine I would make the perfect guest tester because I am really tall and was blessed with a full head of hair. An alien hybrid, of sorts, that had drawn a lifetime of comparisons to Big Bird, Sideshow Bob, Gene Wilder (from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory), and the King of Calisthenics, Richard Simmons. The email would have been incomplete without some reference to my skiing ability, so I concluded it with a story that I once, with the help of a dozen neighborhood dogs, some rope, and a set of vintage Rossignol straight, racing skis, pond skimmed a half-mile stretch of Lake Michigan. The latter being an obvious fabrication.

I shot the email off into cyberspace, quickly dismissed it as a lost cause, and got back to work. The following day I was shocked to discover a response waiting in my inbox saying I had made the cut. I was cautiously elated. I now had to come up with the $2,250 participation fee.

I am not ashamed to admit that $2,250 is a little more than I made in two months as a Public Relations professional at a boutique firm in Chicago. Obviously, I didn't have that kind of dough just lying around. I called my girlfriend and told her the news, mentioning that I had about a month to raise the cash. We met at the Billy Goat Tavern on Hubbard Street, underneath Michigan Ave., and drank pints of the house dark while brainstorming ideas on how I could make some fast money; the bulk of which focusing on me either selling disposable organs and various bodily fluids on the black market or escorting wealthy widows to late night social functions.

About halfway through our third pint, my girlfriend blurted out, "Why don't you just ask your friends for the money?"

"That's brilliant," I replied sarcastically. "What do I say? Help send poor, little Joey Moylan on a ski vacation?"

"Exactly," she said enthusiastically!

I was intrigued.

"Alright then, lay it on me."

My girlfriend outlined her idea for a Web site fund raiser called "The Send Joe Moylan to ski Deer Valley, Utah Fund." It was so simple. All we had to do was build a real basic site, give people a little background information on the trip, link it to a PayPal account, and then ask everyone we know, to ask everyone they know, to ask everyone they know to donate $1 to my noble undertaking.

"$2,250 in 30 days; one dollar at a time," I said. "That's just crazy enough to work!"

My girlfriend opened up her purse, pulled out a dollar, and slammed it on the bar.

"Consider this your first donation!"

I was pumped up and drunk, so I decided to call my parents and tell them the news. I called my father, the securities attorney, first. He did not share my enthusiasm for our plan.

Bernie Madoff had just been pinched a few weeks earlier and my dad advised that online fundraising sites, no matter how legitimate, would come under increased federal scrutiny. He had clients doing hard time for pulling similar schemes to the one I had just outlined. Rather than risk the Feds breaking down my door, my dad said he would front me the money under the following condition; if presented with an opportunity to contribute an article to the magazine, he wanted a shout out. Well Dad, here you go...You're the man!

To be continued...

The Chicago Flag: A Brief History

Joe — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 18:47:00 GMT

To understand the Chicago flag and its meaning, you have to go back to 1915 when Mayor William Hale Thompson formed the municipal flag commission; its obvious purpose being to create a flag for the city encompassing the history, values and character of its residents. The commission was chaired by Alderman James A. Kearns and included prominent members of society such as; wealthy industrialist Charles Deering, chairman of the International Harvester Company, and impressionist painter Lawton S. Parker, professor at the Art Institute of Chicago.

In addition, lecturer and poet Wallace Rice was brought in to develop the rules for an open and public competition for best flag design. The commission received more than a thousand entries, but in the end, on April 4, 1917, the commission chose the design that Wallace Rice himself had created. Despite being a successful author of historical pageants, including one celebrating the centennial of the state of Illinois, Rice is best remembered today for creating the Chicago Flag.

The Stripes

The Chicago Flag was created on a white canvass, broken into thirds by two bars of blue. From top-to-bottom, the white stripes embody Chicago's North, West and South sides. The top blue stripe represents Lake Michigan and the North Branch of the Chicago River. The bottom blue stripe stands for the South Branch of the Chicago River and the Great Canal.

To be continued with the meanings of the four red stars...

Reflections of the BMW Championship: Labor Day

Joe — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 19:13:00 GMT

Perspectives from a rookie golf correspondent, things you didn't see on TV and the fate of Chicago golf

Monday, September 7, 2009 - Labor Day

It is a little known fact that the Labor Day we have come to celebrate in this country actually spawned from labor disputes in Canada, specifically in Hamilton and Toronto, during the 1870s. The "Nine-Hour Movement," as it was called, paved the way for the Trade Union Act that legalized and protected union activity in the Great White North starting in 1872.

In the following years, union activists in Canada organized annual celebrations to pump their proud fists in public. 10 years after the passage of the Trade Union Act, American labor leader Peter J. McGuire, a New Yorker, visited the annual labor festivities in Toronto. McGuire was so impressed that he stole Canada's holiday and brought it to the United States. In September of that same year, September 5, 1882, McGuire organized the first Labor Day celebration in New York City.

McGuire's Labor Day did not sweep the country at first and it largely remained an unofficial affair, celebrated sporadically in New York and other east coast cities. Then, President Grover Cleveland returned to office on March 4, 1893.[i] In an effort to smooth relations with the labor industry, and put an end to the violent Pullman Strike of 1894, Cleveland rushed legislation through Congress making Labor Day an official national holiday.

In its infancy, Labor Day celebrations included a parade, festivals for workers and their families and long-winded speeches made by prominent labor leaders - not exactly how I would choose to spend my day off. Today, it has evolved to signify the symbolic end of summer; the last chance to take the family on vacation before the weather turns sour, the last chance for college kids to party with childhood friends before returning to school and the last chance to take the boat out for a high-speed cruise around the lake.

