In the past few months, I have been receiving a lot of mail, email and social media reminders of my 25th reunion from college. As with any reunion type event, it reminds us how time flies (and that you are getting old!). After digesting that fact, I was reminded of an important day that would ultimately play a part in choosing to attend my Alma Mater, the College of the Holy Cross.

In the summer of 1992, about to enter my senior year at Lowell High School (do you believe that place is still standing…could probably use a fresh coat of paint or maybe even a BULLDOZER! Sorry, tangent.) I was invited to visit with the football program at HC. Very exciting invite that I happily accepted.

However, in the days leading up to the scheduled visit, my sister got sick. Really sick. Courtney had a long fought battle with major G.I. problems since she was a young child and she took a bad turn at age 15. She would be hospitalized in Boston for nearly one month that summer. My parents, not surprisingly, refused to leave her side for any extended period of time; except to be sure I didn’t burn the house down in their absence, of course. This was fine by me and I managed just fine. (I’d like to tell you it was like Risky Business….and it was. Well, except for the parties, beautiful women, sex, drugs, and wild fun. Other than that, exactly the same. I did dance around in my underwear once…alone. I digress)

But as the days turned to weeks at Children’s Hospital for Courtney, my big day out on Worcester was quickly approaching. And so Dad and Mom had to make the decision to how to manage. This was a parent/student invite. I could not go alone and I certainly could not decline this opportunity. So, we decided to enlist the help of an old friend.

Enter Brian “Beaker” Barry

Brian was yet another close confidant and council to my Dad. Golf buddies, neighbors, occasional business partners, they were quite the odd couple. Conservative Attorney Barry coupled with Often-Off-The-Rails Frank made for a head scratching friendship; but one that seemed to always work.

Brian eagerly agreed to lend a hand to our family and chaperone me out to the The Cross. Leaving behind his own large brood of young children on a Sunday, Brian stepped up. I was quite nervous that day – and a bit unsure if this was a even a good idea. Brian could sense my jumpiness as soon as I got into his little lawyer-mobile Volvo. He made light commentary (and terrible jokes) the whole ride down. I remember it really did help me and the nerves. Brian delivered what was needed. Basically, to serve as the parent that could not be there to help navigate me through this interview of sorts.

Long story short, it was a very successful trip.

Flash forward a few months.

After visiting many more schools and weighing many confusing options I knew I wanted to be a Crusader and could not have been more proud to receive that letter of acceptance. And it was a great ride I have always cherished.

May 1997, Brian and I celebrated “our” victory the day after I graduated.

In hindsight, looking back almost 30 years since that visit to Mount St. James, Brian’s support on that day was so critical. It was the first step in making arguably the largest decision in my young life. We still joke about it whenever we bump in to each other.

Remember that day I got you in to college, Frankie?“, Brian will rib me.

Sure do, buddy.

Outside of his quirky wit, Columbo-like interrogations if he wants the scoop on some sordid subject, Brian is just a great guy and family man. Proud husband to Katie, father to five superstar kids, grandfather to a whole gaggle that’s still growing in size, Brian continues his life well lived over on Clark Road. Pretty damn good golfer, too.

Thanks for that day and for the many years of true friendship.


(P.S. Beak was also the co-conspirator of the infamous “Dr. Pleasure 40th Birthday Caper“, but I’ll save that for another chapter.)

REAL MEN: The Old Guard of Mount Pleasant

With Masters week upon us, the arrival of Spring, and opening of golf season , it seemed like a timely tribute to the people and the place I have been a part of my entire life; Mount Pleasant Golf Club.

As I meandered through the clubhouse last evening for the annual “Smoker” (the club’s traditional kickoff event to commence the new season) I was reminded what a great place this is to be a part of. Dad had me up there at 3 years old in the 1970s. Had my first beer there (don’t worry, I was 4 at the time), drove my first motorized vehicle there (fear not, I was 5), played my first game of 45s there (relax, I was 8 and there was a kitty) and made a lifetime of friends there.

I was a full member for more than 25+ years but when my offspring were little, I decided to step back and simply be a social (aka drinking) member. But, I will be back again for certain some day.

Last evening reminded me of the legends that roamed these grounds when, ah hem, the beloved ‘old’ clubhouse was still in place.


Names like Timmy “Ace” Vaughn, Eddie “Hot Top” Walsh, John “Skippy” Boyle, Tommy “Face” Conlon, Ray “Brooksie” Brooks, and, of course “Mr.” Billy Moriarty.

Those names and many more were absolute legends. Legends on the course, and larger legends in the clubhouse. Fun, tough, hard men. No excuses, greatest generation, “women weaken legs“-type of fellows who spent the few free hours they had each week on Staples Street with their buddies.


These boys had some basic but hard rules in those days – which had zero to do with golf…

If your wife called the actual phone at Mt. Pleasant, you were an outcast and un-politely asked to leave the premises immediately.

If you were not cracking a cold Budweiser on the first tee (at any hour of the day, mind you) then you were forced to take a mandatory testosterone test.

If every third word out of your mouth was not a swear, slang or off-colored comment, then just shut the f*&K up.

Pretty simple, I think?

These were bad ass dudes.

I have some great memories of those men. Always a life lesson when I encountered them – perhaps not always a good one – but always an education or, at the very least, a dirty limerick or joke.

Forward We Go

As time wore on, those legends slowly – and reluctantly – passed the torch the current Boys of the Old Brigade. Now aging icons with names like Hassett, Wheeler, Livingston, Rourke, Mullavey, Coit, Shaughnessy, McKiernan, Healy, Costello, Murphy, Cassin, Dowd, McCarty, Emerson, Fawcett, Meade…(and the list goes on and on…so forgive me if I missed a few of you).

