Golf Team Website
Of Heroes & Autographs
Life Lessons in Persistence and Admiration
By: Mason Champion, PGA
Persistence is a word often repeated throughout Boys' Latin Golf Team practice. In encouraging perseverance and determination, we aim to construct a firm resolve in the hearts and minds of our players. The blessings of such an attribute remains with the player and serves his development on and off the golf course.
Additionally, we encourage our players to place their admiration on the shoulders of purposeful causes rather than at the feet of empty idols - and to share their hopes and their burdens with associated family members and close friends. In doing so they come to appreciate the love and support found within those avenues - and recognize the true heroes in their life.
This is a story that reflects those lessons; and one that I am happy to share.
Growing up in Central Pennsylvania, I didn’t find myself particularly close to any Major League Baseball Teams. Drives to both Philadelphia and Pittsburgh were each roughly four hours. Baltimore was nearly as far. New York felt like another country.
But baseball was alive and well in our town. Neighborhood kids would don their gloves and grab their bats for good old fashioned backyard games played countless times in the open fields and lots across town. And every spring, Little League try-outs would welcome eager young men enthused about the opportunity to prove their mettle against their friends and classmates.
Indeed, baseball’s Spring Fever never ceased to befall our small town – nor did it ever fail to inflict me with the blinding excitement that lay at the root of its lure…and a remarkable pedestal upon which all of its professional participants were placed.
In my eyes, to be a major league baseball player was to be near-celestial – begotten of all that was true and pure. It was the highest of the highs – the pinnacle of position – the finish line of youth’s dreams and aspirations. To be a major league baseball player was to be…well, perfect.
I collected baseball cards and followed players throughout their careers. I watched games on television and listened to them on the radio. I became a student of the game’s history – and began to develop an appreciation for ballplayers of the past. Young and impressionable, I came to view these men – no, these warriors – as being beyond miss-step or reproach. They were gods amongst men. They were heroes. They were idols.
So when my father asked me if I’d like to attend the Little League World Series with him one weekend (which was held a short distance away in Williamsport, PA), and further told me that a future Hall of Fame Pitcher would be there as a broadcaster, I was nothing short of elated.
"I can’t believe I’m going to see him, Dad" I said excitedly "You know he won three Cy Young Awards. He is amazing. You know what? - I’m going to get his autograph so that I never forget the day that I met him."
"Pal," my father interjected with caution "You’re probably not going to see him. He’s going to be broadcasting. He’ll be in the television tower. He won’t be in the stands with us."
"Yea. But, I am going to see him, Dad. I have to. He’s coming all the way to Williamsport and I am not going to miss him. I’ve just got to meet him. It would be so great…" And with that I ran to my room and opened a shoebox of baseball cards – flipping through them with the ferocity and intention of a twelve year old on a mission. After a few minutes, I found it. The player’s 1984 Topps card. I set it aside along with a pen, and went to sleep that evening dreaming of my chance to meet the great ballplayer.
When the day finally came, my father and I left for the game in the family station wagon. We hadn’t driven five miles before I was talking about my upcoming encounter with the famous pitcher.
"Mason," my father persisted "Look, I don’t want you to get your hopes up. I’m taking you to the game so that you can enjoy some baseball. I don’t want you to be disappointed if what you’re hoping will happen doesn’t come to pass. The odds are high that you won’t even see him, let alone meet him. I don’t want to upset you. I just want you to know what’s likely to happen. Understand?"
I nodded, confirming that I knew what he was telling me. "Still, Dad. I’m going to meet him."
My father raised his eyebrows and shook his head as we continued down the interstate.
We made it to the game and were midway through the fourth inning when I got up from my seat and told my Dad that I’d be back in a while.
"Where are you going, Pal?" he asked.
"I’m going to meet a legend," I said.
"Mason…"
"I know Dad. But I have to try, you know? I’ve got to give it a shot. He’s here somewhere."
"Alright. Good luck, Pal."
"Thanks Dad."
And off I went.
I didn’t have to go very far. Finding the television tower was easy. I stood at the base of its steps – staring up at it and trying to see if I could catch a glimpse of him. I wondered if he was talking during his broadcast about striking out Mickey Mantle. Or how he pitched to Carl Yastrezemski. Or what it was like to win a World Series. I wondered what he would say to someone like me. If he’d tell me to follow my dreams, or to never give up. I wondered if he’d pull me aside and tell me the secret to throwing a curve ball – or if he’d pat me on the back and tell me he was proud of me. I wondered if he had ever looked up to a major leaguer when he was a boy – ever held someone in as high accord as I and so many others held him. And then, as I was wondering these things…he began to descend from the tower
Within moments, he was there in front of me – larger than life, baseball history in the flesh.
Before the moment had passed, however, I was overtaken by fans. Countless kids and adults swarmed him. Programs, hats, cards and photos were pressed forward for him to sign – and I pressed backward in delegation to the crowd’s outer limits. Signing in between steps, he made his way from the tower to his trailer – a short distance away. By that time the crowd had dissipated – leaving for the moment, only the legend of the game and me.
His back was turned to me as he climbed the three steps to his trailer. As he placed his hand on its door, I raised the 1984 Topps card and pen and asked with wide-eyed exuberance "Excuse me, Mr. ___. Can I please have your autograph?"
Removing his hand from the door, he turned around to find me standing before him. He looked at my outstretched hands and then to my eyes, and said with not a moment’s hesitation
"Not now kid. I’m busy."
