September 21, 2010 - Ralph Cissne
I hesitate to offer unsolicited advice during a round of golf unless I expect unfolding events may require the Heimlich maneuver. This technique becomes a challenge should a player choke under the pressure of a $10 bet and their girth exceeds your grasp. A casual skins game among my circle of friends is like playing in an amusement park attended by jokers like Silent Slim, Frogman, Willie, Starch and Lucas the Impaler. None of us are saints, but we can play and generally watch what we eat with the exception of Starch whose stomach looks like he’s into his third trimester. It’s a sign of our times that so many bodies could use Haggar Expand-o-Matic slacks.
On the first tee recently Starch rubbed in his Buddha belly and proudly proclaimed, “Look, I’ve lost ten pounds.” There was a moment of silence, but only a moment. “Who are you kidding?” the Impaler countered. “We haven’t seen your belt buckle since the Clinton administration.” Starch did not back down. “My stomach is solid muscle,” he said. “Watch this launch angle.” He gripped and ripped his Pro V1 deep down the fairway. “Don’t you mean ‘lunch’ angle?” The Impaler laughed. “When you speed dial Domino’s tonight lounging in your rusting Ab Rocker, order extra anchovies and tell them to hold the pizza.”
As a teenager I was inspired by the discipline of South African Gary Player who was the first professional golfer committed to proper diet and physical fitness. Gary and I are similar size and I’ve followed his example over the years, especially now that the younger flat bellies crush it 320. But my friend Starch doesn’t want any advice on moderation or the consciousness of caloric restriction. Starch is a good sport and a generous soul who is always eager to treat for the pizzas at a card game. The opportunity, when you’re doing Domino’s, is to refrain from eating an entire 2,500-calorie pizza by yourself. Some things, like a good laugh in a casual round, are most satisfying when they are shared. WOGJune 14, 2011 - Ralph Cissne
Many of my closest golf friends are bachelors. The older ones have been married and are compelled to coach the twenty-some-things on the rewards of patience. The few friends who are married don’t seem to play as often as the others. Even if you love golf it is reasonable that you love your family more. Like an effective golf swing, healthy relationships require stability, balance and perspective.
About a year ago I started leaving my sneakers untied. I don’t wear shoes in my place (it’s a yoga thing) so this is convenient for my lifestyle as I live at the beach now. Unless on a long walk the laces hang loose like looping black waves above my arches. Some evenings I roam the strand by the ocean with my shoes untied and consider using the beach as a practice bunker, but haven’t made that happen. You never know when you may need to play a shot from wet packed sand.
During our marriage the wife never complained about my passion for golf, but after our divorce her experience unrolled like a Persian rug. Her voice was calm yet firm and, in that moment, surprisingly attractive. I was completely attentive when she said, “For seven long years all you did was play golf, practice golf, talk about golf and watch golf on television.” A revelation because I never thought that behavior was abnormal. You learn a lot when someone suddenly stops laughing at your jokes.
Several years later, filled with reflection and existential bachelorhood, I wrote this poem: “Fools fall in love and, clutching their remorse, fools fall apart. The wise move into love like a comfortable old home with lots of room to be alone together.” It’s instructive to be clear about what you want and the choices we make. That way you avoid considerable pain, suffering or arguing about how much time you spend watching The Golf Channel.
A woman I met recently listened to a few of my stories and laughed before she said, “My god, I don’t even know you and I already feel like a golf widow.” Not everyone understands the value of self-reliance and the lessons of golf, the challenge the game represents and the opportunity to discover more of who we are. And there are some who do. We move on, raking bunkers whether we stepped in them or not. I wonder how your passion for golf has influenced the quality of your relationships? WOG
August 6, 2014 - Ralph Cissne
Frank Early III was a good man who loved golf and my friend for almost twenty years. When I learned of his passing last Saturday I spent most of the balance of the weekend in a state of shock and sadness knowing I would never see his smiling white bearded face again.
Everyone who belongs to a golf club understands the often challenging and thankless task of running tournaments. It is like herding feral cats, but Frank Early made it look easy. He served in a variety of roles for the Woodley Lakes Men’s Golf Club including web master and photographer. He loved the club and the members, something that was obvious to anyone who paid attention.
