This post is way overdue. As such, I offer my apologies to the Board of Governors, The Executive Council, and to those dedicated souls who have called themselves Spinners for nearly 30 years. To make this right, here is their story.
In the '80s, the IRS was a hotbed of social activity. Sure, we scared the crap out of people just by showing up at their doors, snatched a few pay checks from little old ladies (who are much tougher than you may think), and upon occasion actually seized and sold other people's property to pay off their back taxes. It was an interesting but stressful line of work.
To alleviate this stress, we did many things. Partying was one. After-hours gatherings at local watering holes (I still remember Porter Street Station and the Lindell A.C.), softball games, picnics at Metro Parks, baseball games at Tiger Stadium, big time house parties - all were frequent occurrences. But one of the best team-building, stress-relieving, spiritually renewing activities for many of us were the golf outings. In some ways, they defined the social personality of the then Detroit/Southeast Michigan IRS operation.
These outings were special and very well attended, and for most included extended breakfasts catching up with work friends, 18 holes on a well-manicured course, and a rousing post-golf happy hour capped off with trophy presentations and a banquet approaching medieval gluttony. There was even an organization formed to schedule, administer and track the results of each year's events - the Internal Revenue Service Golf Association (or IRSGA).
At its peak there were five annual events as I recall, spread out from late spring to early fall. The first was the Data Center Open which was put on by a spring golf league sponsored by the old Data Center, a Detroit-based national IRS facility. That was followed by the Can-Am, an event jointly sponsored by the IRS Criminal Investigation Division and Revenue Canada and usually played at a favorite course just out of Windsor, Ontario. Then there was the Bigby, an outing started by and named after a beloved Collection Division Chief, Bill Bigby, and played at a variety of mainly west side courses, usually around mid-summer.
The oldest of all these outings, The Desedlo Open, followed in September. This outing, sponsored by the summer IRS golf league and named for a former Exam Division Chief, was usually played either at the Selfridge Air Force Base course or the Pontiac Country Club, whichever of them would have us at the time (owing to rumored disorderly behavior both on the course and/or at the banquet, the outing was at times banned from both of these courses). The Desedlo also had the distinction of breaking the local golf gender barrier when in 1979 a foursome of women was allowed to play. They were scheduled last off the tee and had to quit after nine holes due to darkness, but nonetheless made history. That foursome was made up of four Collection Division managers - Gloria Jean Boyd, Patty Cooper, Claire Brooks, and (you guessed it) one Nancy Louise LeRoy, who that next spring would become my bride.
This cycle of links revelry was then completed with a very popular scramble (teams of players with different levels of ability competing against each other) sponsored by staffers from the Collection Division and usually played at one of the downriver courses. All in all, each year was a grand golf ride with much fun, camaraderie and informal team building that promoted relations at work among key players from the various IRS divisions.
So what has all this to do with the Spinner Invitational? Everything. Due to some cosmic anomaly, I and my usual playing partners in those days were, shall we say, golf challenged. In previous posts, you've heard me describe my attitude toward golf. I would say that my bosom golf buddies (Al "The Bear" Morrison and Bruce "Sledge" Cooke) were of similar ilk. We loved the outings but were seldom in the running for any prizes, as the competition (unfairly, we felt) rewarded good golfers. But we (and our entry fees) were warmly welcomed by all, despite the character of our play.
Then things changed. It was during the Can-Am of 1988. I remember it vividly to this day. It had been a particularly difficult round of golf, played in brutal heat, that saw an impressive number of golf balls disappear from the confines of our foursome. Understandably, our scores reflected our performance. To add fuel to the fire, our entry fees for this event (and for most other IRSGA outings of that time) had been rising steadily, to of course buy fancier trophies for the good golfers. Suffice it to say, Bear, Sledge and Chico (my sports name - a story for another time) were not in the most gracious of moods.