With that, he turned and walked into his trailer. As the door closed behind him, my mouth dropped open and my gaze turned to the ground. I hung my head, slipped the card and pen into the pocket of my jeans, and wiped the tears from my eyes as I started walking back to meet my father.
Then, something occurred to me.
Standing at a concession stand, I turned back and examined the trailer and thought to myself "It only has one door." I looked at the television tower and thought "That’s the only place with broadcasting equipment." I turned an eye to the scoreboard and confirmed "It’s still the fourth inning. There’s lots of baseball to be played."
I bought a Coke at the concession stand and walked back to the trailer. Then, I sat down on its steps and waited.
One hour later the door opened. I jumped to my feet and turned to face him again. Reaching out with card and pen in-hand I said once more "Mr. ___, may I please have your autograph?"
"You’re still here?" he said to me.
"Yes sir." I responded.
He sighed before saying "Fine."
He took the card and the pen. He tried to sign the card’s front side but the pen wouldn’t cooperate. He flipped the card over and signed on its back – and told me that next time I asked for an signature I should bring a Sharpie, because they were better for signing. I responded by saying "Yes sir" once again, and thanked him for his autograph.
Then he was gone.
My encounter with the great pitcher had come to fruition. My brush with greatness had come to pass. And I had the autograph to prove it. I rejoined my father who wondered where in the world I had gone, and I told him the story of what had just happened.
Shaking his head he said to me "You’re nothing if not persistent, Mason."
"What’s persistent mean?" I asked, confused.
"It means that you didn’t give up on what you set out to accomplish – even when things stood in your way. It means that you didn’t back down when a door was slammed in your face. That you didn’t walk away from a goal; and that you didn’t quit just because someone told you to get lost."
I was looking at my father with the same wide eyes that moments earlier had looked upon the baseball legend.
"I’m proud of you," my Dad said to me; and patted me on the back.
Turning our attention to the game, we sat back in our seats – smiles on both of our faces. As the pitcher went into his wind-up, I said to my father "Dad, could you teach me the secret to throwing a curve ball?"
"Of course, pal. I’d love to."
That night, I asked my Dad for his autograph.
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The Victrola
Holiday Lessons in Love & Sacrifice
December 30, 2008
This is a personal story – one that might leave a reader questioning its placement within a high school golf forum. Thus, I felt it necessary to explain in advance the value I believe it may bring to light. Sometimes, as parents and as coaches we wonder whether our sacrifice is of value. Is the discipline worth it? Is the selflessness appreciated? Are the efforts to make ends meet substantive? Why should I do what’s right at the sacrifice of what’s convenient?
I believe this story is reflective of the fruit born from parental sacrifice. It is meant to convey the awareness of youth, the power of child-like observation, and the charge each of us carries to pay-forward generosity shown to us by others.
Integrity cultivated through discipline is strong in its foundation. Parenthood is the vehicle through which we forge this truth. It is my goal as your son’s coach to assist in sowing the seeds of character that have been planted in your home.
I believe this story reflects how doing so can produce a mighty harvest.
When I was a boy, it occurred to me that the likelihood was slim of an overlap between Champion and Rockefeller bloodlines. Though I’m unsure whether I came to this understanding while watching my parents make lay-away payments at department stores, pull weeds in our garden, or rubber-band packets of green stamps at the kitchen table – it’s most certain that I came to realize my mother and father, on an ongoing basis, were taking the proverbial grasps in life to make ends meet.
December 30, 2008Yet, I was never left wanting…
When it came to providing for their son, my mother and father never fell short. Their gifts of toys and games and their provisions of food and shelter were only superseded by their ongoing love, support, affirmation and encouragement. They instilled a strong spirit, a humble appreciation, and a quiet confidence in their little boy – and never left him wondering if he would be held back in life for lack of resource.
I remember my father returning from work regularly with the gift of a toy figurine pushed up his coat sleeve. He would pretend that he was a magician and amazingly make the toy appear. I remember the smile on his face as he would react to my laughter and appreciation for the present. I remember my mother putting her hand on my dad’s shoulder as they would watch together, their little boy enjoying the fruits of their labor.
I remember my mother organizing items to sell at family garage sales. She would locate things throughout the house, clean them for presentation, and offer them for purchase at less than a dollar each. I remember her teaching me that sometimes in order to have something new, we have to let go of something aged. "Saying hello sometimes means waving good-bye" she said to me.
I remember standing at department store counters as my parents made payments on household goods and accessories. I remember them explaining to me that the items would be ours when they were paid for entirely. I remember thinking how reasonable that sounded.
I remember licking S&H Green Stamps and pasting them into their respective books. I remember how my mother kept them wrapped together in the living room credenza. I remember how she would redeem them for things like lamps and toasters – and how my parents went to great lengths to care for those items once they arrived.
I remember helping my mother shuck corn, clean beets, snap peas, and peel potatoes. I remember helping my father chop wood, wash the car, shovel snow and mow the lawn. I remember how hard they worked and how focused they were in their discipline.
And I remember that at Christmas time, there were always presents beneath the tree.
One particular Christmas found my parents facing the realities of tighter cash flow. In order to afford gifts for me that year, they made the tough decision to sell a family heirloom – my great grandparents’ Victor Victrola phonograph.
The Victrola was beautiful. It stood five feet high and was made of mahogany. Its lid opened to reveal a turn-table and an arm holding a steel needle. It had a hand crank at its side and doors that could be opened and closed in order to control the volume. It had established residence in our downstairs family room, and would produce periodic sighs and smiles from my father as he would pass it and pause to reflect on its history. From time to time, my mother would crank-up the Victrola and play "Mona Lisa" and sing along with the record. In doing so, she taught me the lyrics to that timeless song.
