The Rock Market Decoded

Imperfection being the constant of the human condition, equity valuations are always undershooting or overshooting, kind of like our putting stroke.  This condemns investors to watching our old pal Sisyphus push the rock uphill only to see it roll down again.  This is what economists, lyrical souls that they are, call “reversion to the mean.”

So, whether pondering the futility of our golf game or the arc of stock prices, one asks: “Where is that damn rock headed?”

To answer this, we are faced with another conundrum.  It can be said that equity valuations are predictors of corporate profitability, which, in the aggregate, depends on economic growth.  Those valuations should adjust as evidence accrues one way or the other.  This is what finance professors, ever the blithe spirits, call the “discounted cash flow or dividend discount model.”

But, as Mitt Romney was laughed at for averring, corporations are people.  If they depend on economic growth for wealth creation, they must – like each butcher, baker and candlestick maker who makes up the economy – be doing the growing themselves.

Or, in the words of another presidential candidate, the sage possum Pogo of yesteryear’s funny papers, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

Which leads us to yet another riddle (Bear with us; fearless predictions will be forthcoming).  If we assume the market never gets it right, our task is to divine in which direction the rock is undershooting or overshooting.  This is what Wall Street wags mean when they say, “Nobody rings a bell at the top.”

We find it our task, then, to stand athwart the midpoint of 2012 and judge the direction of economic growth and its doppelganger, the rock on the hillside.  As always, the evidence is inconclusive, but try we must and, again like Sisyphus and our erratic putting, take pleasure in the effort if not its result.

First, let’s put the concerns of this vale of tears into four buckets in order of significance:

The Old World: Europe is falling into recession.  Greece is a mess.  Spanish unemployment is 24%. The break-up of the Eurozone appears imminent.

The New World: U.S. real GDP growth slowed to a 1.9% annual rate in the first quarter.  Jobs growth has plummeted from 200,000-plus per month in the winter to just 69,000 in May.  The “fiscal cliff” of 2013 looms.

The Orient: China’s gallop has slowed to what for it is a trot, with GDP growth at “just” 8% or so.

The Golf Course: Can we build a repeatable swing?

Next, let’s parse these concerns and spy which way the rock will rotate.

The Old World: Germany, already caving to the growth advocates, will accommodate them further.  The European Central Bank will cooperate.  Italy’s technocratic compromise, though far from the best of all worlds, will be copied.

The New World:  Romney could very well be president and inherit a recovering economy (the very one he is running against, reminiscent of Bill Clinton’s good fortune in 1992).  If Europe can muddle through (see above) expect the rock to signal economic growth.  Whoever is elected, we can’t believe politicians will be so thickheaded as to let sequestration and tax hikes to kick in January 1.

The Orient:  China may be the model for the rest of the policy makers in the civilized world.  With inflation slowing, the authorities have plenty of room to address slumping growth.  The central bank recently cut interest rates for the first time since 2008, and the government is looking to ramp up public investment projects.

The Golf Course:  Head down, eye on the ball, turn in a barrel, all without thinking about it.

Our conclusion:  Buy the dips and take one more club than your ego tells you.  Sisyphus would do no less.

Keeping Score

We shot a 97 on a par-64 municipal track this week. Like Mark Twain’s assessment of Wagner, It was better than it sounds. Really.

In fact, we cut 10 strokes off that in a later round – the first time we have broken 90 – by somehow eliminating enough three-, four- and, yes, even five-putts. Mirabile dictu! It's true! Drive for show and putt for dough.

Likewise, the U.S. economy's game won't be mistaken for one of Bubba Watson's Homeric drives, but the advance estimate of first-quarter gross domestic product showed that efficient work by the 14^th club in the bag kept e pluribus unum in the hunt.

The Commerce Department reported Thursday that real GDP advanced at a seasonally adjusted annual rate of 2.2% in the first three months of 2012, down from a 3.0% rate in the fourth quarter of 2011. Business investment and inventories were the big subtracting factors. But the big dog, the consumer, overcame those drags. Final consumption charged ahead at a 2.9% rate, adding two points to growth, up from 2.1% in the fourth quarter. It was the biggest contribution to expansion since the final months of 2010.

In all, the data buttressed our view that the U.S. has reached escape velocity and won't veer into a double-dip recession, like Europe appears to be doing. Indeed, the U.S. is once again the hope of the world. The American consumer is crucial to Europe and Asia, lands that depend on America's appetite for goods ranging from German cars to Chinese T-shirts. The increase in consumption should also translate into more investment and inventory building on these shores in the months to come.