And then it happened. When the person recording the scores for the tournament (who for purposes of this post will remain nameless) came to our card, he was overcome by the depth of our achievements and blurted out a few disparaging remarks about our (lack of) golfing prowess. And with more than one guffaw. Within earshot of us and several witnesses. We took umbrage. Way.
As we humbly huddled in the corner eating our overpriced, under-cooked steak, rubbing our aching and blistered fingers, lamenting our loss of little white orbs, and soothing our bruised egos, we began to simmer. Then boil. It was one thing to accept that the game we loved would always get the better of us. It was quite another for others who we deemed to be of doubtful lineage, to draw unseemly enjoyment from our plight. So as all oppressed peoples eventually do, we slowly turned our quiet rage into conviction, and vowed to each other never to be hungry for golf recognition again.
Being determined but cautious types, we needed a plan. So early the next week, I and my brother duffers met to begin sorting things out. We decided that for just a little more money and a modicum of effort, we could create our own golf outing. And the reduction in aggravation would be more than worth the investment. We started by picking a course far away from the IRSGA - Bay Valley, just north of Saginaw - and recruited a kindred spirit (Jeff "St. Jeffrey" DeNeen, who was working in the Saginaw IRS office at the time) to fill out our foursome. A couple of weeks later we headed up I-75, and as it turned out, into the future.
We had the best time golfing that day that we could ever remember (except for Jeff, who despite shooting an 86 remembers very little about that day due to a roughly 12-hour bout of Anheuser's Disease). We loved the course, which was challenging for a duffer but interesting and fair. It was a beautiful sunny day, and no one fell out of a cart (despite a fair amount of liquid encouragement - the beer cart girl did well that day). And we each actually had some good holes. Afterwards, we had a great dinner at a local pub and headed out on the 100-mile trip home sun-buzzed, renewed, and content. Now that's what amateur golf should be all about.
We had such a good time that day in 1988, that we decided to do it again sometime. And, we thought some of our other friends just might enjoy it, too. So that fall we formed the Spinner Board of Governors (named after our bowling team) and set about planning a full outing for 1989. But how do you get people interested in a golf tournament 100 miles away from home, that isn't really about golf? At least not about golf in the usual way.
Exclusivity seemed to be one idea that had appeal. Everyone likes to be asked. That's where the invitational part came up. We decided to only invite golfers that, well, we liked, and that generally shared our view of the true role of golf in the bigger picture of life. A little selfish, maybe. But, hey, it was our party (admittedly, this resulted in very small outings the first few years). To give form to this exclusivity, we ordered and mailed engraved invitations to the lucky few who survived the eligibility test.
Another challenge was how to generate a little friendly competition (we were boys, after all) that would give every participant a fair chance to win. So we came up with the now legendary prizes of the Turtle - most shots ending up in a sand trap, the Squirrel - most shots whose flight was affected by a tree (or other substantial golf course flora), and the Duck - the most shots coming to rest in water (non-casual, of course). With the heavy woods, many traps, winding river and ponds found at the Bay Valley course, even invitees with a degree of mastery of the game would have a chance to score one of these special awards.
To cap off the structure of the outing and solidify it as a true tournament, we created the Governor's Trophy. Honoring the Spinner spirit of participation over prowess, this trophy is awarded to the low net score of the day, calculating handicap at 100% of the difference between par and each golfer's average from previous Spinner Invitationals. This calculation represented a bit of a challenge the first couple of years, but with the right attitude and some fuzzy math, we muddled through. This approach to scoring has proved its worth over time as golfers at the middle and high end of the handicap spectrum have won about 80% of the tournaments. And the #1 seed (the golfer with the lowest handicap) has never won (poor babies).
But before I get into how the Invitational has unfolded and evolved through its 27 years, let me close this post and get it to press. That will correct my inexcusable tardiness in sharing the story of the Spinner Invitational's origins with those of you who have supported and/or suffered through it with us all these years. We'll explore the early days of Spinner history, complete with photo documentation, in my next post.
Until then, hit'em straight but watch out for those trees. They're not really 90% air.
