#guesticles

If I’m ever loved by someone as much as Jim Nantz loves the Masters, I’ll die a happy man.

I enjoy golf, sure. I like playing it and watching it, though I don’t know the difference between a draw and fade. But there is something about the year’s first major. I’m not sure if I like the tournament, however, as much as I enjoy a certain CBS announcer’s annual performance, live from the storied grounds of Augusta National. 

Saturday and Sunday at Augusta are one-part sonnet, and one-part sports event as Nantz serenades viewers through the action. It’s a tradition unlike any other, and one that I would argue, holds a unique place in sports broadcasting: No broadcaster is as much a part of the fabric of a sporting event as Nantz is a part of the Masters (If we’re making lists, I’d say Bob Costas and the Olympics is a distant second).

Nantz's affection for the Masters is real. And you don’t have to take my word for it.

“I am in love with the Masters, OK?" the former collegiate golfer told Neil Best of Newsday in 2010. “That's the way I feel about it. Nobody is putting those words in my mouth.”

It’s that authenticity which makes his coverage of the event special. Sportscasters are supposed to take an objective tone, their commentary untarnished by rooting interests. Yes, any broadcaster can appreciate an incredible play or moment. But more often than not, a kind of neutrality permeates most parts of a broadcast as announcers are hesitant show too much emotion toward any aspect of a sports event.

That’s why it’s refreshing to see Nantz’s unrestrained passion. While Nantz remains objective toward the players, he’s unrestrained in his passion toward the Masters tournament, its history, and what a victory means for a golfer’s career and to a person’s life.

This week, fresh off of calling the Final Four, Nantz will make the flight from Dallas to that small town in eastern Georgia. He’ll make the switch from yelling over a basketball crowd to talking in hushed tones like he’s a part of the gallery. Some parts of Nantz’s broadcast, like the “Hello, friends,” opening, happen every year. Others happen just once. And Nantz has an uncanny ability to frame a moment perfectly.

In 1986, Nantz was calling his first Masters at the age of 26. It also happened to be one of the most memorable tournaments in golf history, as the 46 year-old Jack Nicklaus won his last major championship, and his first in six years. During Nicklaus’ furious final round charge, Nantz proclaimed, “There’s no doubt about it, the bear has come out of hibernation.”

Then there’s his 2004 call of Phil Mickelson’s first major win. As Ernie Els putted on a practice green, hoping for a playoff, Lefty went for the win on 18. As Mickelson’s putt rolled toward the hole, Nantz asked, “Is it his time?” The gallery stood up as one to see if Mickelson’s ball would find the bottom of the cup. “Yes! At long last!” 

Then there is Nantz’s simple take on Tiger’s ridiculous 12-stroke victory in 1997: “There it is,” he said, “a win for the ages!”

Nantz prepares his calls beforehand, he readily admits. It’s part of his preparation as an announcer. Though he prepares like a golfer: Did you know Nantz walks the course on Wednesday, the day before the tournament starts, just to get re-acquainted? Isn’t that just so great? Isn’t that just so Nantz? He’s not even playing. He’s announcing. In a tower.

Becoming the voice of the Masters has been a great blessing, Nantz says, and he isn’t going to tone back his love for the course, it’s history, or the game itself.

"Why would I want to tailor my way of approaching the Masters tournament to some guy who's a blogger who doesn't watch the Masters, or to someone like you who doesn't understand the difference between a birdie and a bogey? Why would I care what you think about it?" he said to Best.

“Golf's an easy sport to attack,” Nantz said, especially when “you don't understand the culture of it."

Other folks have attacked Nantz for what he hasn’t said. Laster year Costas said Nantz was doing viewers a disservice by not commenting on Augusta’s racist and sexist past—a fair criticism, in my mind. 

I admit I was one as well who used to attack golf—the snooty culture, the preppy outfits, and the unathletic-looking players. I’m still not sure I understand, as Nantz says, the culture of it. But part of what made me a fan was the Masters, and a major part what makes the Masters special is Nantz. 

So what is it about the Masters that makes it so special to Jim? 

“It’s the only major championship that gets contested every year at the same course, so there’s tremendous familiarity with it,” Nantz said recently. “Augusta has been there since 1934, and the course happens to have some of the most exciting holes in golf—risk-reward holes that can bring eagles, birdies, double-bogeys into play.”

In the same breath, it’s Nantz’s constant presence behind the microphone that makes him seem like he is as much a part of the course as the azaleas and dogwoods. This year will be Nantz’s 29th anchoring the CBS coverage.

Another part of Nantz’s attachment to Augusta is likely nostalgic. Nantz grew up watching the tournament with his father, who died in 2008. In recent years Jim has weaved a special tribute to him. He’ll open the final round in the same way he has since his father passed:

“It's going to be a special day. I hope you're watching with someone special to you.” 

     I’d like to start by saying I feel privileged to be a guest writer* on my dear friend, The Master of Unemployment’s, website. He and I go way back, to my second year of grad school (so maybe not that far back), and today, just as it was then, he seems to be following in my wake and doing much better than I: first, with the love and admiration of our professors; now, with a successful blog.