The stock market responded, shrugging off the headline number, helped, obviously, by sterling earnings reports from Apple and Ford. Fully 71% of companies comprising the S&P 500 that have so far reported first-quarter results beat analysts' mean estimates, according to Bloomberg News.

Barring unforecastable cataclysms, we expect the rally to continue. The S&P 500 is trading at a trailing 12-months price-to-earnings ratio of about 16, compared with a historical mean of about 15, according to the Wall Street Journal. We expect the “P” to grow as the “E” keeps swelling in a growing economy. As in our historic breaching of the 90 threshold, momentum is serious scorecard medicine.

Requiem for a Sand Wedge

Accepting that you’ll never be happy again yields a certain happiness, just as knowing that one’s favorite sand wedge, forgotten on a green in the shadow of War Memorial Stadium, will remain forever in the bag of a scoundrel who found the forlorn stick and kept it for himself. Your short game will never be quite the same, but there is satisfaction in believing that whatever metaphysical power guides the universe will invest the wayward wedge with the power to poison the gentleman’s game from here to eternity.

Oh, it was a cheap thing – a bargain close-out inscribed with the name of the “wee ice man,” the man who believed as we do that putting is not golf. The American League employs the designated hitter, so why not a designated putter for those of us challenged by this feminine activity? Our choice would be Paula Creamer. We’d even let her use the pink ball she favors.

Cheap or not, it filled us with confidence when we heard the magical click of club head striking the cover of our Titleist, sending it like an exploding kernel of popcorn to a designated area near the cup, the face of the shiny wand smudged with a new fleck of candy red from the identifying inscription applied by a Sharpie to the ball.

We miss it so. There is a permanent longing to regain it, an ache so sharp yet so sweet, that, as we said, it begets a wistful nostalgia, an ennobling emotion, filled with the grandiosity of self that we gain only by losing – in this case a bloodied scepter now serving another master.

This sporting life affords us few opportunities for this peculiar satisfaction, so we savor it more than the well-struck tee shot delivered by a brutish driver. No, it is a finer thing than that, this world we have lost, always on the horizon, forever out of reach but glimmering with the promise that it can be regained. Now, if we can only enlist Ms. Creamer to pinch putt for us.

*******************

Our tattered flag is still waving after taking a beating, for entertainment purposes only. Let’s put 5,000 destroyers on Navy -7 over Army today to wrap up the college football season. Bowl picks to come.

Job Growth Unleashed in Akron

Eldrick Woods returned to the ranks of the employed yesterday at the Bridgestone Invitational in Akron. So we know nonfarm payrolls added one in August.

In July, the beleaguered U.S. economy added 117,000 jobs, ahead of the 75,000 consensus but not enough to sate the demand from new entrants to the workplace, not to mention those that remain idle, which is 9.1% of us, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics.

What’s more, the work week was unchanged, which bodes ill for third quarter gross domestic product, and growth in hourly earnings is lagging behind inflation, which spells trouble for increases in consumption, the key component of GDP.

We would call the labor outcome a bogey, when a birdie is needed to move up the leaderboard. Take note, Mr. Woods. The caddy you dumped last month is now carrying the bag of the first-round leader. Hey, that makes two nonfarm jobs added to payrolls this month.

Our baseball picks have followed the stock market recently. The Bronx B-52s finished their carpet-bombing of the pasty panty hose, who remained colorless except for Guillen. That brings our imaginary pile to 2,800 units. For entertainment purposes only, we’ll put 500 units on the favored hemoglobin hose of Boston and Jon Lester over the visiting poker-playing pinstripers and Bartolo Colon of New York.

The Toy Department

The game played between the lines is often ruled by the one between the ears.

Maybe Brooks Conrad, the Atlanta Braves’ second baseman who committed three errors night before last -- the final one a fatal scoot through the pet-door of two legs -- summoned his inner Bill Buckner, allowing the Giants by the bay to score the winning run. Keep the glove on the ground and the butt low, son, then let it hit you in the chest if it bounces up.

We are all doomed in the end, but it’s different being doomed in this sporting life. Conrad, who could have written “Lord Jim,” (which another Conrad did) had to sit and watch the Turner tomahawks fall limp yesterday. His only choice is to vanish to a fishing village in Mexico, if not as a vagabond in the Pacific or a ranch hand on Buckner’s Montana spread. Or to soldier on, and say “Oh well.”

We know how he feels. In our dotage, mistakes loom large. We are continuously amazed by the ability of our brethren homo sapiens to shake it off and move on. See Bill Clinton and Eliot Spitzer, the blue dress and black socks. But those are of a different ilk than Mr. Conrad’s, whose only sin was to fail in something as unimportant as a sporting event – the toy department as we used to call it in the newspaper trade.