But as much as my parents held that phonograph dear, the joy it produced paled in comparison to the satisfaction found in providing their son with a memorable Christmas. The smiles and laughter of their only son on Christmas day was viewed as more valuable than the family history associated with an antique machine.
And so it was that my mother and father placed an ad in the newspaper, and subsequently sold my great grandparents’ Victrola for money they would then use to buy me Christmas gifts. And what a Christmas it was. At day’s end, wrapping paper was strewn about the living room with laughter having been echoed throughout the home. Warm smiles and hugs had been shared and the family bond had been tightened and reinforced. Mom and Dad had done it again – ends had been met through discipline and sacrifice. Something aged had been let go, and memories new had been born.
I would grow out of the toys that had been unwrapped that Christmas. But I would never grow out of the lessons learned from watching my parents sacrifice for their son. I would never forget what they had released in order to welcome another smile from me. I would never let go of the memory of my mother singing "Mona Lisa" or my father magically pulling a figurine out of his sleeve. I would never lose the taste of green stamps, or the ability to shuck corn. I would never forget that things aren’t owned until they’re paid for; that small steps matter; and that much can be accomplished through hard work and sacrifice.
And of course, I would always remember that saying hello sometimes means waving goodbye.
But you know…goodbyes don’t have to be forever.
I’m thirty-three years old this Christmas. I’m married; and have a son of my own. He’s six months old and means the world to me. In his eyes I see my soul. In his smile I find my purpose. With his hand in mine, I understand my mission.
I now know the impetus of my parents’ discipline – the anchor point of their sacrifice. I understand the root of their intention and the foundation of their purpose. I see in my son what they saw in me. I get it now. I understand.
And for that understanding, I have come to appreciate tangible manifestations of life lessons. An old toaster bought with green stamps or a rusty ten-speed bicycle purchased through lay-away stand as representations of these lessons – real life trophies of tough times conquered. Their beauty is found not in their weathered design, but in the reflection of integrity gleaned from their associated stories.
And no story is as memorable as the Christmas without a Victrola. No memory of mine better reflects my parents’ value system of hard work and sacrifice. And no material item more beautifully displays both manufactured grace and imbedded family history than a five foot tall Victor Victrola with a hand crank and a steel needle. No song is better sung for the sake of a mother’s love than "Mona Lisa" – and no antique is better positioned to yield a father’s pause and smile than a Victrola.
It was with the joy of children and the appreciation of parents that Juliet, Davis and I were able to present my parents with a Victrola this Christmas. Having located and purchased one through a private seller, we revealed it to my mother and father along with a story of my recollections from their sacrifice. When we gave it to them, their eyes widened and their hands covered their mouths. Tears began to form in their eyes as they exchanged a look of overwhelming astonishment. On its turntable rested the record "Mona Lisa" – and as it began to play, my mother wept. My parents rose to their feet, walked slowly toward the machine, and paused to embrace Juliet and I as the lyrics to the timeless classic crackled and crooned in the background.
Wiping away tears of my own, I told my mother and father "Goodbyes aren’t forever. But the love of family is."
Conclusion
Your efforts matter. Your disciplines are worthwhile. Your ends met through love and sacrifice will anchor strong character in your children. I hope this story reinforces your conviction. Happy New Year. Go Lakers!
-Coach Champion
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Putting the PGA in APGAR
Reflections on the Impact of Coaching on Fatherhood
August 29, 2008
Parenthood is at once life’s greatest blessing and perhaps its most sizable test.
On June 22nd my son, Davis was born. His arrival, easily the most breath-taking and surreal moment of my life, vaulted my wife, Juliet and me into new and relatively uncharted waters…the realm of parenthood.
