We march again.

One of the only wonderful things about the Trump administration has been the remarkable protests that his hateful, xenophobic, idiotic policies have engendered throughout our country. Americans coming together in historic numbers to stand opposed to hate, bigotry, sexism, corruption, and the purposeful destruction of our environment for personal profit. 

The Woman's March was the largest single day protest in American history and spread throughout the world. My family marched on that day, and it is a memory I will cherish forever.

There were protests at airports following the various iterations of Trump's bigoted travel bans. The Tax March. The March for Science. Protests following the Stoneman Douglas High School shooting. Protests following Trump's withdrawal from the Paris Agreement. Protests following Trump's DACA decision. Many, many more.  

Today Americans march is opposition to the authentically evil of separation of children from their migrant parents. Hundreds of thousands of Americans - and maybe more - will once again stand in opposition to Trump - a man elected by a minority of Americans - and his cruel and indefensible immigration policies. 

Peaceful, forceful, unending protest. It's a beautiful thing. The only beautiful thing to come out of the election of this vile, ignorant, self-serving human being. 

Never trust alliteration

Elysha is looking for a teaching job for the first time in 9 years. Now that the kids are off to school and settled into their routines, it's time for her to return to the classroom.

Recently, she was looking at a school district that expects classroom instruction to be "rigorous, relevant, and respectful."

Excellent standards for instruction, but one problem:

I don't trust alliteration when it comes to policy. I will never understand the need for schools, teachers, principals, and other educational leaders to constantly use alliteration when setting forth standards. I don't understand how alliteration makes a set of standards, expectations, goals, or the like any better or more memorable. I can't understand know how or why a stylistic literary device, most often used in poetry and verse, has somehow crept into into policy and procedural standards. 

I have attended meetings where valuable time has been spent trying to wedge a set of standards into a list of words that all begin with the same letter. Conversations that go something like this:

Educator A: "So we all agree. The content of this unit should be timely, topical, and culturally diverse."

Educator B: "Sure, but can we find a way of saying that diversity part with the letter T? Maybe... treats everyone equally? Or tolerant? How about timely, topical, and tolerant. Or tolerance centered? Tolerance focused? Tolerating tolerance? Yeah, that's two T words! Timely, topical, and tolerating tolerance!"

I'm not kidding. I've watched this insanity in action. Many times. 

I'm not saying that "rigorous, relevant, and respectful" are not excellent standards for instruction. I just can't help but wonder what standard might have been left off the list because it didn't begin with the letter R.

Or which of these R words were added simply because when someone was brainstorming a set of standards, the unconscious desire for alliteration took hold. 

Or if one of these standards isn't needed or isn't nearly as important, but the desire for alliteration altered the policy of an entire school district and the means by which thousands of children will be instructed.  

Never trust alliteration. It's a signal of vocabulary manipulation that is never required and often less clear and less precise than the original, less alliterative list. 

I am nonplussed about the shifting definition of nonplussed.

In the last 24 hours, I've read two professionally published pieces of writing - a collection of essays by David Sedaris and a news article - where the word "nonplussed" was used incorrectly. 

Nonplussed means to be surprised and confused to such a degree that a person is uncertain about how to react.

When you are nonplussed, you are startled. Befuddled. Shocked. Discombobulated. 

Not unaffected. Not calm. Not bemused. Despite how so many people - including experienced writers and their editors - might think. 

Websters offers an alternate definition of nonplussed (not bothered, surprised, or impressed by something) but also indicates that this definition is chiefly used in the United States.

Then it adds:

NOTE: The use of nonplussed to mean "unimpressed" is an Americanism that has become increasingly common in recent decades and now appears frequently in published writing. It apparently arose from confusion over the meaning of nonplussed in ambiguous contexts, and it continues to be widely regarded as an error.

In other words, Americans have screwed up the use of this word so often that we must acknowledge that there is alternate, albeit ridiculous definition used only in the stupid Americans. 