*I refuse to call myself a “guesticle,” though I think the name is funny     for everyone else.

     In all seriousness, I’ve been a big fan of his since he began his blog, though I misread his URL and thought it was “The Master O’ Fun Employment,” and when I realized what it actually was, I was jealous I didn’t think of it first. I LOVED his cover letters, and I envisioned people responding to him in droves, offering their own failed cover letters and job applications, enough to fill a publishable book. It could be a contest: who can write the best worst cover letter?

     At that point in my life, when the Master of Unemployment was born, I had voluntarily left an excellent teaching job in New Mexico and was living unemployed as an Ivy-League-Masters-Degree-Holding Graduate in New England. I’d left my job because I wasn’t sure teaching was the right career for me, and I moved to the East Coast in search of something more. (I didn’t know what “more” was, exactly, but I knew I couldn’t stay in Roswell, my hometown, in the middle of no where, any longer. I needed people and opportunities and a life.)

     What I found was wonderful people, a great state in which to live, and (more of a) life, but I did not find a job.

     Beginning in January of 2013, I’d been sending out resumes, and by fall I was growing weary of writing cover letters, the whole process of applying for jobs seemed futile, the only jobs I could get were the same ones 17 year olds could get**, I was disillusioned by thinking a Dartmouth education would confer immediate job opportunities, and I was worried that everyone was looking at me thinking I was a big fat LOSER (but not the kind on the television show because that would mean I’d successfully made a mark on the world).

**The first job I landed was a waitressing job, which didn’t pay the bills, so it lead to another waitressing job, two tutoring jobs through private companies plus people on craigslist, babysitting and house-sitting, and doing everything short of selling bodily fluids for money.

     IN ADDITION, (this is turning into a confessional, sorry), the issue I’m now realizing—after landing a 30-hour part time research job at an amazing university—is that I still don’t know what I want to do with my life.***

***You mean this DOESN’T make me unique?

      Some creative types, the writers and the artists, KNOW they want to write or create and it doesn’t matter for whom or where or how—journals, blogs, newspapers, magazines—because as long as they’re doing it, they’re happy! (I admire these people. These people will succeed.)

     I, on the other hand, am not that person. I have problems writing for other people. I nearly failed my journalism class because I couldn’t come up with pithy titles or clever ways to spin stories and spent all of my time researching instead of just writing the stupid piece. I could barely manage the parameters of “write a blog about anything you want” because it’s TOO MUCH PRESSURE. I much prefer writing about nothing.****

****That is actually the best way to describe my own blog, other than “Sometimes it’s funny.” I can’t even pressure myself to write about events if they could be considered a story. For example, here are the pitches I’ve made to myself: “I should write about my road trip through New Zealand/bungee jumping/nearly dying in Bali/seeing Vanilla Ice perform in 2013/being forced to attend a bachelor auction/falling in love with Matthew Hussey (and later hating him)” etc. etc. These result in mental breakdowns and subsequent blogs about chewing gum.

Seriously.

     Other things I’m discovering about myself: I’m not a desk job kind of person because I hate being inside all day, especially when the sun is shining. I’m not a fan of fixed scheduling or following rules that don’t makes sense just because corporate entity decides they’re protocol. I don’t enjoy feeling stressed out or micromanaged or undervalued. I don’t like to waste, especially in excessive amounts, things like food or paper or plastic bottles or straws. I’m not very organized (there are currently twenty pieces of notebook paper scattered on my desk filled with “to do” lists) and I hate when my email inbox gets cluttered with “important documents.” And though I tend to love my jobs at first (yay! Look at me succeed!), I eventually start to feel boxed in and can’t take it anymore.*****

*****I avoid saying most of this on my cover letters.

This scares me because I’m afraid there is NO job out there I’m going to enjoy. I don’t know if this is just a case of the Gen-Y Yuppie failing to find “Happiness,” or if the job I’m meant to have is one I have to create myself. I want to be productive. I want to create. I want to travel. I want to meet people and make an impact on the world. I want to do something positive.

I just don’t know what that is or what it looks like.

So now, as I’ve done on a yearly basis since I was twenty-two, I’m going back to the drawing board. I’m attempting to search and reflect and parcel out the things that matter most, and (hopefully) go for them. And this will mostly likely bring me back to the road of unemployment, which I’m dreading.

It’s an unnerving thing, to take a chance on yourself, and I admire The Master of Unemployment for being brave enough to move around and send his writing samples to people and to make his mark on the world. I have no doubt he’ll end up the host of his own late night talk show, the title of his blog being but a distant memory. 

  I’m done drinking for the rest of March.  And I know what you’re thinking: but what about St. Patrick’s Day? How could you not drink on St. Patrick’s Day? Or maybe you weren’t thinking that. Perhaps you’re not even Irish. You might be a middle-aged Korean woman. I have no idea; that’s beside the point. The point is: I’ve gotten bombed on St. Patrick’s Day enough times to realize it’s the same as any other day spent drinking.  It starts with a couple drinks, that lead to exponentially more drinks, and it typically ends with me on my knees, facedown in the toilet.  Believe it or not, after awhile, this type of behavior grows stale.