Seconds after his birth, the doctor whisked Davis from the womb to the baby clean-up area, while I stood for a moment in absolute awe of the experience. Action seemed to take place in slow-motion. Sounds were muted. I seemed to stand alone as nurses and aides whipped around me intent on their respective tasks and duties. My wife’s head lay to the side of her pillow with a smile expressive of both pure joy and sheer exhaustion following 30 hours of labor. Part of me expected to lift my gaze and see Rod Serling leaning against the heart-monitor, arms crossed and stare fixed as he welcomed me to a place beyond sight and sound. When the moment itself returned to full-speed and Rod failed to appear anywhere other than in my nanosecond of surreal conjecture, I motivated myself across the room to where my newborn son was positioned – in a plastic basin under heat-lamps that maintained his temperature as though he were a Filet ‘O Fish. Nurses were using miniature basters to clean his eyes and ears, and were otherwise polishing him up with wash cloths and towels. I knelt down to the basin. Tears swelled in my eyes as I looked upon my son for the first time. "Hey buddy," I said to him and reached for his hand "It’s good to see you. Welcome." My hand met his and his responding grip on my fingers was all I needed to understand that this was my life’s greatest moment. Then, the numbers started being shouted. "Nine with One on Four!" Huh? "Again – Nine with One on Four!" "Got it! Give it Four more then Once again." What? I dismissed the number-language as silly doctor speak. Besides, Davis and I were having a moment – and nothing interrupts Daddy / Davis time. Then a few minutes later… "Nine with One on Four! Same as last!" "Yep. Got it!" My attention interrupted only momentarily, I sighed and looked back at my boy. Juliet, still having not yet met her son and becoming more interested in the medical happenings with each passing moment that she was not holding her baby, interjected. "What are you saying?’ she asked, "Is that the APGAR?" "Yep," said a nurse "He’s great. Nice and healthy. Nine out of Ten total, with a One out of Two on Appearance, the fourth measurement – slightly pale. Same score both times. First one was five minutes ago. Seven or above is healthy. He’s just fine." From opposite sides of the room, Juliet and I, now understanding the silly-doctor speak, let out a collective sigh. Davis was here and he was healthy. The APGAR Score reflects a newborn’s Activity, Pulse, Grimace, Appearance, and Respiration – all on a 0-2 scale. It’s a subjective assessment first taken one minute after birth, and once again for verification five minutes later. "Healthy" babies score at or above an aggregate of seven on the APGAR. A number of life lessons and illustrations can be pulled from this experience – one of which is the reality that it only takes one minute – one single minute – of time in this world before we receive our first test. It’s easy to believe that tests are compartmentalized, and relegated only to classroom environments – that the learning and testing process begins at age five and ends at twenty-two. What’s more, it’s easy for currently-enrolled students to believe that tests occur only between bells that mark a class’ inception and closure. But that’s not the case. Tests - real tests - occur throughout life’s corners and are not earmarked for only specific environments and settings. The greatest tests aren’t completed with a slide-rule and a scantron. They aren’t answered with calculators and computers. They aren’t administered in the classroom; and they aren’t graded on a curve. They are life’s tests – life’s challenges. They are dispensed by circumstance and delivered through experience. They are met with a combination of knowledge and discernment and bear consequence greater than a grade-point-average. Education is realized when preparation for life’s tests deepens. It is anchored through comprehension of one’s own gifts, talents and resources. It is reinforced through development and strengthened by knowledge. It is at once both instinctive and learned – and has no end-point save our body’s last breath. Personally, I’ve known no other testing environment that has prepared me more for fatherhood than coaching. Through an ongoing barrage of on-the-job examinations, decisions and experiences, I’ve grown more as an individual for facing the tests of leadership inherent to the position of Coach. For that, I remain both grateful and humble; and my commitment to coaching remains fully-fueled. For it is apparent that improvement as a coach yields improvement as a parent – and that the life lessons taken from the fairway are readily transferred to the home. However cliché, to say that coaching is about more than wins and losses is accurate. It’s not just about athletics. It’s about life. It’s about facing and passing the countless tests administered outside of the classroom. As coaches and parents, we are not only charged to position ourselves as leaders, mentors and guideposts, but also to continue in our own learning and development, as we progress in relationship with our community. Because from APGAR on, there’s no shortage of tests. Go Lakers! Go Davis! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- So we made some changes. We introduced new components to the team experience – group travel, weekend retreats, off-season conditioning, individual mentoring, leadership assignments, summer academies, big brother programs, and of course game development arenas. The result was a boost in morale, an increase in peer accountability, heightened camaraderie, and advances in expressed determination. Since then, an interesting thing has happened…we’ve been winning. Senior Patrick Hohman won the MIAA Individual Stroke Play Championship in dramatic fashion, made the All MIAA Team for his second straight year, successfully represented the Conference in the Baltimore/Washington Senior Challenge, and is in the process of being named All Metro Boys’ Golfer of the Year by the Baltimore Sun (that’s a secret – please keep it within the BL Community). Sophomore Ben Whitman became the youngest Laker since joining the A Conference to make the cut at the Individual Stroke Play Championship – and notched a top ten finish against the Conference’s strongest field. He was team-co captain at age 15, and was second in points scored for the season. His tournament docket for the Summer is impressive and he continues to reinforce the understanding that he is one of the Conference’s fastest rising stars. The program picked up middle-schoolers Will Guy & Bennett Wisner. Guy will join the varsity ranks in 2009, and is already shooting scores in the upper 70’s; and Wisner was named to the FCWT Junior Tour All American Team after his victories at the Virginia Beach National Open and the Nittany Lion Open.
-Coach Champion
2008 Season Highlights
Excerpts from the Year-End Athletic Banquet Speech
June 2, 2008
A funny thing happened on the way to the 2008 Boys’ Latin Golf Season…we changed our value system. From one that stressed achievement to one that emphasized effort. Believing that the effort behind earning the trophy was more important than the trophy itself – that the rung by rung climb to the top of the ladder is, in itself, the greatest achievement. That the grind and the pains of progression produced the truest accomplishment – and that hard work and dedication are more valuable than empty and under-utilized talent.
We went the distance against conference stalwarts and contenders that had previously never been challenged by our squad – taking two such teams to the final putt of the final player on the final hole. We notched more victories this season than in the past five years – and recorded our finest yet showing since joining the A Conference. When we missed the playoffs this year, it wasn’t from the basement of the conference with our heads hung low – but rather with our foot in the door and only one shot separating us from the team that would advance.
Add to this list names like Schwartz, Blair, Foreman, Sherman, and Dunbar (to name a few) and you’ve got a team that is reflecting a great deal of possibilities.
In short, the program is working. It’s producing fruit of achievement through the sweat of effort. Its value system is its source of strength and its crop is rich with promise. Ours is not a team, but rather a family – a collection of talent, testimony and treasure born from the grind and strife of hard work’s glory.
With the systems in place and the understandings now anchored, the Laker Golf Team stands ready for the future. As rewarding as this year has been, I can say with full confidence…there’s more where that came from.
Go Lakers!