I understand that language is constantly evolving, but are we really going to entirely reverse the definition of this word? Changes in the meaning and usage of words is a normal part of an evolving language, but to shift the opposite meaning seems a little ridiculous to me.  

I feel the same about the phrase "Begs the question." While it's so often used to imply that something someone has said or done has prompted a question or wonderment (His inability to hit the baseball begs the question: Does he belong in the major leagues?), it's actually a phrase that defines a certain type of circular logic. 

For example, "The death penalty is wrong because killing people is immoral" is an example of begging the question because it argues that the death penalty is wrong because the death penalty is wrong. 

As a former debate champion and lover of logic, I am a huge fan of the proper use of "begs the question."

Despite my strong feelings, I fear that the true meaning of "begs the question" is a lost cause. It's far more likely to hear someone use the phrase improperly these days, and I suspect that in another decade or two, the proper definition will be lost forever. 

I'm willing to cede ground on "begs the question." Grudgingly. 

But nonplussed? That is a hill I'm willing to die on. A fight that must be fought. A battle I'm willing to wage, and you should, too. Shifting definitions is a perfectly acceptable result of an evolving and ever-changing language, but reversing a definition entirely is something I cannot abide.

I am nonplussed about the shifting definition of nonplussed. I am outraged. Defiant. Activated and ready to fight.

I'm sure you find this as important and pressing an issue as I do.  

Jesus was a brown, undocumented immigrant who crossed national borders illegally ill

For those awful human beings who believe that child separation on our southern border is an appropriate policy but also profess a deep and meaningful belief in a Christian God (or in the case of Attorney General Jeff Sessions attempt to use that Christian doctrine to defend this unrighteous action), this church sign is an excellent reminder that Jesus, Mary, and Joseph were all refugees who illegally crossed national borders, too.

In fact, Jesus and his parents were more akin to the asylum seekers crossing our border today - impoverished brown families fleeing persecution and death - than any racist, white American who supported a President who called these people racists, thugs, criminals, and "bad, bad people." 

Also, since so much of Trump's immigration policy is based in racism (note that we only separate families with brown skin when the majority of undocumented immigrants arrive in this country via airplane and overstay their visas), it's also an excellent moment to remind everyone that Jesus's skin was probably just as brown as the immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers crossing our southern border.

I've been in many, many churches in my life, and I am always amused by the number of white Jesuses hanging on crosses at the front of the church.  

Jesus was a lot of things, but white was definitely not one of them.

In fact, if Jesus returned to Earth today (as so many Christians believe he one day will) and attempted to cross Mexican-American border, he would look very much like the Mexican and Central American parents who are currently being separated from their babies and toddlers by indecent, evil human beings who have forgotten the long lens of history and ignored the lessons found within their Bibles.

I hit a new thing. The results were tragic.

I played golf on Sunday. 

On the second hole, I hit a tree with my second shot, causing it to ricochet directly back at me, nearly killing me. My third shot was heading toward the green when it struck a rake lying between me and the green, popping the ball up and sending it right of the green.

I kind of lost my mind for a moment. Threw my club to the ground and jumped up and down. My friend, Jeff, said, "You hit everything but the hole. It's unbelievable." Then he and my friend, Tom, began ticking off the objects that I've hit in the past.

There have been a lot. 

Golf cart. Barn. The flag on an adjacent green. Yardage marker. Snack shack. Drainage pipe (I actually put the ball in the drain pipe). Tree after tree after tree.  

The history my humiliating golf shots is long and storied. 

I finished the hole with a double bogie. Less than five minutes later, I hit a tee shot that sailed low and hooked left before striking a bird mid-air, killing it. 

Yes. I hit and killed a bird mid flight. Probably a starling. Do you have any idea how improbable that is, particular after talking about all the things I hit on the golf course just minutes before?

