The 10 Best Caddy Replies:

# 10 — Golfer: “Think I’m going to drown myself in the lake.” Caddy: “Think you can keep your head down that long?”
# 9 — Golfer: “I’d move heaven and earth to break 100 on this course.” Caddy: “Try heaven, you’ve already moved most of the earth.”
# 8 — Golfer: “Do you think my game is improving?” Caddy: “Yes sir, you miss the ball much closer now.”
# 7 — Golfer: “Do you think I can get there with a 5 iron?” Caddy: “Eventually.”
# 6 — Golfer: “You’ve got to be the worst caddy in the world.” Caddy: “I don’t think so sir. That would be too much of a coincidence.”
# 5 — Golfer: “Please stop checking your watch all the time. It’s too much of A distraction.” Caddy: “It’s not a watch - it’s a compass.”
# 4 — Golfer: “How do you like my game?” Caddy: “Very good sir, but personally, I prefer golf.”
# 3 — Golfer: “Do you think it’s a sin to play on Sunday?” Caddy: “The way you play, sir, it’s a sin on any day.”
# 2 — Golfer: “This is the worst course I’ve ever played on.” Caddy: “This isn’t the golf course. We left that an hour ago.”
# 1 — Best Caddy Comment Golfer: “That can’t be my ball, it’s too old.” Caddy: “It’s been a long time since we teed off, sir.”

—

Tee Shot

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

“What is your sin, my son?” the priest asks back.

“Well,” the man starts, “I used some horrible language this week and feel absolutely terrible.”

“When did you use this awful language?” asks the priest.

“I was golfing and hit an incredible drive that looked like it was going to go over 250 yards, but it struck a phone line that was hanging over the fairway and fell straight down to the ground after going 100 feet.

“Is that when you swore?”

“No, Father,” says the man. “After that, a squirrel ran out of the bushes and grabbed my ball in his mouth and began to run away.”

“Is THAT when you swore?” asks the Father again.

“Well, no.” says the man. “You see, as the squirrel was running, an eagle came down out of the sky, grabbed the squirrel in his talons and began to fly away!”

“Is THAT when you swore?” asks the amazed Priest.

“No, not yet,” the man replies. “As the eagle carried the squirrel away in his claws, it flew towards the green. And as it passed over a bit of forest near the green, the squirrel dropped my ball.”

“Did you swear THEN?” asks the now impatient Priest.

“No, because as the ball fell it struck a tree, bounced through some bushes, careened off a big rock, and rolled through a sandtrap onto the green and stopped within six inches of the hole.”

The Priest sighs, “You missed the fucking putt, didn’t you?”

===

Pool temp: 55 degrees

Thinking out loud after a fun and frenzied weekend in “Sin City”:

Las Vegas is best experienced in a max of a 3-day stay. It’s so otherworldly and timeless (and, yes, outrageously expensive, at least if you want to live it up like a Goodboy) that by the end of your third day you need to leave as badly as you looked forward to getting there in the first place.

…and as soon as you’re home you’re already thinking about how and when you can go back.

You can’t beat the steak and eggs at the Peppermill for late-night dining fare.

…And the waitresses at their renowned Fireside Lounge are still jaw-dropping beautiful in those long black cocktail gowns.

A brief stop at Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville was the same pleasurable experience it has always been. Sad to see, however, that they’ve dropped the “Bubba’s Big Bamboo” (”A big, stiff drink. Banana Rum, Myers’s Dark Rum, Nassau Royale and Triple Sec shaken with orange juice and coconut cream”) from the drink menu. When I bemoaned that fact to Chris the bartender, he replied sadly, “that seems to happen to all the good drinks”.

Our experience staying at the Wynn was top-notch. Many businesses could take a lesson from the friendliness, hospitality, and the willingness to please and go the distance for their guests that everyone there displayed.

…I think I still like The Mirage’s Spa and Salon better, however.

Glad I channeled the inner Rob within me and resisted the idea of dropping money on the Colts. I predicted a 31-14 win by the Colts and figured Peyton Manning would pick apart the Saints defense, but I never felt strong enough about that prospect to lay $ down on it.

Watched the game in The Mirage’s Revolution Lounge, but the real show of the day was Angela the bartender. Adorable beyond belief (let’s leave it at that!), friendly, down to earth, and extremely good at what she does. Whoever hired that girl has a good eye for talent.