-Coach Champion
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Has it Really Been Four Years?
Thoughts on Coaching Patrick Hohman
May 23, 2008
As I stood adjacent to the par-five 18th green at Old South Country Club during the MIAA Individual Championahip and watched Patrick Hohman walk up the fairway, clubs thrown across his back and hat pulled low over his brow, I was overtaken by a flood of memories associated with the Laker Senior.
As he approached his ball, which had come to rest on the back fringe - roughly fifteen feet from the hole, I recalled four years of shots struck, strategies reviewed, tournaments played, trips attended, problems faced and committments anchored - all in flashes: postcard style memories of a coach/player relationship. As he selected an 8 iron from his bag to play a bump-and-run chip for his eagle attempt, I widened my eyes in thinking that I was about to witness his final shot struck in high school competition. And when that shot disappeared into the cup, I nearly collapsed under the weight of the associated joy.
With tears in my eyes, I hugged Patrick and told him I was proud of him. Little did I know, the day wasn't over.
Gilman powerhouse Brad Miller birdied the same hole nearly an hour later to force a sudden-death play-off with Patrick. And in recording par on the third playoff hole, Patrick became the 2008 Individual Stroke Play Champion. Once more, I was overwhelmed by the blessings of the moment - one of the Conference's highest individual honors now resting on the shoulders of a Laker Golfer
As the first Laker Golfer to start all four years under my guidance, Patrick represents more to me than long drives and short putts. He represents the manifestation of hard work's glory - the truth behind an effort vs achievement value system.
When Patrick joined the varsity ranks as a freshman, the impression left by the scrappy underclassman was that he wouuld not quit and would not stand down until he had given his absolute best. With a scoring average in the upper 90's, Patrick began a journey that found him crawling his way up the conference standings by leveraging an unprecidented combination of determination and talent - a journey that came to a worthy close in his capture of the Individual Championship Trophy.
In my time serving his development, I have never known Patrick to give anything short of his best effort - nor have I ever known him to dismiss an objective as unattainable or a goal as too lofty. Instead, I've seen him bear down, stand firm, and give all - time and time again.
Patrick's example is reflective of the Laker Golf Value System - that the effort is more important than the achievement; and the work behind the trophy is more important than the trophy itself. Patrick's hoisting of the Championship Plaque would have been empty if not for the discipline and the intention that propelled his climb to the top.
As a coach I have come to realize that those flashes of recollection - the postcard memories of every player's development - are the real trophies. The truest achievement lies in a young man's journey - in the grit and the strife and the rung-by-rung climb toward being the best that they can possibly be. Becasue after the dust of the awards ceremony settles and the chatter of the gallery has dissipated, the most fruitful truth remaining is that achievement has been realized through one's best efforts.
And in the end, that's what it's all about.
Attaboy Pat!
-Coach Champion
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It's Only A Game
Truth Born from Golf's Madness
April 20, 2008
"It’s only a game," he said to me
While he placed his ball upon the tee
Smiled and winked reassuringly
As we began our morning round.
He then sliced his ball into a tree
And indeed it kicked quite far O.B.
Thus finding himself re-hitting three
Frustration newly found.
He shrugged his shoulders and grinned at me
Rolled his eyes and said with glee
"If it wasn’t to be, it wasn’t to be"
And started walking to his ball.
Which was deep in rough up to the knee
So thick that it was hard to see
And he swung and missed entirely
Never touching the ball at all.
Then with much vulgarity
Anger displayed for the world to see
He slammed his club repeatedly
Into the earth below.
And then this man, once fancy free
Now driven toward near insanity
Fell to the ground on bended knee
As tears began to flow
"It’s a waste of time!" he cried to me
"For my game there is no remedy"
"I put it OB off of every tee"
"I can take this game no more"
"I try to hide my agony"
"With an attitude of simplicity"
"And say the game can’t bother me"
"When in fact it’s my biggest chore"
By this time others could see
This man of tears on bended knee
Telling tales of his catastrophe
In the rough of number one
Then followed much calamity
Spectators watched with uncertainty
Awestruck with curiosity
Awaiting what was to come
"In the years I’ve played this game," said he
"Which number over twenty three"
"I have yet to play a hole flawlessly"
"That is – exactly as I planned"
"Oh of course there is the freak birdie"
"A miracle indeed for me"
"But it’s usually a chip-in on a short par three"
"Or a shot holed from the sand"
"Just once I wish that I could be"
"The guy that’s long off of the tee"
"Who hits the green and casually"
"Lines up a birdie try"
"Instead it always seems to me"
"That I’m the guy re-hitting three"
"Hooking and slicing my shots O.B."
"It’s enough to make me cry"
And cry he did extensively
His voice laced with ferocity
And I wondered if this indeed could be
A regrettable affair
For I had listened patiently
To this man’s insanity
While questioning his dignity
And having not a care
"And what in the world is this?" said he
"Why do these people stare at me?"
"It’s as if they too can plainly see"
"my struggles and my pain"
"They laugh at me in mockery"
"Humor found in tragedy"
"They know not what it does to me"
"To feel this game’s disdain"
But then he stood up suddenly
After what seemed to be an eternity
Of lamenting while on bended knee
About many a golfing plight
"Let’s pick up from here and go," said he
"Onward to the second tee"
He winked and said "I’ll give you a 3"
I shrugged and said "Alright."