I only saw the brief flutter of feather and wing because I was keeping my head down (as every golfer should), but Tom said that the bird paused midair for a moment as if to cry out, "Goodbye, cruel world!" before plummeting into the ravine below. 

I felt terrible. I had killed a living creature with a golf ball. Not a terribly well hit ball, either. 

I was also a little annoyed. Following the bird into the ravine was my ball, costing me a penalty stroke. My friend, Plato, says the ball wasn't going to clear the ravine anyway, but he's a pessimist who cannot be trusted when it comes to judgment calls like this.

Later on, I learned that there is actually a rule (19.1) that would've permitted me to take a free drop. No penalty. But given that a bird died in my fruitless pursuit of par, I felt like the penalty was probably justified. 

Speak Up Storytelling #6: Special Storyworthy book launch episode

Episode #6 of Speak Up Storytelling is now ready for your listening pleasure.

This week's special episode features live audio from the book launch for Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling.

In this episode, you'll hear me tell three BRAND NEW stories, never before told at Speak Up (and two never before told on any stage anywhere). followed by short lessons on the finding and crafting of stories. 

Next week we'll feature the second half of this book launch event, including two more BRAND NEW stories, Elysha's debut performance on ukulele, and the question-and-answer session from the evening.  

If you haven't subscribed to the podcast in Apple podcasts (or wherever you receive your podcasts), please do. And if you're not one of the 30 or so people to rate the podcast and 20 to review it in Apple Podcasts (who are the best people ever), we would love it if you did.

Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier, and it makes us feel better about ourselves and our work. 

It also makes Elysha smile. Isn't that incentive enough?

Empty that bag

When I arrived home from Iowa yesterday, I kissed Elysha, hugged my children, and then I emptied my bag. 

Dirty clothes into the hamper. Toiletries put away. Charges returned into their usual locations. 

I did this because there are two types of people in this world:

1. Those who empty their luggage immediately upon returning home from a trip
2. Heathens and lunatics who can stare at a suitcase of dirty clothing for hours or days without concern.

These are likely the same kind of people who leave dirty dishes in sinks, folded clothing in hampers, and unopened mail on counters. These are people with thousands of unread emails in their inbox and dozens of unheard voicemails waiting on their phones.  

I'm not saying they aren't perfectly lovely people. Some of them are quite intelligent, beautiful and talented. The best of the best. But obviously broken in some fundamental way, too.  

An unexpected perk

When you're the only person in the TSA PreCheck line, bypassing an enormous line at airport security, and a man in that line starts shouting at you, asking why the hell "that guy doesn't have to stand in line like cattle," TSA PreCheck gets even better. 

I made the mature decision.

You know how it goes.

You arrive in Cedar Rapids late because the plane that you were supposed to board in Connecticut was struck by lightning, so rather than going through Chicago, you are re-routed through Charlotte.

When you finally arrive in Cedar Rapids, you're tired. A lightning strike and a five hour delay in Charlotte has made for a very long day. You arrive in your hotel room, flip on the television, and see that South Park is on.

You watch and laugh.

Another episode comes on. You watch that one, too. Laugh some more.

Then another. "Hey, it's a South Park marathon. Maybe I'll watch another and get some of this mindless business done."

Five hours later, I'm still watching South Park. It's approaching 4:00 AM, and I need to decide if I'm going to sleep for two or three hours of just stay up all night.

Tough decision.

I sleep.

Even when Elysha Dicks isn't around, I'm perfectly capable of making the mature decision.

Watch people dance and be happy.

It's 7 minutes long, which can feel like an eternity on the internet, but I haven't seen something this joyous in a long time.

We could really use some joy these days.

It's a supercut montage of dance scenes from more than 300 movies. Admittedly, I might be a little biased when it comes to dancing. Watching my wife dance is one of my absolute favorite things in life. 

Still, it's joyous. The dancing is joyous. The memories that each of these moments bring back are joyous. The whole damn thing will make you happy. 