President Obama made a big mistake doing that interview with Katie Couric during the Super Bowl pre-game. Let’s leave alone the fact that no day seems to go by when he’s not giving another lecture speech or sitting for a puff-piece interview, can’t the guy take a day off and just allow the common folk to enjoy their football?

…I can tell you from sitting at The Mirage’s Kokomo’s Bar that people were not amused. Or interested. In fact, at one point the crowd got hostile and started yelling at the bartenders to change the channel; then, when some some woman sitting at the bar tried to defend the Prez, the crowd shouted her down.

Watching that interview I could only think of one thing: whatever Couric is getting paid, it’s way too much. She may be perky, photogenic, and ambitious, but she’s just another talking head who’s clearly as dumb as a stone.

Let’s see, Virginia, New Jersey, Massachusetts, and now the Indianapolis Colts. A big winner in 2008, President Obama is quickly garnering a reputation in 2010 for backing losers.

Lasting memories of this weekend: First, talking to a girl named Olga at a not-to-be-revealed location. Now, I’m a sucker for Russian accents, especially when delivered by a lovely and captivating young blonde. We’re sorta running out of conversation, so I asked her to keep talking:

Olga: What should I say?

Me: I dunno, how about reciting “War And Peace”?

Olga: “War and Peace”, what’s that?

Me: What kind of a Russian are you, anyways?

Second, it’s late Sunday night and I’m sitting at the B Bar at the Wynn, next to a bunch of loud Mexicans with rolls of $100 bills. The guy next to me orders a double Grey Goose on the rocks:

Bartender: That will be $30.

Hombre: $30! That’s expletive deleted!

Bartender: You ordered a double Grey Goose, right?

Hombre: But it’s all in one glass!

Ahhh… Vegas. It never gets old, and I can’t wait to go back.

Reviewing yesterday’s post and Jana’s comment, I think Jana’s right.

Because The Great White Shank and his fellow Goodboys co-conspirators The Funny Guy and Doggy Duval need it bad. Real bad.

Hmmm… an upcoming weekend in Las Vegas during Super Bowl week ought to do the trick. Yeah.

This will serve to whet the appetite a bit….

And this version (with an outstanding video that really captures the color, the lights, and the excitement of “Sin City”) is outta sight. Very retro, too bad a lot of what made “classic” Vegas classic is gone.

Still, I can’t wait.

…to start thinking about the festivities that will surround the 2010 Goodboys Invitational. Think about it: 2010 be the year the event around which the entire Goodboys Nation universe evolves turns 20 - twenty! - and defending champions Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis and Jay “Crusher” Spielberg have promised the ‘Boys a memorable weekend on the New Hampshire / Maine seacost to commemorate this incredible achievement.

Heck, even the Royal & Ancient (the Brits version of our PGA) thinks Goodboys turning the big 2-0 should mean something special. And why wouldn’t they? After all, The Open Championship (professional golf’s third major event of the year) is played the same week as the Goodboys Invitational. How special, you ask? Special enough that they’ve granted 5-time Open champion Tom Watson and 2-time Open champion Greg Norman special exemptions to enable them to participate in the next five Opens, regardless of their age and the states of their various games.

Goodboys be advised: the 20th annual Goodboys Invitational is scheduled for July 16-18, 2010. My recommendation is that Cubby start practicing now - The Great White Shank might be depending on him to make them odds-on favorites to take the crown next year.

Ya never know…

I’m back here in the Valley of the Sun after a fine week on the East Coast. It’s easy to take the technological marvels of the day for granted, but it never ceases to amaze me how one can wake up in a cloudy and drizzly 65-degree Massachusetts and just hours later find yourself in the Arizona desert under a blazing sun and looking at a thermometer registering 111 degrees.

So where to begin? Well, the Goodboys successfully navigated their way through the 19th incarnation of the Goodboys Invitational weekend, and in fine form. The weather gods once again smiled on the Goodboys, bringing a weekend that featured sweltering heat on Friday, a transitional day on Saturday, and a drop-dead gorgeous ten bells 80-degree Sunday with bright sun and a refreshing breeze. The courses chosen by Exec-Comm provided a variety of golf challenges – Pease was wide-open and accessible to most, Breakfast Hill tight and woodsy, and The Ledges a fantastic and challenging track set among rolling hills and a course that everyone agreed was one of the nicest to have ever hosted a Goodboys event.