In 2011 I advised Frank that our club championship would be my last tournament as I was moving to Oklahoma to be close to my family. I had my game face on when the tournament weekend arrived. The morning of the final round Frank approached with a large envelope. “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”
Inside was a portfolio filled with Frank’s tournament photographs and Woodley Wedge newsletter articles that recounted my years in the club. As I turned the pages I was overwhelmed and speechless, a profoundly unusual condition for me, and struggled not to break down. I gathered my emotions yet tears filled my eyes. “This is the most thoughtful gift,” I said. “Anyone has ever given to me.”
Frank smiled. “We wanted you to know how much we enjoyed having you in the club,” he said. “And how much we love you.”
There are the brothers and sisters of birth and the brothers and sisters we choose. Frank was one of the later, an authentic and caring soul who always made my day. A year ago I was visiting Los Angeles and Frank arranged for me to play in a home tournament. It was wonderful to see the familiar faces of my Woodley golf brothers. A few days later I stopped by Golfsmith to see Frank. I thanked him again for the years of friendship and for his thoughtfulness. I recall clearly the smile on his face as we shook hands for what would be the last time.
So I am at a loss. Knowing Frank Early III made a difference in my life. I told him so and am grateful we shared that awareness and understanding. That we did not withhold. I will let that be the legacy of Frank’s gift – to be more patient and thoughtful in everything I do, on the golf course and throughout my life. And to acknowledge the brothers and sisters of choice.
Namaste.July 29, 2014 - Ralph Cissne
What has my life become? That’s an existential question my close friends and I may discuss over a proper beverage. For fifty years many of my most memorable moments have involved golf, the great friends I have made and the personal triumphs I have realized. Triumphs? Yes, because golf is a test of will and character. Golf is a play to overcome the self-imposed limitations of the reactive brain. “Whatever you do,” the fearful primitive brain whispers. “Don’t hit it left.” You either commit to play the shot or you don’t. Just like life.
My first hands-on golf instruction was in June of 1964. I recall with reverence that early morning at Lincoln Park Golf Club, remnants of shimmering dew clinging to the practice green, the sun on my face and the smell of fresh cut grass. The junior golfers assembled were attentive as the instructor demonstrated proper etiquette, grip and swing mechanics. I was prepared for this moment as I had taken my share of divots from my mother’s Bermuda grass lawn, deeds that would have extracted severe punishment except she loved golf and understood the promise the game would bring to my life. I recall the clutch of fear on that first tee box and how it evaporated with the sweet and certain satisfaction of a solid strike reverberating in my young hands.
Last weekend, in the second round of the Lake Hefner Club Championship, I stood on the first tee reflecting on my golf life. The attending starter helped a player load his equipment on my cart. When my name was called I hit my drive down the middle. The rest of the group followed. When we reached the fairway my cart mate connected a mini speaker and turned on classic rock loud enough you could hear it a hundred feet away. He was my age and, judging from his game, had played as long. I asked myself: on what parallel universe would 60s pool party music be appropriate in tournament golf? The situation was so absurd I laughed to myself. I tuned it out, hit my approach shot fifteen feet and birdied the hole. The music played. The next hole I hit it twelve feet and made the putt center cut. I had a vision. Now I’m two under.
On the next tee the breeze freshened. The mini speaker belched Kentucky Woman by Neil Diamond – a song I happen to love. I had a 60s flashback and knew I have to say something, but I did not. I blocked my drive, pulled my second shot and missed a putt for par. On the next tee I waited until my musical cart mate hit his drive then asked – politely – to please kill the music. He seemed stunned, but complied. A chill fell over the group. We played on. I made another bogey. On the following hole I settled down and the rocker called the clubhouse to bring a second cart. They did and through the remainder of the round, we went about our business. At the end I removed my cap and shook everyone’s hand. I considered asking the music man, “What were you thinking?” But I let it go. I’m sure there were underlying issues. Everyone has them. All I wanted was quiet.
I share this story because the sanctity and consciousness of the game has shifted. Consciousness? Yes, an awareness of your self and others, and the collective experience we share doing what the anarchists and unenlightened consider too difficult. The equipment has evolved, the balls fly farther and yet I find myself laying up to a comfortable yardage on par fives. The temptation to go for it every time passed years ago. In this my 50th golf anniversary summer I frequently play alone late in the afternoon when shadows grow long. I pause with the Oklahoma sunset understanding that quiet reflective moment is all I have. It is the promise the game held for me fifty years ago, the promise that continues as long as I play. While I have tasted my share of victory and defeat I have also come to know myself, something I am certain my mother wanted most for me.