And the editing is incredible. 

The answer to "How dare you?"

I hate "How dare you?" I hate it so much.

How dare you is a meaningless bit of outrage. Argumentative spittle. A waste of three words. A ridiculous rhetorical question designed to express overdramatized personal outrage.

We must stop "How dare you?" in its tracks. Bring it to an end. Remove it from the lexicon.

When faced with, "How dare you?" your response must always be to answer this stupid question. 

Something like this:

"How dare I? I'd hardly call what I said daring. I'd characterize it more as a valid argument contain vast amounts of truth and wisdom. How dare I? Who even says that? Who relies upon rhetorical questions of such little meaning to make their point? How dare I? I dare with the strength and conviction of a person who knows he is right and is fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. That is how I dare. Now perhaps you could say something of substance and meaning rather than spitting rhetorical drivel."

Maybe not exactly that, because it's a lot, but something like it.

In the case of Kellyanne Conway, a simple, "How dare I? I dare because children are at stake, and I am a journalists whose job it is to ask hard questions and point out bigotry, intolerance, and cruelty wherever I see it. I dare because it's my job to be daring." 

I would've loved that so much. 

So practice. Prepare yourself for verbal combat. Be ready to fire off a response when faced with this stupid bit of rhetoric. I've had the great pleasure of pulling off a "How dare you" rant more than once (including a college classroom once in the midst of a debate), and it is truly a glorious thing.  

13 things that make me happy (5 years later)

Five years ago, I made a list of 13 things that make me happy, after being inspired by former acquisitions editor Jennifer Pooley and her own list (which is no longer on the internet). 

Narrowing it down to just 13 items was impossible, so it was by no means an exhaustive list. Just the first 13 things that came to mind.

Back then, I set a calendar reminder to check in on my list five years later, and today that calendar reminder popped up. I love when that happens. Kind of like time travel. A Matthew Dicks from five years ago reaching back from the past to speak to me today.   

I'm happy (and perhaps a little surprised) to report that five years later, my list remains perfectly relevant. The 13 items that I put on the list five years ago continue to make me just as happy today. 

1. Bluffing and winning a poker hand
2. Snow days
3. Ice cream for dinner
4. The perfect approach shot
5. Dancing with my wife
6. Reading to my children
7. Almost any Springsteen song
8. Seeing one of my novels on the shelf of a bookstore
9. A New England Patriots victory
10. Telling a story to a live audience
11. Watching my children experience pride from an accomplishment
12. Breakfast
13. Making my wife laugh

I’d love to see your list if you’ be so kind as to include it in the comment section.

Speak Up Storytelling #5: Renata Sancken

Episode #5 of Speak Up Storytelling is now ready for your listening pleasure.

On this week's episode, we talk about finding and crafting stories in your everyday life using my strategy "Homework for Life." I describe how I discovered two important things about myself that apparently everyone else already knew. 

Next, we listen to a hilarious story by Renata Sancken about ghost hunting in the south. Then Elysha and I discuss the strengths of his fantastic story as well as suggestions for improvement.

Finally, we answer a listener question about telling a good anecdote, and we each make a recommendation.  

If you haven't subscribed to the podcast in Apple podcasts (or wherever you receive your podcasts), please do. And if you're not one of the 15 or so people to rate the podcast and 11 to review it in Apple Podcasts (who are the best people ever), we would love it if you did.

Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier, and it makes us feel better about ourselves and our work. 

A celebration of so much more than just a book

On Saturday night, I took the stage at the release party for Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling, and told five brand new stories to an audience of more than 200 friends and family.

It was quite a night. 

My friend, storyteller, and producer Erin Barker once told me never to produce a show and perform in that same show. I've been violating her rule ever since launching Speak Up five years ago, but there have been nights when I fully understood what she meant. Preparing to perform while managing the multitude of problems that can occur in the process of producing a show can be challenging.