So who won? Well, there were several winners: the golf ball manufacturers of America, who certainly won by extracting their usual pound of flesh, especially from yours truly and Ron “Cubby” Myerow. The patrons at McMenemy’s Irish Pub in Portsmouth were certainly winners, witnessing a wonderful bar-long Irish jig performed by Steve “Killer” Kowalski, the result of him losing a humiliation bet made with Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis. Those who went low this weekend were also winners: Jay “Crusher” Spielberg won an authentic Augusta National Masters golf umbrella for being low man against his allotted handicap this weekend, and Paul “Possum” Shepter won a nice (well, somewhat nice) book about the Masters tournament for being second lowest.

The biggest winners, of course, was the winning team of TFG and Crusher, who, by showing all the lads how it’s done and prevailing against all comers and pretenders, took home the coveted Spielberg Memorial Trophy. For Crusher it was his third Goodboys championship. For TFG it was his fourth, and first in ten years. Given the fact that his last title was ten years ago also in Portsmouth (in 1999 when the Goodboys also played Pease), one would have to say the NH seacoast seems to suit both his game and his golf sensibilities.

On the losing side, Kevin “Goose” Dwyer remains “Best Goodboy to have never won a Goodboys Invitational”, the monkey remaining firmly attached to his back after he and his partner Mike “Vegas” Clark finished third out of six. And, given that defending champs Possum and Pat “Doggy Duval” McLaughlin finished a disappointing fifth, one must also consider them at least lovable losers given their inability to become the first repeat Goodboys champs. Of course, when it comes to the Goodboys Invitational, there are no real losers – after all, anytime a group of friends can find the time to get together and renew this special tradition of a weekend of golf, cocktails, and hijinx every third weekend of July everyone’s a winner.

So comes down the curtain on the 19th annual Goodboys Invitational. Next year it’s the big 2-0, and the GBs have already decided a return visit to Portsmouth – and The Ledges - is not only warranted but desirable. Between now and then there’s a lot of water left to flow and a lot of snow to fall, of course, but for the Goodboys that’s OK – especially for them, absence always makes the heart grow fonder.

Whenever I’m out and about - whether it be to the supermarket, the pizza joint down the street, or the Petsmart where we buy our rabbit supplies - invariably I’m always stopped and asked what it’s like to be part of Goodboys Nation. The question always humbles and amuses me, and I always reply that Goodboys Nation is a lot like the Roach Motel (or the Hotel California) - you can check in anytime you’d like but you can never leave.

There has been many a Goodboy who thinks after a year or two in the fold that they’ve had enough of the juvenile shenanigans and non-stop hijinx typical of a Goodboys weekend - after all, you think you’ve finally attained the status of “adult” and wonder what you’re doing hanging around with these idiots when there are so many other quality ways you could spend a pleasant July weekend. Heck, I’ve often wondered that couple two three times myself. And it’s true that there are few people happier in the world than the Goodboys who head out on Sunday golfed out and Goodboys’d out for the relative safety and sanity of home and hearth.

But inevitably, every March or thereabouts, perhaps at the first sign of Robin redbreast, or that first warm day when the driving ranges shed their winter cloak amongst still-melting snowpiles, anyone who has ever been a part of the Goodboys tradition gets to thinkin’ about warm July weekends, cold beers, blue skies, and emerald greens. They think about rekinding friendships and acquaintances, and and the usual what ever happed to so-and-so, the memories of years and good times and Goodboys past.

Because, in the end - unless you’re a cold-hearted, manipulative, and controlling son of a bitch - and the Goodboys know who I’m talking about - that’s what being a Goodboy is all about. It’s taking a weekend break from the humdrum of life, to whack a few balls, receive a few housecalls from “the Good Doctor”, and strive for the prized winner’s jacket and a share of the Spielberg Memorial Trophy - the epitome of success for every (well, almost every… sorry Goose!) Goodboy.

