Memoirs

Excerpt from I DON’T LIKE APPLES ANYMORE

I started teaching in 2001. This year was marked by two tragedies: 9/11 and my mother’s death from cancer. They say the worst time to begin a teaching career is when something else is going on in your personal life. Well, that is all well and good when you live in a bubble. Real life comes at you quick and hard. There is no timeout. I started teaching because I felt I had no other options. My wealthy father had died in a bull mating accident on his farm, so my mother paid for the final two years of my college and for living in my sorority house. By the way, being Greek is beyond lame. It is like that club in high school that takes itself way too seriously for what amounts to a group of girls trying to instill a sense of order in their first stab at adulthood. Read More

They say golf is a game for old men. I say it is a lifelong obsession. Your body may slow down, but your mind still focuses on winning. It is not an accident professional athletes from other sports play golf. Other games can be physical; golf is mental.

Blue monsters are not the boogie men who hid under your bed as a child. A golf course can inspire the same fear if you have allowed negativity to interfere with your confidence. This game, these two to four hours of your life, demonstrates what type of man you are. The fewer shots you take, the better. Competitors size you up for weaknesses, or handicaps within the first round. Professional golfers do not have handicaps; amateurs have them. A scratch golfer means you have no handicap. You could say I was a scratch golfer given I was professional for eight years and had numerous sponsors, including Foot Joy. Read More

My father was an elongated man from Austria, who had dedicated his youth to earning a medal and competed in the 1968 Mexico City Games. He travelled the longest journey of his life to achieve glory. He experienced sweating even when he was not exercising and tried a few times to speak Spanish. Luckily, for him and the team, a translator-my mother- was on hand to help. She had the dark hair and warm eyes stereotypical of Latin women. He towered over her; she purposely made him bend down to hear her voice. Read More