And then…
His drive was struck so perfectly
And split the fairway easily
After carrying a distance handily
Of three hundred yards of land
And then he hit so flawlessly
His second shot – which struck no tree
And avoided complete catastrophe
As it found the green – not sand
The putt he lined-up for birdie
Was truly straight as straight could be
And it rolled in the cup, securing 3
Perfection now attained
I cannot stress how rapidly
This man of pain and misery
Changed to happiness and glee
A goal forever gained
"It’s only a game," he said to me
as we walked on from the green to tee
"But I’ll be darned if I could ever be"
"more humbled by its shifts"
"Golf provides and takes from me
both heightened joy and tragedy"
"It’s unpredictability
is the greatest of its gifts"
Right then and there I came to see
An unsung truth in life to be
Anchored in this golfer’s new-found glee
Having quenched ambition’s thirst
And to that end I offer thee
The lesson of an 18 hole journey:
In golf and life, changing mentality
Can take you from worst to first
By: Mason Champion, PGA
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Moments of Truth
Understandings Born From A Fraser Fir
March 21, 2008
This past Holiday Season, my wife Juliet and I made our typical decision to select a tree to place in our living room – one that we would decorate and trim with associated lights and ornaments. In the past, I had resisted any push-back that might have seemed counter to the Holiday Spirit – but truth be told, I wasn’t very keen on the notion of stomping through the mud and snow of a neighboring county’s tree farm, examining countless spruces for symmetry, chopping down said tree through relentless wielding of an axe and saw, and lathering up my hands and forearms in sticky sap while dragging our living room centerpiece back to the car. Quite honestly, it was anything but the definition of an ideal morning in my mind – especially in light of the reality that the local supermarket was selling trees without such loathsome hassle for the same price.
"Honey, maybe we could just buy a tree from the supermarket this year," I said one evening at the dinner table, "I mean, it’s the same price and so much easier." It was as though I had suggested we skip the holiday celebration altogether. "What?!" Juliet responded, "We go to the tree farm every year. My parents go with us. We pick our own tree. You chop it down. We drink hot chocolate. Hogan (our dog) comes along and plays in the snow. Buy it at a supermarket? No way!"
Needless to say, I relented.
So, a few days later, there I was – decked out in my seasonal tree chopping uniform: blue jeans, hooded sweatshirt, snow boots, workman’s gloves, and one big scowl. With my hatchet in one hand (that I applicably nicknamed "Molly") and my bow saw in the other, I set out on the 45 minute exploration process for the perfect tree: 7 feet tall, not too narrow, not too broad, good symmetry, little to no woodland creatures indwelling its branches, etc. Juliet walked behind me with Hogan, and drank hot chocolate while engaged in conversation with her parents.
About a mile or so deep into a maze of countless spruces, we saw it: the ideal holiday tree – utopic in its design, perfection manifested in a Fraser Fir. For a moment I stood in admiration of the tree – nodding my head in confirmation of its structure. However, the next moment found me in understanding of the reality before me. I had to crawl under this model of deciduous idealism, wield my axe and saw against its base, and drag it through the mud and snow to a base station nearly a mile away. "Agh," I thought to myself as I sighed and knelt to the ground, "there’s got to be a better way…"
"Thwack! Thwack! Twack!" Molly struck at the tree’s trunk with a sharpened edge, paving the way for the bow saw’s finishing touch. The tree fell, and I began to even the cross-section with the saw. As Juliet watched, I sawed for what seemed like an eternity – my forearm screaming at me, and my face ineffectively doing its best to refuse to show my strain. "Why don’t you take a break, babe?" she said to me in mid-cut. "Nah," I said "I’m fine." – although I couldn’t help but think "A break would be buying this forsaken thing at the supermarket." But, again I yielded – and took pause to re-energize.
Then, it happened.
Looking up from the base of the fallen fir tree, I wiped my brow with my sap-soaked forearm and raised my glance before me. Hogan was running and jumping around the trees, retrieving sticks thrown by my father-in-law. Juliet was laughing in discussion with her mother, and both were enjoying warm cups of hot chocolate. In the distance, I heard children laughing and romping in the snow – and was reminded of the gift of life that Juliet was carrying in her belly. The byproduct of this tree-chopping escapade was a fruitful family experience – one to which I had thus far remained oblivious. It was then that I realized by focusing on the task, I had been missing the moment.
I finished sawing the base of the tree, and I dragged it through the mud and snow. However I did so not with loathsome resentment, but true appreciation.
In life, we make moments – not time. These moments can be viewed as the building blocks of our understandings and recollections. Without such moments, we remain empty – void to the understanding of a greater purpose of impact. When our schedules are most hectic or our scopes most narrow, we oftentimes miss the broader moments that our actions produce. However, when we actively and intentionally witness these moments, the fullness of our lives is heightened and the understanding of our worth is elevated.
Understanding the importance of moments is avenue of purpose with the Boys’ Latin Golf Team. All members of the broader community should continue to understand that so long as the sole focus remains on the trophy, the true moments of personal and group development are sacrificed. The athletic experience within the Laker Golf Team focuses on a broader definition of development – one that leverages the impact from countless moments throughout the season in order to progress collectively in authentic growth. The win/loss column is less important than the heart of the competitor – and the moments produced by their best efforts. So long as this perspective is maintained, true defeat is not an option.
Continue to do your best, Laker Golfers. Continue to enjoy the moment.
-Coach Champion
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For Better or Worse
Life Lessons from a Father's Shadow
February 19, 2008
My father was a tremendous baseball player. He was sure footed, could hit for power, and had a strong arm. He had a glove that worked like a vacuum cleaner and a batting average that was sky high. He was a local baseball hero.