And this year, the 19th annual incarnation of this hallowed event, I’m pleased to announce that a bunch of fine chickens who had left the fold for several years have decided to come home to roost. Therefore, this year’s Goodboys will assemble a group of legendary participants like never seen before in the annals of Goodboys history and tradition. Consider the field assembled:

1. Doug “The Great White Shank” Richard - five-time winner (1991, 1993, 1996, 2000, 2007) and resident blogger and general keeper of the Goodboys flame

2. Pat “Doggy Duval” McLaughlin - four-time winner (1992, 1995, 1997, 2008) and reigning champion

3. Steve “Killer” Kowalski - three-time winner (1995, 2003, 2007)

4. Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis - three-time winner (1991, 1993, 1999) and resident rogue and all-about authority on just about everything

5. Paul “Possum” Shepter - two-time winner (2001, 2008) and reigning champion

6. Mike “Vegas” Clark - two-time winner (2002, 2004) and one blessed with the sweetest short game you’re likely to see on any Goodboys weekend

7. Jay “Crusher” Spielberg - two-time champ (1998,2001) and inspiration for the hallowed Spielberg Memorial Trophy

8. Tony “2 Times” Proctor - one-time winner (2004) and resident financial genius

9. Ron “Cubby” Myerow - one-time champion (2003) and artist-in-residence

10. Steve “Deuce” Doucette - one-time champ (2005) and survivor of Goodboys 2005

11. Bob “Bobcat” Kelley - one-time champ (1996) and back for the first time since 2001

12. Kevin “Goose” Dwyer - perennial “BGNTHNWAGC” (Best Goodboys Never To have Won A Goodboys Championship); without a doubt this is his year.

This year, the Goodboys will be taking a break from the Cape, those crazy New Yorkers, and the snail trail of cars snaking along Route 6 and the Yabbada-Dabbada bridge (or whatever it’s called) and return to New Hampshire for the first time since 1999. It promises to be a weekend of laughs and reminiscing, and planning for the “Big 20″ celebration slated for next year.

Me, I can’t wait.

It’s official, so book ‘em, Dano - the 19th annual Goodboys Invitational has itself a venue. After months of 24×7 work by a blue-ribbon panel reviewing proposals received from a dozen worthy venues from across New England, Portsmouth, New Hampshire’s dream of once again hosting a Goodboys Invitational event appears to have become a reality.

The choice of this popular summer destination by the sea follows weeks of speculation that the Goodboys were seriously considering a return ten years after the 9th annual tournament was held at Pease Golf Course back in 1999. That year the team of Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis and Steve “Bone” Piekarski confounded the pundits and experts by routing the field and capturing their only crown as a team.

Unlike in 1999, however, where the ‘Boys spent their weekend in a rather humble motor lodge setting, this year the Sheraton Harborside Portsmouth will be the official GB HQ, giving the lads a classy and convenient locale to ease the not-so-insignificant stresses and strains of a Goodboys Invitational weekend.

And the golf? On Saturday it will be a return to Pease G.C., followed on Sunday by a trip to the challenging and picturesque The Ledges G.C in nearby York, Maine. Even with York’s proximity to nearby Kittery (known for its shopping outlets), the only thing the Goodboys will likely be shopping for after a trip to The Ledges - if its reputation stays true to form - will be replacement golf balls!

Nevertheless, a wonderful time should be guaranteed for all. July can’t come soon enough.

Another work week coming to a close, another work week supposedly under control that went all kaplooey around midday Wednesday and hasn’t stopped yet…but still ya gotta blog.

Tracey’s off to a business conference in St. Louis, Missouri today. She’ll only be gone for a 1.5 days but I sure wish I was going with her, if only to find a place to sit by my beloved Mississippi to watch her roll along past towards dreamy places and contemplate life.

Tracey was mentioning last night that she didn’t like the idea of flying on Friday the 13th, and I told her to stop being nutty. My guess the fact that news about that commuter plane crash outside of Buffalo, New York being splashed across CNN across airport TVs won’t help her (and others) discomfort about flying any less. May God have mercy on the souls of those who died in the crash, and consolation for their families and loved ones.

What’s this I hear about New Hampshire and Pease G.C. being a finalist in the venues being considered for this July’s 19th annual Goodboys Invitational?

My how the years fly! God willing, next year at this time we’ll be talking about Myrtle Beach, South Carolina where, God willing, the Goodboys will be planning a triumphal visit to celebrate two decades of Goodboys gatherings. That’s a long, long time and a long, long way from Bethel, Maine where the first Goodboys weekend took place back in 1991.