When the stage is small, one can slink off to his or her lonely room, fire up a Marlboro and browse through Golf Digest while Turner (he of the tomahawks) Classic Movies plays “The Public Enemy” late at night. One can while away the sleepless hours improving his or her James Cagney or Joan Blondell impersonation.

Falling asleep with the television screen flickering, we dream of a wayback machine in which Mr. Peabody and Sherman intervene in history and set things aright, saving us from ignominy and regrets.

Hold your head high, Mr. Conrad. You’re not going to miss any meals, though you might need to find another profession. Failure on the field of athletic endeavor is the key to victory – for the other side. Those of us on the smaller stage of softball in the park, the municipal tennis court and the local golf course know this and keep our day jobs. Keep ‘em if you got‘em.

The October sun appears ready to grace us with another day in shorts and golf shirts. Got to work on keeping the glove on the ground and the rear end down. Practicing putting is strictly forbidden.

Spectrum Analysis

I don’t wish that I had Jesse’s girl. I wish I had the Philadelphia Eagles’ Michael Vick’s legs. The son of a gun can still gallop like a Labrador, with memories of dangling pit bulls dancing in his head. Got to hand it to him. He’ll start next week. Andy Reid knew what he was doing when he hired the guy.

And forget about the blind side, Alex Barron, the right tackle for America’s team, all but strangles a defender and ends the game as time expires, nullifying a seemingly winning touchdown pass and enriching those of us who took the Redskins for entertainment purposes only.

Which brings us to a new thesis – the color kingdom. Taking the color of passion – red – seems to work. You’ve given roses to your significant other to express your undying love. The football REDskins of the NFL and the REDbirds of the senior circuit of the MLB worked in tandem last night, for entertainment purposes only. Why don’t they walk Pujols whenever he shows up in the batter’s box?

Greens and blues are out. From now on, we are taking Boston and St. Louis of the MLB, San Francisco, Arizona, and Kansas City of the NFL , OU, Nebraska, Stanford of the scholar athlete football league (can’t take Ohio State – scarlet isn’t red). Jets and Giants are cast into the darkness, unless they make it to the Super Bowl and a decision must be made.

Am I abandoning the animal kingdom? But no! From out of nowhere comes the Canadian Football league, which features 12 men, numerous moving parts and ways to score. Keep an eye on these hosers.

In other words, life is random and we must have a code to live by and not be deterred by the girl who throws us over or the putt that goes awry. After all, Dustin Johnson won the BMW Championship yesterday after losing the PGA Championship by grounding his club in a bunker that he didn’t know was a bunker.

Wear crimson and cream on Saturday and flee the stock market. Y'all are doomed except for those who accept the color kingdom.

C'mon Man

Why do ladies and gentlemen bother with silly games? Why does Rice play Texas (as it used to in the old SWC)? Why does the sun go on shining (as Skeeter Davis sang)? Ask me why and Tell me why (as The Beatles sang)? Because, as Wordsworth wrote, “The world is too much with us.”

Is there any sillier game than golf?

A club with a blade rested in a bit of dirt thought to be a random piece of scalped carpet and Dustin Johnson was consigned to the dustbin instead of a chance to raise high the Wannamaker trophy as PGA champion.

The son of a gun was corralled by some sunburned guy and told that he broke some rule by grounding his club in a hazard that had no rake and had been trampled by the crowd outside the ropes. C’mon, man. If this had happened on the first day to some unknown you wouldn’t have heard a peep.

Oh well, life is not fair and golf is what it is. We just play for fun and have no illusions about our ability. But this seems particularly unfair, given the prestige, not to mention the do-re-mi at stake. As we’ve pointed out before, Our Father sendeth his rain on the just and the unjust.

Meanwhile, take the over in every Canadian Football League game (for entertainment purposes only).

Break 'em Up

The sun came up this morning. The coffee percolated and we breathed a sigh of relief. Our golf clubs were still with us. Phew! We had awoken from a dream in which some rascal stole our gear out of the cart when we were sauntering down the fairway looking for our ball. He left us our wedge and putter in the correct belief that we had used up all the good shots God had granted them.

When we gathered all the suspects at a dinner table in the grill room, it became obvious who the culprit was. Too obvious. It wasn’t the mustachioed sandbagger with a sly sneer on his lips. It turned out the club pro, resplendent in Nike logos, had swiped them because he wanted us to buy another set from him and take another lesson.