He tried out for the Philadelphia Phillies following graduation from high school. By such time his knees had suffered some injuries and somewhat slowed him down. He was good, the scouts said; but he needed more speed. As a result, my father shifted his attention from the game of baseball and focused instead on the business world.
Growing up, I was surrounded by a constant flow of memories recounted by my father's former teammates, sports writers who covered him, umpires who called his games, and townspeople who watched him play.
"I remember when your old man hit it over the right field fence and into the tennis courts." "Your father once hit a home run that didn’t come to rest until it stopped in the grocery store parking lot across the street." "I never saw anybody else carry that left field wall until your pop did it in an All-Star Game."
Everybody remembered my dad and his baseball talent. Everybody.
With this kind of appreciation for the game instilled in me by my father, I was quick to take to baseball. I fell in love with it immediately. I collected the cards. I knew the players’ names and numbers. I read and read and read about the history of the national pastime. I was a walking wealth of knowledge when it came to baseball. The only problem was…I was only an average player.
I played little league baseball. I enjoyed it. But I was no All Star; and when it came to comparing myself to my father, one may have as well been comparing apples and oranges. I was good; but not great. I was certainly not my father.
One day I had a particularly terrible game. I stood at the plate four times that game. And I struck out all four times.
Walking to the car following the game, I was hanging my head. I was dragging my feet. I was barely holding onto my glove. And a few tears had formed in my eyes.
"What’s the matter, pal?" My dad said, unassumingly. "Nothing…" I responded, failing to conceal the truth behind such a false statement. "I can tell something’s bothering you, Mason. Why don’t you tell me what's on your mind," he said.
In order to clear the tears from my face, I rubbed my eyes with my dirty hands. Then, looking up at my father with dejection I said "I’ll never be as good as you. You were so great at baseball. And I love the game so much. But I’ll never be as good as you were, Dad. Never."
There was a pause. Then my father said something interesting.
"That’s right," he said.
"You’ll either be better; or you’ll be worse."
My brow wrinkled as I looked at him confused.
"What I mean Mason, is that you can only be yourself. What I did, and how I played are not important. Your accomplishments are yours alone. You should find comfort in that. There's a grand design for you. Know that such design involves personalized talents and gifts that are yours alone. In my case, I was a good ballplayer. Now in your case, you may or may not excel in baseball. You may find that your talents lie elsewhere - maybe in carpentry or music or law. The two things you can do are recognize what gifts are yours and always do your best to develop them.
My father's message reached me. It gave me insight and encouragement. I found comfort and strength in his words and began seeking to identify my own gifts and talents.
Five years later, I begn playing golf.
I took to the game of golf like my father had taken to baseball. I could find an ever-present parallel between my work ethic on the practice range and my dad’s labors to improve on the baseball diamond when he was my age.
I was good at golf - much better than I was at baseball. And I became a solid player. So solid that I decided to turn professional and establish a career within the game of golf.
One summer afternoon, my father and I played a round of golf together. Upon its completion, we began to walk to the clubhouse, when my father rubbed his face with both of his hands and began to shake his head. He had managed to play particularly poorly that afternoon and was obviously frustrated. I on the other hand, had played well that day.
"Agh!," my father said. "What’s wrong Dad?" I said. "Nothing, pal." "Don’t lie to me dad, I can tell something’s not right. What are you thinking about?" "Well Mason," he said "you make it look so easy out there. Your swing is so simple and you hit the ball so well. It is fun to watch but at the same time, it is also somewhat frustrating, because I know that I will never play like that in my life, no matter how hard I try."
"That’s right, Dad," I said without hesitation "You’ll either be better; or you’ll be worse."
We both smiled.
The life lesson that I took from my father's guidance that day on the baseball field has stayed with me throughout my life.
It remains a goal of the Boys' Latin Golf Program to encourage each team member in recognizing and developing his individual talents.
A greater purpose awaits each of us, and fulfillment of such intention requires an undersanding of our own unique gifts and abilities.
- Coach Champion
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Egg Hunts & Golf Teams
How Creative Thought Fuels The Laker Golf Program
January 2, 2008
When I was a little boy, my mother took me to a Spring Celebration Festival that offered, among other fun activities, a series of Egg Hunts. There were three egg hunts in all, and I was one of about fifty children participating. I was anxious and ready to collect as many eggs as I could. To say that I was excited would be a tremendous understatement.
When the whistle blew signaling the beginning of the first egg hunt, we all took off running in the same direction – a herd of children racing to pick up their eggs. But there was a problem – I was born to be a golfer, not a sprinter. I was simply not fast.
When they called us in from the first egg hunt, I returned to my mother’s side with an entirely empty basket. I had not been successful in collecting a single egg. And…I was crying. "Shhh. My mother whispered. It’ll be fine. Listen, I know a secret. Do you want to know how to win this egg hunt?" I looked up at her puzzled and nodded my head slowly in affirmation. "Well," she continued "when the whistle sounds and the other children start running, wait a moment…and then run in the opposite direction. If they run to the left, you run to the right. If they run over here, you run over there. There are plenty of eggs out there. Stop following the group and start going in your own direction. You’ll get your eggs. Understand?" She wiped my tears with her sleeve and winked at me. I nodded again and awaited the next whistle.