  Let me be clear (sort of): I don’t have a drinking problem, but I don’t not have a drinking problem.  I can go days, even weeks, without having a single drink, but when I do choose to have a couple, a couple always turns into a baker’s dozen, and a baker’s dozen usually turns into a trip to the titty bar or something equally as sophisticated, and a trip to the titty bar only results in a hard-on and a depressing bank statement.  By cutting down on the drinking, I’ll hopefully cut down on the bad decisions and habits that typically accompany alcohol: spending too much money, embarrassing myself, itchy genitalia, crying, etc.  

  Luckily, drinking hasn’t interfered with any real important aspects of my life.  It doesn’t infringe upon work, and it hasn’t ruined any relationships to my knowledge.  However, this doesn’t mean that it won’t negatively affect me at some point in the future.  Statistically, it’s a miracle I haven’t been socked in the face while drinking. After a few cold ones, the already unedited shit that spills from my mouth has the tendency to morph into full-blown diarrhea.  Most of the time, I think I’m being wacky and funny, but truly, I’m probably just being an obnoxious shithead.  When I think about this the next day, it horrifies me. It’s horrifying because I begin to assume it’s only a matter of time before I say the wrong thing to the wrong meathead, and end up in worse condition than Ralph Cifaretto.  If I’ve ever said anything offensive or vulgar towards you while drunk: don’t worry (I doubt you’re worried. I should just shut my face and get over myself), I usually regret it for days afterward, tormented by anxiety. Why did you say that? Why did you tell her she looks like John Goodman? You’re not funny.  Stop trying so hard.  You’re an idiot.  And this, kids, is mainly what I’m tired of.  I’m not tired of drinking; I’m tired of the anxiety that follows it. 

  The physical exhaustion of a hangover is bad, but the mental anguish is worse. The tossing and turning on Sunday nights, the sweating profusely even though the AC is on full blast. And the uninhibited, racing thoughts that are always negative.  While I’m not a psychologist, I think it’s safe to say that bedtime on a Sunday night, after a three-day bender, isn’t the best time for self-analysis.  Hopefully, if I reduce the alcohol intake, I’ll be reducing my overall anxiety. 

I was 16 years old, driving through endless fields in rural Pennsylvania, when I was asked that dreaded, yet required, question by my father: “What do you want to do when you get out of college?”

We were on a college trip, just my dad and I, hours in the car led to this question. It had to be asked at some point, right?

I knew my answer immediately. “Teach,” I announced. I had spent the past three summers working at a local sports camp. It was fun and I was good with kids. The school schedule was already deeply embedded inside of me. It felt like a natural progression.

I ended up at Holy Cross, majored in English, and landed in a third grade classroom the September following my graduation. At age 30, I am at the same school, now teaching fourth grade.

 Last week, I visited a high school in Newport, RI. I spoke with a few classes about sports writing, something I have been doing on the side for the past four years. During my time in two separate classes a freshman and a senior asked about my aspirations.

 Today, fourteen years after my dad asked me the same type of question, my answer had shifted and was delivered with even less confidence.

I talked about loving to teach, about teaching English to older kids in the future. I talked about trying to write and potentially catch on with some media outlet that would pay me enough so I didn’t have to teach anymore. I had gone from having one answer to having two answers.

 Don’t get me wrong; I still love teaching. I love those moments when a lesson engages every student. I love seeing a flicker of understanding grow into complete mastery. I love getting to know a group of students and molding them into a family of sorts. I love seeing them move on and be successful. 

Over the past four years of writing, it has become a bigger and bigger part of my day. I used to write a weekly post for a sports blog. Now, I write once a day for a Celtics news site, I try to keep my own blog updated a few times a week, and I also have a weekly podcast. 

This piece is for Master of Unemployment, but I guess I am the Master of Over-employment. I am constantly busy. I battle the feeling that I should focus on one job and do it really well. At times, both my teaching and my writing suffer. Sadly, I would struggle with my sanity if I stopped writing or teaching.

 The 16-year-old version of me was so sure about something that the 30 year-old version of me now doubts. The scariest past of this is the fear of stepping into the world of writing while leaving something that I know I am good at and have some solid experience with. Teaching helps me pay the bills, it helps me live in a neighborhood I love.

Writing allows me to share ideas and thoughts. It allows me a different type of audience. Writing offers me the challenge of reaching as many people as possible. Unfortunately, writing would not pay the bills.

 In the past six to nine months I have returned to the question my dad asked me in the car. “What do you want to do?” For the first time in my life, I am not quite sure.

 In some ways that’s exciting. It offers the chance at new challenges and new frontiers.

It’s also terrifying. It could lead to instability. It could lead to boredom and feeling “stuck” for the rest of my career.