That was quite a wind storm the Northeast had yesterday.

Utilities such as Jersey Central Power & Light in New Jersey reported downed power lines from wind-snapped trees. About 250,000 customers remained without power Thursday in Pennsylvania, and 140,000 more in Ohio. There were also about 109,000 outages in West Virginia, more than 35,000 in New Jersey and 14,900 in Michigan.

What a crazy winter it has been in the northeast this year! Wonder if the winds had anything at all to do with the plane crash. I’ve never felt comfortable in commuter planes.

The Boston Globe’s Nick Carfardo has a nice column today about the contrasts between two American League East competitors who have gathered in Florida for spring training. Look, they Yankees may indeed have assembled a fine team and will have a great year, but the amount of pressure they’ll be under to win it all between their fans, the NY media, and team ownership, will be beyond intense.

…And the A-Fraud steroids controversy isn’t getting things off on the right foot.

Phoenix, Arizona the second-worst kidnapping city in the world? I have friends with contacts in the border enforcement community who say Mexico is far closer to disintegration and civil war than people think due to the drug wars, and they can’t believe the media seems so uninterested or unwilling to cover it.

…But how can they bother with such trifling matters when they have their collectives lips permanently stitched to President Obama’s ass?

But more on that tomorrow…

It must have been a dream, as the weather was warm, puffy white clouds dotted the sky above, and a soft breeze stirred the scrub pines nearby. It was then I realized I was on a golf course, it was summer, and I was with the Goodboys. But these weren’t “The” Goodboys, but people who have nothing to do with the Goodboys but had somehow become Goodboys in my dream, if you know what I mean. After all, in dreams peoples and places tend to get kinda jumbled up.

What I remember was that I was on the Port Course at The Captains Golf Course in Brewster, Mass - home of the famous Goodboys Invitational annual golf tournament. I don’t think I was on the 8th hole, a mammoth 573-yard par 5 that has been my ruin ever since I first stepped forth onto the course; actually, I don’t know where I was - but somehow that 8th hole was in my head and at the center of my dream.

Ed. note: Sure this was a dream, but it easily could have been called a nightmare in the golf sense of the word. What has always made this particular hole so difficult for me is the challenge of accuracy and distance control - something that, when your golf nickname is The Great White Shank, you obviously don’t bring in spades. Assuming, of course, you can hit a decent drive off the tee (something I rarely do anyways), your second shot becomes kind of critical because at some point out there, the fairway starts sloping harshly downward towards a pond that lies at the bottom of the hill. If you go too far, you’re hitting on a downslope to an elevated green surrounded by woods on the back and left, so there’s precious little room for error.

Me, my hole usually goes something like this: my first shot is short off the tee or in rough or trees to the left or right, so I play out to the center of the fairway, but now I have to be concerned about not going too far so as to avoid hitting my next shot on that downslope, so I try to baby it and usually fluff it, whereby I now have to baby my fourth shot to get in a range I’m comfortable with, but of course I either hit it too far or too short meaning I’m now hitting my fifth on that freakin’ downslope or still way too far back to be comfortable so I either hit it in the pond or squirrel it off to the side or hit it too far into the woods, so now I’m either lying six or seven and have to play up to that elevated green but by then it’s like, “screw it”, it’s just as easy to take my double par (a Goodboys rule), save my strength, and have a sip of beer and focus on the next hole where I can go back to having at least a shot at having a decent hole, see you next year you freakin’ stupid hole I hate your freakin’ guts.

Or something like that.

So there I was with the Goodboys, but they weren’t the Goodboys I knew. Ron “Cubby” Myerow was there, as was my departed friend The Doc, but so was Nolita, the bartender at the pizza joint we get takeout from on Fridays (not only does Nolita not play golf, but why she was a Goodboys is anyone’s guess), and none other than Todd Palin, of all people, except I don’t think he looked like Todd Palin, but again, in dreams things get all jumbled. And no, I don’t remember seeing Sarah there with him. The strange thing was, although this was a golf dream, I wasn’t playing golf. Actually, I don’t remember what I was doing.