Grosse Pointe Charles
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Things I've Learned Since Retirement - Part 1
Or - facts of life that have gotten my attention of late. This is only Part 1 because I don't think the learning is over.
In an earlier post - 65 - I shared some observations about how I believe life works. These were derived from 65 years of getting up everyday and facing the world, including nearly 40 years of helping others tidy up personal relationships with their government. And in another post - One Year - I described how my life had changed since retirement, especially in the area of personal fitness. I've experienced nothing since the writing of those posts to change those beliefs. But now, after almost three years of not working for a living (thank you taxpayers of America), a few additional truths have revealed themselves to me. So I thought I'd pass them on.
Nothing is forever. This might seem like an easy one. But I have to admit, I'm really just getting it. I have been blessed with longevity in my life, in many ways. First, I'm in my late 60s, still basically living my life the same way I have since I was in my 20s (or at least my early 30s). The more cynical of you (you know who you are) are probably thinking that's because I was behaving pretty much like a 60 year old even then - avoiding risk, staying between the lines, enjoying the same activities over and over. And you'd be right. But I just think of it as finding my groove early and getting the most out of it.
So up until recently, my working assumption has been that the good friends, the parties, the music, the travel, and the overall good fortune I've enjoyed my whole life would be endless. But with the passing of my father last year, the loss of our troubled but beloved dog Kody in November, and a number of other less weighty events (cottage pine trees keeling over, old cassette tape players giving out, my favorite denim shirts frayed beyond repair) it's finally sinking in that life is more linear than circular, and that the only true constant is change.
But as is my nature, I see the bright side of this realization. And that is how really fortunate I have been in my family and friends all these years, and how thankful I should be for each new event and experience I still have before me. So I'm okay with this new found insight, and looking forward to what comes next.
Recharging time is directly proportional to age. Again, this might be a no-brainer for most. But there's a difference between knowing in general that people slow down with age, and realizing that your fingers won't actually close all the way in the morning until you've been up and around for 10-15 minutes. Fortunately, I don't normally have to grip a golf club or turn an ignition key until after this "re-booting" period has passed.
When I was working, and often running on six hours of sleep, I remember thinking about the good old college days when I could function successfully for several days on as little as four hours of sleep a night (I admit the term "function successfully" is subjective). Now, if I don't get eight hours in the sack I feel old and slow. Okay, I am old and slow. But with enough sleep I'm pretty good at deluding myself into believing everyone else is just in a big rush. And as we all know, delusions are critical to well-being.
I can still independently perform just about every physical task I want (or need) to. But I spend more time prepping (read - trying to avoid), employ prostheses whenever possible, and take more breaks (bathroom and otherwise - recharging takes many forms). But not to worry, as a retiree I have all the time there is, right? And, yes, those yellow senior tees are looking more inviting all the time.
Eventually, we all have chemical dependencies. You just have to have the right ones. Those would be the ones suggested by the array of physicians that usher us into our golden years. This reality came roaring into my consciousness when I had my little chest pain scare last September. It turned out that I had just strained a couple of chest muscles with an aggressive Frisbee toss. But having no prior experience with the discomfort I was feeling, I suspected the worst.
When you walk into an emergency room and utter the words "chest pain", several things happen. One of the more mundane is that somewhere between being thrust onto a gurney and becoming the victim of emergency diagnostic procedures, someone interviews you about your medications. Before this adventure, I thought medications only referred to expensive pharmaceuticals with 15+ letter names. Not to the staff of the Alpena Regional Medical Facility. They wanted to know everything I routinely ingest that comes out of a bottle. Low dose aspirin, One-A-Days, Vitamin D chews, the occasional Tums, "medicinal" alcohol - these ranked equally important in their eyes with the more exotic concoctions available only through prescription.
While I was reciting my list for the technician, I was struck by the number and variety of chemicals I actually do consume on a regular/semi-regular basis. I had never really thought about it in that way, and I had to ask myself why I was taking all this stuff. The answer, of course, was because each of these little chemical miracles makes me feel better. And at least to date, none of them has done me any harm. I've also noticed that upon occasion when I fail to take one of my regular goodies, I don't feel as well.