Aha! we exclaimed, as we petted Asta, kissed Nora, mixed a martini and watched the flat-footed detective take the son of a gun away in handcuffs.

Essentially, didn’t certain Wall Street banks sell us certain sets of clubs with the expectation that we would lose them to a purloiner and thus have to pay for another? It was a contract in which the golfer finds that the seller has collected the insurance because he had another contract predicting with assurance you would lose the shiny Titleist blades. Heads I win, tails you lose, and you are left with two clubs that have spent their usefulness.

President Obama is slated to speak today at Cooper Union in New York, the same venue at which Lincoln argued that the republic had the power granted by the founding fathers to prevent extension of slavery into the western territories.

But Mr. Obama’s address will be pointed at a different kind of plantation owner asserting his “rights” – not the Southern demand that an owner of human chattel be assured the privilege of taking his slaves into whatever jurisdiction he chose, but the Wall Street clamor to indiscriminately create trading opportunities for its own benefit at the expense of the public contract.

Blankfein and Dimon must yield. Tea Partiers and latte-sipping Park Slopers at least agree on this: “Break up the Yankees!”

Meanwhile, take the Phillies every time Roy Halladay is on the mound.

Song of the Sporting Man

A friend of ours voiced a thought recently that has often struck us. To wit, “It’s a young man’s game,” which is why we play golf and doubles tennis rather than touch football anymore.

We envy men with theme songs to serenade them through this vale of tears: The Nazarene Jeter and strains of New York, New York; the saintly Brees aboard the City of New Orleans; the maple-leafed Crosby and O Canada, King James and the Cuyahoga (burn on big river).

Song and the sporting man are linked in a way that is poetry in motion (yep, it was Johnny Tillotson, he of telethon fame).

Though motion eludes the sporting man approaching his dotage, every now and then he ignores the doubtful knee and the looming obligation of completing the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle to aspire to the artistry of Tim Lincecum’s delivery or Ichiro Suzuki’s swing.

“C’mon, man,” get the legs moving, give it a try. There is nothing more dispiriting to us than the young man or woman who slothfully gives up and yields to the blandishment of the easy way out. Granted, talents are parceled out unequally and what few we may have decay with age, but that iron-clad fact of nature can’t keep us from seeking glory.

We will never find it at the plate, or under center, or in the crease, or behind the three-point line, but isn’t there a chant that we hear in our heads that keeps us shaving every morning and attending girls’ softball games.

Ours is: “G-o-o-d-e-y-e. Good Eye, Good Eye, Good Eye!”

Elephants and Whales

We were deep into the healthcare reform summit, determined to figure out this enigma wrapped in a riddle, when a friend notified us that the women’s curling semi-finals were on the USA network. We left the gas bags behind and quickly switched channels.

You can have your Lindsey Vonns, Apolo Ohnos, Johnny Weirs and snowboard dudes and dudettes; we’ll take the ladies of delicate releases, gentle twists of slim wrists followed by the furious sweeping or gentle nursing of dedicated handmaids, aiding the direction and speed of m’lady’s stone.

It’s a chess match on ice, matched only by the thrust and parry of our republic’s representatives in advocating competing cures for healthcare nation. To hear them talk, one would think 300 million people were in the intensive care unit and the remaining few were asking the ailing if they want to live forever.

“It’s a thingy, a fiendish thingy!” as George Harrison exclaimed in the curling sequence in “Help!”.

Yes it is, George. Luckily, Ringo escaped the exploding stone and the Beatles found themselves at Scotland Yard, seeking protection.

“And you shall have it,” the intrepid inspector promised as he cowered beneath his desk.

Just as the wide-eyed Ms. Ott of Switzerland (is she related to Mel of New York baseball Giants fame, who caused Leo Durocher to famously assert, “nice guys, they’ll finish last”?) and the steely Ms. Bernard of Canada dueled in Vancouver, the lawmakers slid their stones, sweeping with statistics, studies and anecdotes in an effort to announce checkmate. Alas, it was a stalemate.

In curling, competitors get extra innings, er, “ends,” to determine a winner. In policy-making, suits and ties and strands of pearls spin stories until the mind is dizzy with argument.

It seemed to us that one of the purposes of these United States is to save capitalism from its voracious self. Someone has to train the captive elephant not to step on the fleas, or let the beast roam the savanna; persuade the captive killer whale not to eat its keeper, or let the whale kill who it might in the ocean.

‘Tis a special art, like curling and (dare we mention it) golf, which requires furious effort or benign neglect. Yet, as Joyce told us, the newspapers were right. The snow was general all over Ireland, falling faintly on the living and the dead.