May 4, 2013 - Ralph Cissne
People often say, “I’m not creative. I wish I was, but I’m not.” My inquisitive response, offered with Zen-like compassion, “Have you ever made a sandwich?” With the inevitable affirmation I congratulate them on acknowledging the power of creativity. We easily praise the accomplishments of others, but instructive to realize our creativity is a birthright that must be exercised, like when you choose a spinach salad over pastrami on rye.
Thought is creative. Once you choose to make a salad or a sandwich the process of creating flows from the clear vision of the chosen result. You do not have to analyze the process. Far too often we become confused or trapped in analysis, mechanics and reference books. Focus on the sensory feedback and satisfaction you experience with completion. Taste the result you have chosen.
I met a very bright high school golfer recently. When asked about her game she shared her ball striking was solid, but erratic putting held her back. “Have you tried putting by sense of smell?” I asked. She laughed and we discussed the matrix of choice, creativity and self-confidence. If you take a breath and have a clear vision of the chosen result – making a putt or winning a golf tournament – the mind acknowledges, the result is perceived as accomplished and the body relaxes into alignment. It’s a mature mindset that, with practice, produces results.
I encouraged her to be fearless and recommended she read my book, Will of Golf: Mastering the Mind-Body Connection. A month later the friend who introduced us advised the grateful golfer had read the book and was very excited to report shooting 67 and winning her regional high school tournament.
Golf has been my mind-game laboratory for most of my life as the choices made in a round of golf have immediate results. An essential aspect of the Will of Golf program is The Choice to Think Chapter adapted from Frank Natale’s foundational course Results: The Willingness to Create. I took the instructors training to present this material in 1987 and have since experienced waves of exponential creative energy that I have eagerly shared with friends, clients and though my writing.
“As a species we have evolved to a level of consciousness that challenges us to embrace our responsibility as creators,” Frank Natale writes in the Results course introduction. “With this higher level of awareness we may no longer claim ignorance. Reclaiming and celebrating our creative power is essential to our individual survival and to healing our families, communities and the planet.”
Making the choice to think is fundamental to exercising your creativity, whether you want to improve your sports performance, relationships or make a delicious spinach salad. Think about it and encourage others to do the same.
May 3, 2012 - Ralph Cissne
Those who live in fear of their own thoughts tend to leave approach shots short. It is doubtful the occupy movement will squat on any golf courses this summer or drive a zero-emission replica of Bo Duke’s General Lee down Magnolia Lane to next year’s Masters. The membership would not have it. The irony of these intersecting considerations is that with the game of golf it is advantageous to occupy your self. I meet many authentic people through golf. The more you relax into who you are the more enjoyable life becomes.
Congratulations to Bubba Watson, though. Frank Sinatra would be proud of him being true to his inner Bubba. There’s no apparent pretense in Watson’s approach to the game and ability to create mind-bending shots. The downside of the post-Masters press coverage was the resurgence of the “The Golf Boys” hip-hop video. Those guys busted moves for all the right reasons, but that ditty is unbearable to watch. I understand because I have committed my share of squirrel-certified acts – like at age 12 when I wore a fedora to a neighborhood teen party. I thought it was cool to impersonate Sinatra. I was wrong. I looked like an idiot. Bubba wears the bill of his visor pointed in the right direction so he has that going for him. And he does not use a belly putter.
If the occupy movement staged a “fair share” golf tournament fundraiser would they all use belly putters? Or mandate that all putts inside three feet be given? Perhaps, in tribute to Karl Marx, they wouldn’t keep score? Without competition would there be any viewers or sponsors? Unlikely when you hate capitalism. Some of my closest friends have used belly putters. I don’t fault them for avoiding the forward bend. When you get older stooping can become a painful affair. But Bubba did not use a belly putter to win the Masters. Or a swing coach. He’s old school authentic and to be applauded. During the last couple of rounds I have often thought, “How would Bubba Watson play this shot?” That brings me into the moment where creativity patiently waits and The Dukes of Hazzard theme song rolls merrily through my mind.