The net effect of all this pill-popping is that I've become much more aware of how my body works, how best to avoid taxing it beyond its current limits, and what chemicals can provide a little help when needed. So let's hear it for better living through chemistry.
You can never have too much garage. This fear was recently confirmed by my good friend Jeff Reinhart who has more garage than anyone else I know. Many of you know that Nancy and I have just added a one and a half car garage to our cottage in Greenbush. This project started out as an effort to replace our failing shed, and well, sort of got out of hand. (The full story of the new garage will be told at a later date, with pictures.)
But as I was moving all the stuff that used to be in my 10' by 10' shed into my 22' by 16' garage, complete with a second story bedroom, I felt things were just a tad cramped. Then I realized I had also relocated a lot of items previously stored in the cottage closets, the laundry room, and the front yard into the garage. And, yes, there were just a few new tools and garage maintenance devices hanging there on the walls as well. Before I was done, just about every nook and cranny of the new garage was in service as a storage space. And though I am completely happy with my new "barn", I can hear that little voice in my head whispering, "You should have made it just a little bit bigger".
One car is enough. Now, I admit that my situation has evolved. At one time we had four cars crowding our driveway, each with a different principal driver. Now with the girls gone and me retired, Nancy and I decided to try going with only one car. The experiment began last summer. The logic went something like this. Less money spent on cars could mean more money for toys and fun. Being a boy, this argument for me was intuitive. And as Nancy shares my zeal for fun, she didn't take much convincing.
For us, the adjustment wasn't difficult. First, we are either at the cottage, on the road visiting friends or vacationing down south about half of a typical year. That's all "one-car" time anyway. When we are home, most of our outings are done together. That leaves only errands and the occasional girls or boys event to worry about. Potential conflicts regarding these activities are easily avoided through our regular Monday morning calendar sessions (I know, you're shocked. The Burks having a calendar session?) So basically, we couldn't see paying a few thousand dollars a year for a second car just in case Nancy wanted to go to the market at the same time I needed a haircut.
The trick, of course, is being willing to spend most of your waking hours in the presence (or at least the vicinity) of your spouse. But isn't that why we got married in the first place? To be together constantly? (Pardon me for a few seconds while I go pry my tongue out of my cheek.)
Scoring in golf is optional - perhaps even unwise. An ex-acquaintance of mine once asked, "If you can't get to the green in two, why would you play golf at all?" Obviously this soul was lost. But I have to admit that until the last year or so, I always found myself toting a scorecard, noting each swing, putt and penalty shot, hoping to score just a little bit better than my playing partner or at least better than my last round.
But I've entered a new phase. And while I still upon occasion will be obligated to keep score, it's not why I'm out there. The real beauty of golf is the variety of pleasures that it affords, the very least of which is using only as many shots per hole as someone you never met thinks you should.
First, there is the sheer beauty of most golf courses. Green with all sorts of flora. Deftly integrated into rolling hills, gurgling streams and thickly treed forests. And groomed daily by armies of groundskeepers.
Then there's the exercise value. Walking back and forth across fairways as you tack your way to the green. Slogging through ball-eating brush and cavernous sand traps to track down errant shots. And the deep-knee bends involved with sizing up those three and four putt greens.
But the best part of all is hauling back and crushing that little pill with all your might, driving the ball a full 40-50 yards at a time. It just feels good to purge that festering aggression you've been denying. Even better if you are able to picture the face of a favorite ne'er-do-well on the back side of the ball as you start your downswing. Whew. I get the shakes just thinking about it.
So scoring? Completely optional. And take as many swings as you need to work things out. There are few activities available to me and my peerage as attractive as an afternoon enjoying the multi-dimensional joys of golf.
Well, that's enough sharing for this round. As always, I would like to hear from any of you who have had your own learning experiences in recent months, about the golden years or any other pursuit.