This Lenten Life

The cruelest month? ‘Taint April, Mr. Eliot. It’s February in Brooklyn: bare trees snarling at us; snow still piled on the shady side of the street; surly young men with sweatshirt hoods shrouding their faces, looking like so many Unabombers; nervous young mothers and take-charge nannies clogging the grimy sidewalks, pushing strollers that wrap their young’ns in plastic; sad brownstones gray with a kind of bone-deep moisture; the endless analysis of NBA contracts, the hair-shirt advent of Lent (how’s that for mixing liturgical seasons?).

But there’s hope. Lent’s privations will lead to Easter. Tulips will bloom and bare trees will smile. The hooded swains will bare their heads to seek their Jills. The byzantine NBA will give way to the Amen Corner at Augusta National. Children will frolic in parks while radiant parents and caretakers enjoy a picnic lunch, leaving the sidewalks free for us surly old men on meaningless jaunts.

We know these things are true because a flock of millionaires and wannabes are at this very moment spitting sunflower seeds before heading to the golf course in the gentler winters of Florida and Arizona. We all would have been among them at one time if not for the indisputable fact that hitting a curveball is impossible in the real world. This feat requires a magical incantation passed down among a select few from Nap Lajoie and Wee Willie Keeler (“hit ’em where they ain’t) to Joe Mauer and Albert Pujols. Will Dan Brown reveal it in his next “Da Vinci Code” spin-off?

Forlorn as we are in this somber period, itching to take to the local muni track with yet another new swing and putting stroke, the boys of summer at winter training (hey, it ain’t spring yet) fill us with hope of life after death. They have convinced us to embrace each new minute of sunlight that appears with every revolution of the planet until the vernal equinox, an event for mourning because the hourglass is turned over and the daytime begins to dwindle ever so sneakily.

Before that day in June, we predict the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates will meet in the 2010 World Series and Eldrick Woods will retire from golf to become a Buddhist monk.

Fail Safe

Failure is an illusion. “Be not proud … for thou art not so,” John Donne said of the ultimate failure.

In the late, great Supe 44, the crucial decision wasn’t Coach Sean Payton’s onside kick at the beginning of the second half, which led to a score. It wasn’t Tracy Porter jumping the route (as the football mavens say) in front of Reggie Wayne, which led to a game-sealing pick six (as they also say).

No, the big moment for the fleur de lis of New Orleans vs. the horseshoes of Indianapolis was going on fourth down and goal at the two near the end of the first half – and failing. The Colts were exultant over their goal-line stand. Yet their doom was sealed. Be not proud.

The horseshoes curled in their cocoon. Why didn’t Manning and company get aggressive and throw the ball downfield to get a first down? Instead, they went three and out and punted, giving the holy ones a short field and a resulting field goal – the same number of points they would have corralled if they had not gone for the touchdown, kicked off and given Manning and company a perfect chance to increase their lead.

The rest is history, as the experts say.

Sometimes the singular failures that mark our lives mask the sweeter things that follow. The girl who guffawed when we asked her out because she smiled a certain way, yet a great love with another followed. Going for broke from behind the trees only to end up with a mere 10 yards and still make par. Then there was the truly momentous decision to poach in a doubles tennis match and send a sure winner out beyond the line and win the game on a double fault.

Here’s to failure! We wish we could have been on Bourbon Street Sunday night.

Perchance to Dream

We know that recounting dreams is fascinating to the teller and tedious for the listener, but recount we must. Somehow we had become POTUS. Yes, that’s right, president of the United States. Strangely, we had never campaigned and thus had not undergone the intense vetting of our personal life. W appeared and told us not to worry. Cut taxes and start a few wars, he advised.

We were terrified. Surely some nosy reporter would find that square-grooved Ping wedge in our bag and get us banned for life from playing with our previously unsuspecting golfing buddies. What good is a president who can’t find anyone who will play with him? A president sans golf is a sad thing to contemplate.

The snooty Old World would harrumph when we pleaded for help in our Middle East adventures. China, appearing to own this century, would refuse to buy our Treasury bonds. Portugal, Spain and Greece, teetering on the brink of budgetary disaster, would require us to pay outlandish greens fees. Children would give us the Bronx cheer when we came to read “My Pet Goat.”

Why, a man, not to mention a POTUS, without golf is like Robert E. Lee without Stonewall Jackson. “He has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right arm.” (No offense to one-armed golfers).