So it shouldn't have been surprising that being the only storyteller of the night, telling five BRAND NEW stories in addition to a brief lesson after each story, is extremely difficult and mentally taxing. I've done solo shows before, many times, but never before had I taken the stage with completely new material. Stories Elysha had never even heard before. 

It was a lot to hold in my head. 

Thankfully, once I stood behind that microphone, everything quieted in my mind and I knew exactly what to do. The stories were there, just waiting for me to begin telling. 

Happily, I wasn't the only performer that evening. Andrew Mayo of Should Coulda Woulda opened the show with a reconfiguration of his band consisting of three of my former students (and his children), the parent of a former student, and the siblings of a former student. 

They were brilliant. The perfect way to begin the night. 

But the highlight of the night came when Elysha took the stage in the second half of the show and played her ukulele and sang in public for the first time.

The story that I told just before she performed was about the months following a brutal armed robbery. I was battling post-traumatic stress disorder at the time but didn't know it. I was clawing my way through life, not sleeping or eating, and oddly not able to pass from one room to another without suffering incredible fear and mortal dread. 

Then one night I found myself standing before an iron door at the bottom of a dark stairwell in an abandoned building in Brockton, MA, wondering if I could find the strength to walk through that door to the room on the other side.

I was there to compete in an underground arm wrestling tournament (crazy, I know) with the hopes of winning some money and taking one step closer to paying off a $25,000 legal bill after being arrested for a crime I did not commit. 

I found the courage to do the hard thing that night. The impossible thing, really. That was the hardest doorway I've ever walked through in my life. And even though I would continue to suffer from PTSD for the rest of my life, that doorway in the basement of that building has made every doorway since so much easier to step through. 

I wanted the audience to understand the value of doing the hard thing. I wanted them to put aside any fears that they might have. I wanted their dreams of someday to be dreams of today. I wanted them to understand that every hard, frightening, seemingly impossible thing that I have done in my life has always yielded the greatest results. 

I was terrified about taking the stage for the first time at a Moth StorySLAM in July of 2011 and telling my first story. But doing so changed my life. 

So I asked Elysha to perform for the first time that night to show people what the hard, frightening thing looks like. She's only been playing ukulele since February, and she's never sung in public or taken singing lessons. It was hard for her. Frightening. Yet she stepped through that door and was brilliant. 

Elysha performed Elvis's "Can't Help Falling in Love," and during the final chorus, the audience joined her in singing. When the song was over, everyone leapt to their feet in the loudest applause of the evening.  

I was so proud of her. I still am. 

It was a wonderful night for everyone involved. I can't thank everyone enough for the support.

We recorded the evening and will release the audio in two parts as episodes for upcoming Speak Up Storytelling podcasts so that you can hear the stories and the lessons and Elysha and everything else.

What would Jesus do?

Attorney General and all-around bigot Jeff Sessions attempted to defend the parent-child separations that are taking place on the southern border this week by citing a passage from the Bible:

"I would cite you to the Apostle Paul and his clear and wise command in Romans 13 to obey the laws of the government because God has ordained the government for his purposes," Sessions said. "Orderly and lawful processes are good in themselves. Consistent, fair application of law is in itself a good and moral thing and that protects the weak, it protects the lawful. Our policies that can result in short-term separation of families are not unusual or unjustified."

I'm not a religious person, but I've read The Bible from beginning to end three times, and this is not so hard to understand. Christians simply need to ask themselves one question:

What would Jesus do?

Whether you believe that Jesus was the son of God, a prophet, or simply a smart and righteous guy, his teaching, as presented in The Bible, is unwavering and unambiguous.

Would Jesus separate a child from their parents?

Would Jesus refuse to bake a cake for two men who loved each other and wanted to spend the rest of their lives together? 

Would Jesus, a refugee himself, send asylum-seekers back their home country and an almost certain death?

Would Jesus cut permanently cut taxes on the wealthy while offering fractional, temporary tax cuts to middle class?