Grosse Pointe Charles
In an earlier post - 65 - I shared some observations about how I believe life works. These were derived from 65 years of getting up everyday and facing the world, including nearly 40 years of helping others tidy up personal relationships with their government. And in another post - One Year - I described how my life had changed since retirement, especially in the area of personal fitness. I've experienced nothing since the writing of those posts to change those beliefs. But now, after almost three years of not working for a living (thank you taxpayers of America), a few additional truths have revealed themselves to me. So I thought I'd pass them on.
Nothing is forever. This might seem like an easy one. But I have to admit, I'm really just getting it. I have been blessed with longevity in my life, in many ways. First, I'm in my late 60s, still basically living my life the same way I have since I was in my 20s (or at least my early 30s). The more cynical of you (you know who you are) are probably thinking that's because I was behaving pretty much like a 60 year old even then - avoiding risk, staying between the lines, enjoying the same activities over and over. And you'd be right. But I just think of it as finding my groove early and getting the most out of it.
So up until recently, my working assumption has been that the good friends, the parties, the music, the travel, and the overall good fortune I've enjoyed my whole life would be endless. But with the passing of my father last year, the loss of our troubled but beloved dog Kody in November, and a number of other less weighty events (cottage pine trees keeling over, old cassette tape players giving out, my favorite denim shirts frayed beyond repair) it's finally sinking in that life is more linear than circular, and that the only true constant is change.
But as is my nature, I see the bright side of this realization. And that is how really fortunate I have been in my family and friends all these years, and how thankful I should be for each new event and experience I still have before me. So I'm okay with this new found insight, and looking forward to what comes next.
Recharging time is directly proportional to age. Again, this might be a no-brainer for most. But there's a difference between knowing in general that people slow down with age, and realizing that your fingers won't actually close all the way in the morning until you've been up and around for 10-15 minutes. Fortunately, I don't normally have to grip a golf club or turn an ignition key until after this "re-booting" period has passed.
When I was working, and often running on six hours of sleep, I remember thinking about the good old college days when I could function successfully for several days on as little as four hours of sleep a night (I admit the term "function successfully" is subjective). Now, if I don't get eight hours in the sack I feel old and slow. Okay, I am old and slow. But with enough sleep I'm pretty good at deluding myself into believing everyone else is just in a big rush. And as we all know, delusions are critical to well-being.
I can still independently perform just about every physical task I want (or need) to. But I spend more time prepping (read - trying to avoid), employ prostheses whenever possible, and take more breaks (bathroom and otherwise - recharging takes many forms). But not to worry, as a retiree I have all the time there is, right? And, yes, those yellow senior tees are looking more inviting all the time.
Eventually, we all have chemical dependencies. You just have to have the right ones. Those would be the ones suggested by the array of physicians that usher us into our golden years. This reality came roaring into my consciousness when I had my little chest pain scare last September. It turned out that I had just strained a couple of chest muscles with an aggressive Frisbee toss. But having no prior experience with the discomfort I was feeling, I suspected the worst.
When you walk into an emergency room and utter the words "chest pain", several things happen. One of the more mundane is that somewhere between being thrust onto a gurney and becoming the victim of emergency diagnostic procedures, someone interviews you about your medications. Before this adventure, I thought medications only referred to expensive pharmaceuticals with 15+ letter names. Not to the staff of the Alpena Regional Medical Facility. They wanted to know everything I routinely ingest that comes out of a bottle. Low dose aspirin, One-A-Days, Vitamin D chews, the occasional Tums, "medicinal" alcohol - these ranked equally important in their eyes with the more exotic concoctions available only through prescription.
While I was reciting my list for the technician, I was struck by the number and variety of chemicals I actually do consume on a regular/semi-regular basis. I had never really thought about it in that way, and I had to ask myself why I was taking all this stuff. The answer, of course, was because each of these little chemical miracles makes me feel better. And at least to date, none of them has done me any harm. I've also noticed that upon occasion when I fail to take one of my regular goodies, I don't feel as well.