Yet, as we took office in midwinter and the annual addition of fat around our girth made buttoning our slacks a bit of a wrestling match, we found that our Chancellorsville victory was not pyrrhic. We had not lost our right arm. The Tea Partiers had arrived to save the day and reattach it.

Dimon and Blankfein took their bonuses in restricted stock and stock options (boo hoo), the Cosmo centerfold took the oath of office in the world’s greatest deliberative body, the productivity of the American worker surged in the latest quarter because fewer hamsters were running faster, the Super Bowl pitted the horseshoed computer with a right arm against the Big Easy “Breesy” lads.

“When you break it down,” we said to the hopeful nation, “expect Reggie Bush to pop a big return to make the difference. The Saints will go marching in. For entertainment purposes only, take the points, my fellow citizens, and invest your funtime winnings in my next campaign, in which I pledge to use a legal wedge and thus secure our return to the world’s end zone. Then drop kick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of life.”

We awake on a frosty morning, floating end over end through the uprights as time expires. Good luck to all.

Unhorsed

We can almost hear the Indianapolis Colts’ President Bill Polian shouting “An ankle, an ankle, my kingdom for an ankle!” His remarkable right defensive end, Dwight Freeney, like Richard III, has been unhorsed. A torn ligament in the crucial joint just before the battle with the New Orleans Saints in Miami has apparently pushed the spread down a point to minus 5 in favor of the horseshoes.

The news must have made the saintly quarterback Drew Brees draw a breath of hope that his blind side might be less vulnerable with Freeney possibly out of action.

Our national economy had a blind side, too. Wall Street, oblivious to its own hubris, pummeled pedestrian quarterbacks with pass rushing techniques that defied chip blocks. Exotic mortgage securities and credit default swaps eventually swamped the credit markets and the pass rushers themselves. No flags were thrown.

After dusting themselves off with the help of taxpayers, the game resumed, the pass rushers doing God’s work in directing capital to its most efficient use, which meant outsized bonuses for the saints of capitalism while unemployment stayed at 10%. “Kezar Stadium, Roman Gabriel back to pass…but no! from out of nowhere, it’s Paul Volcker to intercept!”

The lion-hearted Volcker, the first and last Fed chairman to use money supply as a target and let interest rates roam where they may, has become the left tackle protecting our blind side, essentially urging a return to Glass-Steagall, the 1930s legislation that separated commercial banking from investment banking to prevent conflicts of interest. Of course, the Goldman Sachses and Morgan Stanleys, now officially bank holding companies but retaining proprietary trading desks, do not wish to be fettered.

“Yeah. That’s it. More. That’s right! I want more!” Edward G. Robinson confessed in a bathtub to Humphrey Bogart. (Name that movie, sports fans).

But in fairness, bashing Wall Street is tantamount to bashing New York. Let’s face it; the pinstriped bankers buy lots of goods and services with those checks. Folks in Detroit similarly would love to see GM, Ford and Chrysler flourish.

But there have to be rules. It reminds us of Phil Mickelson’s use of grandfathered Ping wedges with square grooves. The United States Golf Association has banned such wedges, but a successful lawsuit allowed the Ping clubs to be used. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em was the outcome. Those without an old wedge in the garage are at a disadvantage. Those who use them may not be technically cheating, but they are akin to Judge Smails invoking winter rules on a sunny summer day. How about a Fresca?

There may not be a God, as Bishop Pickering said after being struck by lightning just as he was about to break the course record at Bushwood, but down here we need someone – the Fed, the SEC , whomever – to keep the sky from falling on the weekend duffer and the blind side safe for the Central Park quarterback. Manning, Brees, Mickelson and Wall Street can take care of themselves. They get paid plenty for it.

Bowling and the Light in the Window

A half-moon hangs in the winter sky above Brooklyn, gentle and friendly, reminding a young man that you can look through any window and see light. Even on the eve of the clash between two sinister empires – the crimson tide (whatever that is) and the burnt orange steers (we know what they are) – the world keeps turning ‘round.

What more could a sporting man want than this bowling season? Dan LeFevour (what a name!) for Central Michigan vs. Levi Brown (what another name!) for Troy battled it out for the glory of the General Motors Acceptance Corp., which we assume is the entity behind the GMAC Bowl in Mobile, Alabama. Did the U.S. taxpayer shell out for the scoreboard and goalposts? We’ll have to look it up. In any event, the to and fro overtime show was worth it. Luckily, we got in with Central Michigan minus two before the spread shifted to minus three. No, we aren’t lucky, we’re infallible.

But of course we are doomed in the end, incapable of securing tomorrow’s newspaper today, however much we continue to seek it, however much we wish to believe it is just beyond the horizon, like turning lead into gold. Believe, we must, though, as the teens begin and the aughts die.

