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.
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
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. B
arring 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 71st 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...
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...
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 12th 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 12th 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 12th 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...
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...
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...
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...
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 18th 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 22nd 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 24th president.