The net effect of all this pill-popping is that I've become much more aware of how my body works, how best to avoid taxing it beyond its current limits, and what chemicals can provide a little help when needed. So let's hear it for better living through chemistry.
You can never have too much garage. This fear was recently confirmed by my good friend Jeff Reinhart who has more garage than anyone else I know. Many of you know that Nancy and I have just added a one and a half car garage to our cottage in Greenbush. This project started out as an effort to replace our failing shed, and well, sort of got out of hand. (The full story of the new garage will be told at a later date, with pictures.)
But as I was moving all the stuff that used to be in my 10' by 10' shed into my 22' by 16' garage, complete with a second story bedroom, I felt things were just a tad cramped. Then I realized I had also relocated a lot of items previously stored in the cottage closets, the laundry room, and the front yard into the garage. And, yes, there were just a few new tools and garage maintenance devices hanging there on the walls as well. Before I was done, just about every nook and cranny of the new garage was in service as a storage space. And though I am completely happy with my new "barn", I can hear that little voice in my head whispering, "You should have made it just a little bit bigger".
One car is enough. Now, I admit that my situation has evolved. At one time we had four cars crowding our driveway, each with a different principal driver. Now with the girls gone and me retired, Nancy and I decided to try going with only one car. The experiment began last summer. The logic went something like this. Less money spent on cars could mean more money for toys and fun. Being a boy, this argument for me was intuitive. And as Nancy shares my zeal for fun, she didn't take much convincing.
For us, the adjustment wasn't difficult. First, we are either at the cottage, on the road visiting friends or vacationing down south about half of a typical year. That's all "one-car" time anyway. When we are home, most of our outings are done together. That leaves only errands and the occasional girls or boys event to worry about. Potential conflicts regarding these activities are easily avoided through our regular Monday morning calendar sessions (I know, you're shocked. The Burks having a calendar session?) So basically, we couldn't see paying a few thousand dollars a year for a second car just in case Nancy wanted to go to the market at the same time I needed a haircut.
The trick, of course, is being willing to spend most of your waking hours in the presence (or at least the vicinity) of your spouse. But isn't that why we got married in the first place? To be together constantly? (Pardon me for a few seconds while I go pry my tongue out of my cheek.)
Scoring in golf is optional - perhaps even unwise. An ex-acquaintance of mine once asked, "If you can't get to the green in two, why would you play golf at all?" Obviously this soul was lost. But I have to admit that until the last year or so, I always found myself toting a scorecard, noting each swing, putt and penalty shot, hoping to score just a little bit better than my playing partner or at least better than my last round.
But I've entered a new phase. And while I still upon occasion will be obligated to keep score, it's not why I'm out there. The real beauty of golf is the variety of pleasures that it affords, the very least of which is using only as many shots per hole as someone you never met thinks you should.
First, there is the sheer beauty of most golf courses. Green with all sorts of flora. Deftly integrated into rolling hills, gurgling streams and thickly treed forests. And groomed daily by armies of groundskeepers.
Then there's the exercise value. Walking back and forth across fairways as you tack your way to the green. Slogging through ball-eating brush and cavernous sand traps to track down errant shots. And the deep-knee bends involved with sizing up those three and four putt greens.
But the best part of all is hauling back and crushing that little pill with all your might, driving the ball a full 40-50 yards at a time. It just feels good to purge that festering aggression you've been denying. Even better if you are able to picture the face of a favorite ne'er-do-well on the back side of the ball as you start your downswing. Whew. I get the shakes just thinking about it.
So scoring? Completely optional. And take as many swings as you need to work things out. There are few activities available to me and my peerage as attractive as an afternoon enjoying the multi-dimensional joys of golf.
Well, that's enough sharing for this round. As always, I would like to hear from any of you who have had your own learning experiences in recent months, about the golden years or any other pursuit.
Grosse Pointe Charles
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