In 2010, we have these resolutions; well, call them expectations:
Abdominal muscles to be six-packed.
Bread to be plentiful.
Cakes to be decorated with sprinkles.
Dads to get Old Spice.
Elin to work on her iron play.
Fun.
Good Lovin’ (saw a band at Turner Falls in Indian Territory that played the heck out of this song)
Help! I need somebody!
Igloos not melting.
Jills with Jacks.
Kraut, of the Sauer type, on franks at the park.
Lemon meringue pie.
Merry gentlemen.
No mercy on the tennis court.
OU beating Texas the second Saturday in October.
Peace on earth, good will toward…
Quilting parties.
Rest for the weary.
Sand wedges that splash with soft aplomb.
Treats for the sweet.
Underdogs covering.
Vivaciousness.
What was I thinking?
Xavier over Fordham Prep next Thanksgiving.
Y’all.
ZZZ’s that make the next day bright.

Oh, and take Alabama and give the four points.

Decades

These are a few of our favorite things when the dog bites and the bee stings:

Mustard on scrambled eggs.

Marlboros, not the generic brand.

Parlays over straight plays (for entertainment purposes only).

Diet coke with a Big Mac and fries to keep our girlish figure.

The Meineke Car Care Bowl.

Directing the placement of the Christmas tree from a perch on the couch.

Christmas Eve shopping with the kids at the South Street Seaport and lunch at Wendy’s.

Paula Creamer’s beautiful swing and pink ball.

Laughing at ourselves when putts for double bogie lip out.

Faithful friends who are dear to us and gather near to us once more.

We are torn, torn we say! when it comes to remembering the last year of the aughts and reminiscing over a decade in this sporting life.

We learned to simulate playing golf, no small feat given our advanced age and lack of cocktail waitresses.

Our children, who advanced far beyond us in scholarship and athletic accomplishment.

Those who endured much with more grace and wit than can be measured.

The hound hotel, which can be a good place to go when the slings and arrows cloud the skies.

David Tyree’s miraculous helmet catch.

OU’s national championship against Florida State.

Boise State’s trickeration win against OU.

Of course, the 2004 Red Sox.

New Year’s resolutions are upcoming (six-pack abs are among them). Have yourself a merry little Christmas. We’ll muddle through somehow.

Whose Woods These Are, I Think I Know

It turns out that Eldrick Woods is just like you or me. OK, he has a little more do-re-mi, no love handles and is able to escape from impossible lies to make par with a panache that perplexes we triple bogey fellows. But stuff happens -- even to the world’s best golfer. The best a man can get? We’re clean-shaven, too, but fall far short of expectations. We missed a patch of whiskers on one jowl the other day and felt the sting of imperfection.

Mr. Woods, after all, is just a man. As much as we wish not to revel in celebrity gossip, it is impossible not to look away from the billionaire with a flaw, though his swing and putting stoke are, dare we repeat, the best a man can get.

Only Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jack Kennedy remain in our pantheon of stainless heroes. Well, Jackson, a college professor, superstitiously sucked lemons while leading his corps, Lee ordered the calamitous charge against Cemetery Ridge, and JFK had a dalliance with the gal who crooned “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

Charles Barkley and John Daly can laugh at themselves. Mr. Woods, apparently, can only kiss his wife, children and dogs in photo-ops. Not that Mr. Woods is required to do so, but Messrs. Barkley and Daly lead this sporting life and accept it for what it is.

Which leads us to the conclusion that we are all sinners and have tales that are easily punctured. In one way or another, we all have had someone angry at us for our sins chasing us with a metaphorical seven-iron.

Let’s hope we get off with a $164 fine and enough left over for the greens fee at a muni track, which we will attempt to conquer in a few hours.

The Better Part of Valor

Football genius Bill Belichick took the road less traveled and it meant all the difference. Instead of punting on fourth down with 2 minutes and change left in the game, ahead by 6, he ordered his troops to go for it on 4th and 2 at their own 28-yard line. They failed. Kevin Faulk took the pass beyond the first down marker but juggled it and was driven back, giving Peyton Manning and his horseshoe helmeted heroes a short field for the victory.

As a young friend wise beyond his years pointed out to me the other day, in Frost’s poem, the narrator sighs, wondering what might have been had he followed Yogi’s advice that when you come to a fork in the road, take it. And all along I thought Frost’s protagonist was smugly patting himself on the back for turning his back on the crowd.