If this were truly a golf dream, me and Todd would be standing there surrounded by cute beer-cart girls and tossing back a brewskie when suddenly the heavens would open and the voice of David Leadbetter would read that day’s Gospel lesson…

“A reading from The Captain Golf Course’s website, front nine, 8th hole:

“A blast from the past from the original Captains. This par five will test your entire game from letting it go off the tee, picking the right spot for your second shot and the approach into a green guarded by a pond.”

“Here endeth today’s lesson. May the golf gods have mercy on your pathetic souls.”

“Don’t just stand there. Toss me a cold one, willya?”

…and suddenly everything would make sense and David would proceed to tell me the secret to playing the 8th hole on the Port Course at The Captains Golf Course in Brewster Massachusetts on the weekend of the Goodboys Invitational Golf Tournament with all my Goodboys friends.

Which, actually, in a way, was what happened. I awoke from my sleep and lie there, the whole weirdness of the dream washing over me and stuck in my head not unlike that Billy Mays “Awesome Auger” infomercial. Tracey was sound asleep beside me. In her cage next to the bed, Peanut (a.k.a., “The Little Bitch” was up to no good as usual, gnawing on her cage incessantly.

My first thought was to take that rabbit out for a swim in the pool, so tantalizingly close by - if you know what I mean.

But all of a sudden, it occurred to me that I had been playing that 8th hole at the Port Course wrong all these years. And I had me a revelation. You see, as a 30-handicap I long ago gave up the idea of shooting at pins like some half-assed Lee Trevino, satisfying myself with simply trying to play bogey golf - y’know, play the par 3s like par 4s, the par 4s like par 5s, etc. And while it’s not a perfect system, I have found my overall course management and decision-making improved and my scores settling into the 100-108 range more often than not.

And I awoke to realize the best way to approach the Port Course 8th hole was to play it like a par 6. First I fearlessly bang my drive out to the middle of the fairway. Then, caring not what happens to my next shot, I take out my 5-wood and hit it as far as I can, expecting pretty much that it’ll end up lost somewhere around the pond. Then, lying three, I pull out a short iron and bang it into the hill upon which the elevated green sits. I chip on, two putts, and at worst I’m double bogey. If I make a good chip or a good putt, I bogey the hole, and all I’m out is one more lost golf ball - something I’ve never cared about anyways.

It was all so clear to me. My golf dream really was a golf lesson of sorts. Now I can’t wait for next July and a chance to put my plan into effect. And if it works, I have a letter to Todd Palin I need to write. He’ll never believe it it, but maybe I’ll even get an invite to come up and meet Sarah.

Hearts have been heavy across Goodboys Nation these past two days at the news of the loss of one of the “Founding Fathers” of the Nation, Mike “Doc” Frechette (above right, with Ben “The Funny Guy” Andrusaitis), who passed away last week at the age of 60.

I first met The Doc (his nickname came from his being a Ph.D.) playing softball thirty years ago back in 1978 when a group of us acquainted with people from the old Lowell Star Market would play some of the University of Lowell - now UMass Lowell - faculty (he taught various Laboratory Sciences classes) and students down at the old South Campus fields. I guess we hit it off enough so that the next year, when I entered a softball team in the old Greater-Lowell Church League, he came along and stayed throughout my dozen years of managing the St. Anne’s softball team. The Doc was a Jerry Remy-esque banjo hitter who always hit for pretty good average and played all over the infield.

For the next 15+ years, The Doc and I were quite close - not best friends, but we hung out a lot together. He had divorced from his first wife in the late ’70s (something I don’t think he ever truly got over), and I saw him as a kind of pleasantly eccentric “renaissance man” with many interests that served to fill a lot of holes in his life. Besides being a popular college professor, he was a gourmet cook, could play songs on the piano by ear, did a lot of his own plumbing and carpentry, could sail a Sunfish with ease in a stiff wind, and loved to garden, golf, and cross-country ski. With his scientific mind, electronics interested him to no end: he was always picking up the latest electronic gadgets (the large satellite dish in his back yard being just one example), and was a computer geek from the Commodore 64 days; he would later use his computer to author a couple of college textbooks still in use today.

Given that he was seven years older and whole lot more worldly than I was, it was natural that in our relationship The Doc would always take the lead. He loved Mexican food, so I just had to be introduced to it - something I’ll always be grateful to him for. He needed someone to sail with, so he convinced me to buy a small sail boat of my own. He needed someone to go cross-country skiing with, so I bought cross-country skis. He wanted someone he could golf with, so I took up the game. The Doc loved to drive (he and his black Lab Cecil would travel all over northern New England just for the heck of it), and during the early-to-mid ’90s, we’d play golf on Fridays all over New Hampshire in the most out of the way places, then stop for Mexican food on the way back. Those were good days.