When it sounded, all of the children took off once again – except me. I waited and then ran in the opposite direction as per my mother’s guidance. And guess what? I found eggs – lots of them. Eggs in the shrubs, eggs under the trees, eggs in the open field…eggs everywhere. When they called us in upon completion of the second hunt, I had in fact collected more eggs than anyone else in the competition. "Look at that kid," a few of my competitors whispered, "He’s got all the eggs. He must know what he’s doing."
When the next whistle sounded, none of the kids took off immediately…They all waited to see where I was going…And then followed me to find the eggs.
I learned some valuable lessons that day. I learned that sometimes, in order to finish first, you have to break from the crowd. I learned that though it’s often easier to go where the path may lead, it’s nearly always more rewarding to instead go where a path does not yet exist and leave a trail. I learned that people will follow a winning methodology; and that discernment and creativity can indeed beat strength and speed.
The Coaching Staff of the Boys’ Latin Golf Program is fueled by the spirit inherent to those lessons. We continue to develop an unparalleled team experience through uncharacteristic methodology. We believe that by standing true to creative thought and intentional action, our Program will continue to forge a new trail toward achievement.
The Laker Golf Program is running in a different direction than the pack; and we’re beginning to find some eggs. We’re excited about this race. In fact, we might just need a bigger basket…
Pre-Season Practice begins January 8th.
See you there, Lakers.
-Coach Champion
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Regarding Henry:
Thoughts on the Passing of a
Laker Golf Alumnus
October 28, 2007
In the time since his tragic passing in late September, I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking about 2005 Boys' Latin Graduate, Henry Lubke.
I’ve been thinking about his welcome demeanor, his wide-eyed enthusiasm, and his unique brand of humor. I’ve been thinking about his sense of camaraderie, his encouragement of others, and the general good-heartedness associated with his demeanor.
But more than anything, I’ve been reflecting on his resilience.
Henry Lubke was the most resilient young man I have ever coached. He never quit. He never stopped learning. He never gave up on himself or his teammates. And as a result, he never, ever failed.
During his Senior Year in 2005, Henry’s golf game was not producing the results that either he or his coaches would have preferred. He was shooting scores in the 120s – and as a result, had fallen significantly down the ladder of potential starters on the team’s roster. After being benched for a few consecutive matches, Henry would have been justified by most standards to be a bit frustrated and saddened. But that was not the case.
Henry worked harder. He believed that through hard work and perseverance, he would crawl out of the slump within which he had found himself. And do so he did, in classic fashion.
Henry would arrive to practice early and leave late. He would stay after practice had completed and hit shots into the darkening sky. He would pull his Jeep Wrangler up to the corner of the practice green, turn the headlights on, and putt well past sunset. He was focused, dedicated, and intentional.
As his coach, I got the impression that Henry's attitude of resiliency was how he progressed through life as well – that he viewed many avenues as opportunities to improve through the vehicle of hard work. He always seemed to be learning. He always seemed to be processing information. And when he fell down as a result of a miss-step, he would get right back up again and try things once more.
Henry was successful in crawling his way out of that slump in 2005. By the middle of the season, he was shooting in the low 80’s – having successfully dropped over 40 shots from his scoring average through his hard work and dedication. As a result, he won the team’s Most Improved Player Award at the season-ending Athletic Banquet – an honor befitting of a man so focused.
Late in that same 2005 season, Henry was battling back from a deficit in a home match against a conference rival. He had been three down in the match and had five holes remaining ahead of him. Henry’s was the last match on the course, and some of the players on both teams who had already finished fell back to follow Henry’s match.
Though he had been three down, Henry never once considered giving up during the match. In fact, he dug deep within himself and battled back to tie the score – winning three straight holes against his opponent to bring the competition to all-square status.
Henry’s opponent was visually frustrated with the reality of his situation. After his third straight lost hole, he kicked the dirt before heading to the next tee box. One of his teammates shouted to him from the gallery “Come on, man! You can beat this guy!”
The competitor’s response spoke volumes for the Laker he was fighting. He shouted back to his teammate in the gallery, “I’m trying my best. But this guy just won’t go away!”
That was Henry. He wouldn’t go away. He never quit. He never stopped working. He never failed to give his best.
Henry Lubke won that match – as well as a place in my heart for having the strongest sense of resiliency and intention than anyone I’ve yet to coach.
And as golf imitates life, the memory of Henry refuses to fade. How suitable indeed. Henry’s spirit and his imprint on the lives of those who knew him best, simply refuses to go away – insisting, as is only appropriate, on remaining in our hearts for a long, long time. It’s only fitting that a young man so strong in impression would be so lasting in legacy.
Here’s to you, Henry. Thanks for not going away.
-Coach Champion
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Work Over Talent
The Basis for a Successful Value System
September 16, 2007
The coaches of the Boys' Latin Golf Team value hard work over empty talent - and remain committed to developing a program that both instills and cultivates a strong work ethic. Discipline, Determination and Focus are some of the greatest individual attributes - both in golf and in life.
Ben Hogan once said "You can outwork the greatest player in the world." "Do you then become the greatest player," he was subsequently asked. "Yes," he said, "Yes you do."
At Boys' Latin, we believe in The Hogan Work Ethic. We believe that in order to improve, a firm resolve to combat life's obstacles is imperative.
Talent and Natural Ability are nice - very nice, in fact. It nearly always make a coach smile when presented with a new team member who is bringing heightened ability to the table. However without discipline, focus and intention that talent will never be fully realized - as hard work and dedication yield the lion's share of goal achievement.
Raw Talent is not to be discredited - but rather accompanied with dogged resolve in order to yield true advancement both in golf and in life.
-Coach Champion