This hubris seems to be spreading. On Saturday, in The Game, Yale’s young coach called for a fake punt on 4th and 22 deep in the Bulldogs’ own territory. The ensuing run came up 7 yards short and Harvard took over to score the winning touchdown.

Also on Saturday, Les Miles, the coach at LSU inexplicably failed to call a time-out until 9 seconds remained. His Tigers pulled off a remarkable screen pass to cover 40-plus yards and a first down at the Ole Miss 6-yard line with 1 second remaining. Then, even more inexplicably, the LSU quarterback spiked the ball to end the game.

To coin a phrase, sometimes we cut off our noses to spite our faces. The same is true of this sporting life. Instead of punching an errant tee shot into the fairway from the lie between imposing oaks, we try the heroic 7-iron over the expansive canopy in an attempt to reach the green. But the Titleist smacks into a trunk and ricochets with the speed of a gunshot and returns to fracture the hero’s fibula, ending his golf season prematurely. You can look it up.

Sometimes the road less traveled is that way for a reason.

4.25 Inches

Common Wisdom:
The culture vultures said The Beatles were just a passing fad. Ponderous pundits said the United States wasn’t ready to elect an African-American president. The bully George Amberson Minafer (in Booth Tarkington’s “The Magnificent Ambersons”) believed the automobile would never replace the horse. Economists drunk on algorithms thought the unemployment rate would never hit 10% again. Football minds stuck in play-action and the West Coast offense opined the wildcat formation was a gimmick that top-notch defenses would soon defenestrate.

As it turned out:
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. The audacity of hope. Whoa, Nellie. The Great Recession. The return of the single wing.

Yep, the New York Jets’ defensive genius Rex Ryan was befuddled by the Miami offense, just as Alan Greenspan never saw the housing bubble collapse coming. We have seen the future and it works. Sure, there are no fullback spinners in the Dolphins’ playbook, but the new single wing (aka the wildcat) is here to stay, so you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone.

Inserting rookie Patrick White into the wildcat in the fourth quarter with the game on the line gleamed with confidence. Ricky Williams as the crossing back (fullback in the old single wing) in front of the tailback (Ronnie Brown) puts the rock into the hands of dynamic runners with an extra blocker at the point of attack, the key attribute of the single wing.

It occurs to me that I need a new blocker at my point of attack – aka the closely cut greensward that surrounds a hole 4.25 inches in diameter. A new strategy is required. Use your mentality, face up to reality, Cole Porter told us. Once the weather clears, it’s off to the practice green with wedge and putter in hand. Mastering these sticks, breaking 100 will be a snap. Once I do some push ups, reaching the greensward in two will be possible and breaking 90 will loom.

Of course, this strategy risks using up all the good strokes God originally granted me, but I’m willing to believe He has some greater plan in mind for my golf game. As a friend of mine reminds me, God hates a coward.

Then I’ll be infallible and qualified to assume the papacy when Benedict is gone, though some lobbying of the College of Cardinals may be in order.

Picks this week: Take road favorite Cincinnati and give the 2 ½ points against South Florida tonight (QB Tony Pike will expose the Bulls). Take Oklahoma and 3 ½ points tomorrow against Texas at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas (OK, I’m biased, but with two losses OU has the incentive to play the spoiler). On Sunday, take the Saints and give the 3 points against the Giants (Drew Brees is too good to lose at home).

Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness

The world is strangely silent now. Oh, I know wars still rage and suits still bark at the suitless and the well-perfumed clippety-clop heels still resonate in Grand Central Terminal. The cars and trucks still roll by my Brooklyn apartment all hours of the night. A comely Polish waitress still asks me what I’m reading as I dig into bacon and eggs. Youtube still provides hours of mindless reliving of youth. Sports talk radio still provides a background for a restless night’s sleep. Golf still beckons one to the course for one more joust for glory before winter clamps down.

But something is missing now. It’s the cicadas. My brothers and I used to catch them and fly them around on a string.

Only yesterday, it seems, the throaty mating call (if that is what it is) hummed through the trees of summer, a comforting murmur as one strolled in shorts and a golf shirt. Now the long pants must come out, a jacket must be at hand to guard against the winds of change. ‘Tis “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Mr. Keats penned. But I must object. ‘Tis the season of sadness and loss. Why, I am hitting the driver on par threes and not hitting the green. One must acknowledge his limitations.

If one is a student, fall is a time of hope, a chance to be better, a new chapter. I remember this. But if one is in his dotage, and I speak for myself, it is a melancholy season, a time to regret chances lost. Summer contains the seeds of its own demise, as God planned it. Let’s see if the Rockies can sweep the Dodgers.