Would Jesus have voted for a man who brags about sexual assault? Defrauds Americans with a fake university? Lies constantly? Commits adultery with porn stars and then pays them off with hush money? Stands accused of sexual assault but almost two dozen women? Insults Gold Star families, war veterans, the disabled, and women? Refused to rent apartments to black families? Demands costly military parades? Befriends brutal dictators who have locked up hundreds of thousands of his citizens in gulags?

If Christians simply applied the "What would Jesus do?" question (and perhaps in some cases actually read The Bible instead of trusting the teaching of politically motivated religious leaders) to these policy decisions, the choices would be clear.

No, Jeff Sessions. The Bible does not support your barbaric policy of separating children from their parents on the border. Jesus would never do such a thing, and "What would Jesus do?" is is the only Biblical standard that should apply to Christians and/or bigots who attempt to use The Bible to defend their barbarity.  

Dunk your teacher

For 19 years, I have been sitting in a dunk tank at my school's annual spring fair, allowing children to dunk me if their aim is true and they are willing to risk the future consequences of such an action. 

If you have ever wondered how much joy can be derived from dunking one's teacher, look no further than this image, drawn by one of my students who managed to dunk me on the first try. 

"Lockdown Lockdown" should not need to be a song.

I was student-teaching when the Columbine massacre occurred in April of 1999. I remember sitting with fourth graders on the morning after the shooting, listening to them talk about everything they had seen on television. 

It was unimaginable. 

Then, seemingly overnight, it became all too imaginable as school shootings, especially those involving mass casualties, became all too common in this country, and educators were forced to grapple with the notion that someday, we might be forced to make life-and-death decisions to protect our students. 

I saw this photograph on the internet yesterday and wondered how many future educators are deciding on other professions because posters like this are now necessary in elementary school classrooms. 

I wondered how safe our children really feel when they are forced to sing-song the steps to a lockdown drill. 

I wondered when lawmakers will finally place the safety of students ahead of politics, elections, and campaign donations. 

I wondered if there will ever be a day when a poster like this is no longer necessary in an American classroom.  

I really hope so. 

Change. Now.

I saw this fortune the other day and thought, "Someone gets it."

I believe in change.

I am a man who has held the same teaching job for two decades, in the same school and in the same classroom for almost the entire time. I've watched so many of my friends come and go over the years. Some have left teaching altogether. Others have retired. Quite a few have moved into new positions at other schools. 

Good friends. The best of friends. My wife, even. 

Yet I remain, unmoved and unchanged. Even my classroom has changed very little. Students come back to visit years later and can't believe how much the classroom looks like the one they remember.

It may not seem like I embrace change, but that is not true. I believe in change. I seek change wherever possible. If you're doing the same thing, day after day, year after year, absent any change, you're getting old. You're dying a slow death.  

I'm in constant search for change, both planned and unexpected. Sometimes self-selected and sometimes prompted by others. 

Twenty years ago, almost on a whim, I became a wedding DJ.
Eventually a minister, too, I started marrying couples. Conducted baby naming ceremonies, too. 
Then I took up golf thanks to the prodding of friends. 
For a few years, I performed in community theater. Even sang a solo once, and I can't sing.
About the same time, I started playing poker, too. Pretty seriously for a while.  
After years of trying and failing, I finally published my first novel and became an author.
Still later, I started writing columns for magazines and newspapers. 
Then I became an author again. Eventually again and again and again. 
One day, a friend asked me to write musicals, so I started doing that.
A year later, I started writing screenplays, too. Film and television. 
Seven years ago I took a stage in NYC and told a story, and I became a storyteller.
Someone saw me telling stories and asked me to write comic books, so I tried my hand at that.
After a while, I became a teacher of storytelling. Then a communications consultant.  
Upon request, I started delivering inspirational and keynote speeches, too.  
Half a dozen years ago, I started studying finance. I began investing. Pretty seriously, too. 
Five years ago Elysha and I launched Speak Up. 
Four years ago, I started writing non-fiction. Storyworthy was the first to publish.
Three years ago I started writing middle grade fiction. My first will publish next year.
Two years ago, my cohost, Rachel, and I launched Boy vs. Girl, a podcast about gender. 
Last year I tried stand up comedy for the first time.
This year I was paid to perform comedy for the first time.
Last summer I started delivering sermons for churches. 
Along the way, I also became a husband. A homeowner. A father. The owner of two new cats. 