In 1991, The Doc was one of eight lads who, one August weekend, began the tradition of a golf weekend that ultimately led to “the Goodboys” and what we now call eighteen years later “Goodboys Nation”. The Doc was a two-time Goodboys champ; as a golfer he was always battling a fierce tendency to hook, and was renowned for his uncanny ability to either find balls he had driven into the woods with a perfect angle for getting out of trouble and the generous drops he would give himself (30-40 yards at times!) when his balls were truly lost.

No matter how many hobbies or interests Mike involved himself in, however, there were still a lot of hours in his life spent alone. And somewhere along the way - I think it was in the early ’90s, might have been earlier - the darkness began to close in. It was unnoticeable to me, but I began to hear from the friends we shared that those few beers or margaritas he would have socially with us was turning into something altogether different and sinister when he was immersed in the quiet loneliness of his house. I remember being shockied when his girlfriend at the time called me to say there had been “an episode”, and that he was drying out in a Manchester detox. I remember visiting him there one day and being shocked at what an alcoholic truly looked like; it wasn’t The Doc I had known.

After that episode, our relationship changed somewhat; while we remained good friends, there was a new sense of distance between us. The Doc seemed to come out of it a little older and a little more withdrawn, but with a harder edge. He dropped out of the Goodboys circle with the excuse that he needed to be sober, but I saw it as an excuse to withdraw further into himself. My new commitment to Christ and return to the Church widened that distance a bit more, and the close bond we had once shared began to loosen. By the time of my move to Kentucky in ‘98, he was becoming a bit more erratic in his personal life choices, dating and ultimately marrying a girl far younger (and far more unstable) than he was; when their relationship fell apart shortly afterwards, he was truly crushed.

Upon my return to Massachusetts in 2002, I tried re-kindling our friendship, but as much as I had changed, Mike had changed even more. The darkness that surrounded him by then was truly noticeable - I could feel it from a distance - and I felt as if I was talking to a stranger masquerading a deep sadness, remorse, and loneliness. We only saw each other twice in the year and a half prior to my move to Arizona. The last time I spoke to him was on a Christmas morning two years ago when he called me clear out of the blue. I could tell he had been drinking, and our conversation was just brief pleasantries: there’s not a whole lot you can say to someone you no longer really know after the toll of so many years and so many demons.

So hearing of Mike’s death on Tuesday was not that surprising; I had known from our Goodboys friend Jay “Crusher” Spielberg that he had been in quite bad shape, to the point where he was being cared for by his elderly mother. What was surprising was hearing of it from one of his former students who had been a friend and classmate of my wife’s, and someone we hadn’t heard from in years. (Note: I should mention here that it was all due to The Doc that I met and married Tracey. We met at one of the Christmas break parties he’d throw for his students, and he was best man at our wedding.) Mike was always one of the most popular faculty members at UMass-Lowell, and his death came as a shock to her, just as I’m sure it did to all those who remembered him fondly from years past.

What I’ll remember most about The Doc are those Christmas Eve afternoons of the ’80s and early ’90s, where, having completed all the hectic last-minute shopping and rushing around, we would meet at his friend Jack’s house in Pelham for a glass or two of cheer - often, Jack’s homemade rhubarb wine. There, as the cold December afternoon faded to dusk, situated in comfy chairs amidst blinking Christmas lights and soft holiday music, we’d recap the year soon to be past, and I’d sit there and listen to them bitch about university politics or the latest town gossip. Inevitably, the conversation would turn to warmer and brighter days to come: of the seed catalogs that would soon be arriving by mail, Jack’s plans for planting his “lower forty”, and, of course, the promise of another softball season or golf year around the corner.

I thought about those times yesterday as I lit a candle in his memory. Alcoholism - brutal, hard-core alcoholism - is a ghastly disease, incredibly hard to break free of once it gets its demonic hands grasped around your throat. And I prayed that God would grant Mike the serenity and the peace in death he was never really able to find in his life.

Rest in peace, Doc.