Rest and relaxation; fun and excitement; a break from the nine-to-five grind: These are the things we look forward to and have come to expect from a 115-year-old American holiday celebrated annually on the first Monday of every September, but not me. The news does not stop for Labor Day and I had a story to write.

I am a stringer for the very esteemed weekly newspaper known as The Bugle. I cover high school sports and in the fall, that means football. A few days ago I was in Park Ridge to cover one of those rare instances in Illinois High School Association (IHSA) history when the top two teams in the state meet during the regular season; week 2 to be exact. It was the then #2 ranked Maine South Hawks hosting the #1 ranked Tigers of Wheaton Warrenville South and the Park Ridge public was anxious to learn how their home team had faired.

Usually I relish a deadline, but not on this particular Labor Day; something was amiss. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I waited until Monday to report on a story I had witnessed the previous Friday, but that's one of the perks of working for a weekly. Unlike the big boys from the Trib and the Sun-Times, who crank out stories from their cars in high school parking lots, I get to leave the Friday night lights behind with my mind at ease and allow the events of the football game to marinade in my subconscious over the weekend. Since my deadline is on Mondays, it is also advantageous for me to see what everyone else is writing, that way I can bring my readers a fresh and unique perspective. Unfortunately, for some reason, I couldn't seem to make it all fit.

I turned on the T.V., hoping to give my frazzled brain a much-needed break. The Deutsche Bank Championship at TPC Boston was on and Steve Stricker just made birdie to get himself into a three-way tie with Scott Verplank and Jason Dufner, who were both already in the clubhouse at -16. I quickly discovered that Stricker was the third round leader and his was the last group of the tournament. I decided to procrastinate on my football article for a while by watching some exciting FedEx Cup golf. Unfortunately for me, a three man playoff for the title was not in my future. Stricker stormed the 18^th hole with everything he had and sank, what looked like, a routine birdie to steal the championship by a stroke. Already, the commentators on NBC were talking about potential first and second round pairings at the BMW Championship between Stricker and Tiger Woods.

The BMW, the third leg of the FedEx Cup Playoffs, was being held at Cog Hill Golf and Country Club in Lemont, Ill., right in my backyard. Cog holds a special place in my heart because it is one of the places I learned the game. I go as often as my paycheck allows, but I hadn't been to a professional event since it was called the Western Open, back before the FedEx Cup Playoffs existed, and I had never covered a PGA Tour event professionally.

I called my editor to figure out how to get me in, but there was no answer at the office. I sent him a text and an email, but still no reply. By 4:00 p.m. I had grown impatient and decided to call Cog Hill myself. I used the speed dial on my phone to call the general number, where I usually make my tee times. After explaining who I was, the operator patched me through to the media tent.

A nice girl named Sara answered and after running through my explanation for a second time, she asked me to send her an email with my info and the days I was looking for access to the course. Upon receipt, she would handle the rest.

I couldn't believe how simple the whole process was. I should have thought of this a decade ago. Just imagine all of the great professional events I could have seen, at player level, for no cost.

It was nearly 5:00 p.m. when I finally shot my email to Sara into cyberspace. I figured she would be busy wrapping up her day, so I returned to the Maine South story at hand, assuming that Sara would get back to me by morning.

To be continued...

[i] Grover Cleveland had been the 22^nd president of the United States initially taking office in 1885. He lost his re-election to Republican Benjamin Harris in 1889, but Cleveland won the rematch and reclaimed the office in 1893 to serve his second term as the country's 24^th president.

Reflections of a Guest Tester: The Email

Joe — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 21:55:00 GMT

As some of you already know, last March I participated in SKI Magazine's annual ski test. When it was over, the editor's asked me to write a short 600 word essay on my experience, which appeared online at http://www.skinet.com/ last August. If you haven't read it yet, feel free to do so by clicking on the link below: (http://www.skinet.com/ski/gear/2009/08/reflections-of-a-guest-tester).

What you don't know is that I also submitted a much longer account of the ski test experience (approximately 3,200 words) to the editor's at SKI, which was denied publication due to its extreme length.

Now that I have my own Web site and my own blog, I would like to share with you the extended version of "Reflections of a Guest Tester." A six part series that begins with the email that started it all...

Dear Tom,

Why I should be a Ski Magazine guest tester
By: Joe Moylan

Outside of some of the more obvious answers; such as, being an avid skier since the age of five, working as a former ski instructor, and being well-versed in the language of my skiing brethren, let me outline a couple of other reasons why I would make a great ski tester.

I'm tall, much taller than the average person. Officially, I measure a full six feet, three inches, but reports have me anywhere between 6' 1" and 6' 6." It kind of depends on which liquor store I am leaving (thank you Ron White).
I have a full head of hair! That's right, no bald spots! I've been told that it's a mutant hybrid stemming from the seeds of the follically perfect; i.e. Richard Simmons, Gene Wilder (Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory), Big Bird, and Side Show Bob. I don't hide this beautiful mane under a hat either. I rock a vintage red, white, and blue headband from the 70s or a Kangaroos sweatband from Walter Payton's 1985 season. I find that headbands not only make radical fashion statements, but also keep my white-man's afro looking its wind-swept best.
I once pond-skimmed Lake Michigan! With the assistance of some raw Vienna Beef red hots, a lot of rope, a particularly snowy, January day in Chicago and a dozen neighborhood dogs, I was able to "water ski" a half mile stretch of lakefront property known as the North Ave. Concrete Beach. Everything was going well until the sticks I used to dangle the wieners in front of the lead dogs broke. My momentum stopped immediately and my boney frame pierced the surface of the frigid waters. I even lost the vintage Rossi's I picked up from my local Play it Again Sports, but the local fame (and the 16 car pile up my stunt caused on neighboring Lake Shore Drive!) made it all worth it.

I'm sure I have some other reasons, but I have to get back to work.

To be continued...