I'm constantly looking for the next thing. The new thing. The thing I'd always wanted to do and the thing I never imagined I'd do. 

Elysha and I launched a podcast on storytelling, Speak Up Storytelling, just this month.
I'm currently completing the paperwork to become a notary.
I'm recording a possible future podcast with my children. We call it "What the Heck?"
I working on new books in a variety of genres.  
In August, I'll perform my one-person show for the first time at a festival in New York. 

Find something new.

If it's hard or frightening or seemingly impossible, even better.

Then find something else new. And then something else.

The fortune cookie is right.

If you want to stay young, you must change. 

Bottom of the cup

I've never wanted to host a tea party.

Until now. 

The most unlikely of pars

I play golf because I love the game, even though I play it poorly.

I play golf because it allows me to spend time with friends. 

I also play golf because sometimes, the moments are unforgettable, ridiculous, and hilarious.

On Sunday morning, I played golf with two friends at Rockledge country club, a public golf course in West Hartford, CT. After playing poorly for seven holes, I came upon the 17th hole, a downhill par four that curved slightly to the left. 

My tee shot went low and left, hitting a tree and landing amidst the trees on the left side. 

My second shot - an attempt to punch the ball out of the tree line - hit the tree in front of me dead on. The ball ricocheted backward, flying across the fairway about 15 yards behind me.

I was now farther away from the hole than when I started. 

My third shot sailed down the fairway but hooked left, hitting another tree - my third in three shots. This time the ball dropped like a stone at the base of the tree, inches from the trunk. 

Trapped against the tree, now about 50 yards from the green, my only choice on this fourth shot was to punch the ball toward the green as best I could. I took a 7-iron and treated it like a putter, smacking the ball toward the pin.

The ball flew over the grass, landed softly on the green, and rolled into the cup.

I had just managed a par, despite the fact that I had hit three separate trees on my first three shots, including one shot that yielded negative yardage.

The most unlikely par ever. 

My friends thought it ridiculous and hilarious and unforgettable, as did I. On the previous hole, I had hit another tree while teeing off, this one just 20 feet from the tee box. The ball ricocheted directly back at me, about six feet from where I was standing. 

That had sent us into hysterics, too. Little did we know that there were greater things to come.

I have so many clear and brilliant memories from my dozen years on the golf course. Moments spent with friends, hitting spectacular and spectacularly bad shots, laughing at our own inanity, and sharing moments of genuine warmth and friendship. 

There was also the time a squirrel stole the bag of nuts from Plato's golf bag. The time Phil hit a woman with a ball and tried to blame it on us. The time I hit a duck on a hill. The time the head of Plato's six iron detached from his club mid-swing, sending it helicoptering between mine and Jeff's heads. The time Andrew and I unintentionally played in the snow. The time Jeff accidentally divulged the sex of his future child to me without realizing it, and then the time we did it again with the next child.  

Both of those moments also happened on the 17th hole at Rockledge. 

Those moments, and hundreds more. Maybe thousands. 

I was lucky when my friend, Tom, introduced me to golf by purchasing a set of irons for me for $10 at a yard sale and throwing them into the back of my truck with a ribbon wrapped around the shafts. Little did I know what I was getting that December afternoon more than a decade ago.

A lifetime of unforgettable, ridiculous, and sometimes hilarious moments, including the chance to one day score par on a hole despite squarely hitting three trees along the way.