This generation was slightly softer than their predecessors but equally vigilant in their pursuit to leverage their Mt. Pleasant friendships and comradery to simply ‘do good‘. Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been been organically raised by these guys over the years; supporting every type of cause; from cancer to little league baseball.

The Jimmy Fund alone has been the beneficiary of nearly $1,000,000 in the last 30+ years (shout out to J.R.)

All of the above and many more have made this “neighborhood club” awesome. They have protected it, advanced it, and cherished it. For those of you, like me, that have been fortunate enough to be a part of this 1910-founded institution, you know what I mean.

And the “new” guard of MP is certainly in great hands being lead and served by men named Jenkins, Tulley and more.

It’s a great place. Great for kids. Great for families. REALLY great for MEN.


Thank you fellas.

Enjoy the Masters.

Norwegian Golf Course Mystery Pooper…the blog that writes itself.

Mystery Pooper


For the last decade, a man has been coming to a golf course in Norway in the mornings, dropping trou and pooping in the cups.

That sentence should invite a lot of questions.

Stavanger Golf Club has been dealing with the mystery pooper since 2005, and the club’s staff is convinced a man is behind the fecal graffiti for a simple reason.

“We know it is a man because the poos are too massive to be from a woman,” said groundskeeper Kenneth Tennfjord, who added that the man in question often leaves toilet paper to go along with the turds, according to the Rogalands Avis paper.

The person in question only poops in the cups on weekdays, never showing up on weekends. Presumably, he has better things to do then. The guy apparently used to bike to the parts of the course where he would do his business, with grounds staff noticing wheels marks in the dew, followed by foot prints to the cup.

At one point, the club thought putting flood flights around the mystery pooper’s favorite target would stop him. Wrong. The guy just found a way to turn off the lights and poop in the dark.

I can’t speak to the customs and golfing traditions of the country of Norway as I’ve never been there nor have I shared a beer with any real life Norwegians, let alone Norwegian golfers (or Norwegian poopers for that matter).  Yes, the idea of hovering in gimme range and dropping your cargo in the cup seems strange to me.  But what kind of guy would I be to judge another man for being particular about his bowel rituals.  Aren’t we all?  Sure, not everyone would want to complicate the matter with pin placements and break, but to each his own.  As I understand it, there are 3 internationally recognized tenets of being a successful man: make money, get laid, and last but most importantly, get regular. More power to you if you can take care of all three at the golf course.

Btw, honorable mention here goes to the Norwegian investigators and their decade long manhunt:

“Whelp, it’s a big dump so it can’t be a women.”

“It can’t be Tiger Woods as he wouldn’t go the bathroom on the green unless there was a whore lying there. Definitely didn’t see any whore footprints.”

“Doesn’t come around on weekends…must be a family man, trying to avoid 6 hour rounds on the weekends.”

“The presence of toilet paper rules out all Mt Pleasant members.”

Splendid effort, fellas.

Ryder Cup Week!

In case you forgot, arguably the most exciting event in golf is happening this week – The 2014 Ryder Cup.  From Glasgow, Scotland (If its not Scottish, It’s Crap), The United States will face the highly favored European team.  I have said it before, you don’t have to like golf.  You don’t even have to like sports.  But you MUST love your country!  The Ryder Cup is everything that is right about sports and competition.  It’s like the Olympics, only interesting and not fueled by steroids (apologies to the Russian Women’s Water Polo team, but you know it’s true you commie, face-shaving she-males).

The Ryder Cup is not about money, rankings or fame.  It’s about trying to decimate people from other parts of the world who talk funny.  It’s pissah!

For those of you saying “golf is too slow/quiet/boring/uneventful”, check this video and get back to me when your goosebumps go away. (by the way, people NEVER cheer when golfers are hitting, in case you don’t get it, dummahs!)

Well, if that didn’t make you feel excited about sports in America, then try this on for size…


Me and David Feherty

Entering golf’s last major championship of the year, the PGA Championship, I was reminded of a story I am not so proud of.
“I didn’t quit drinking because I was a bad drunk. I quit because I was a spectacular drunk. It got to be like a video game, where you get to the highest level and it’s not even a challenge any more.”
-David Feherty


This quote, and the others you will read here, come from the guy I consider to be a golf, but more so a comedic, genius.
If you do not know who David Feherty is, you should learn. Nevermind, I will just tell you. David Feherty is an Irish-born former professional golfer turned commentator/analyst/talk show host/comedian. He has been described as a combination of Johnny Carson and Oprah Winfrey for his quick wit paired with an ingratiating persona that makes his interviewees at ease at all times. And while he had a magnificent career standing over a golf ball, he was born to stand behind a microphone.
As a guy that grew up watching Sunday afternoon golf with my Dad, David Feherty became a part of our routine at a young age. His captivating Irish brogue coupled with his humor made this sport, synonymous with the words ‘boring’ and ‘too slow’, interesting and funny.
David Feherty was something I wanted to be in many ways.

“That ball is so far left, Lassie couldn’t find it if it was wrapped in bacon.”

In 2005 I had the unintentional pleasure of meeting David at a conference in West Palm Beach Florida. On behalf of my company I was exhibiting at a trade show event with a colleague of mine and David Feherty was the keynote speaker. As we registered for the conference, I opened the program and discovered this fortunate coincidence.
“Oh man, David Feherty is speaking here,” I squeaked like a 12 year old heading back stage to meet Harry Styles.
My comrade-in-conference was not a golf fan and did not have a bloody clue who David Feherty was and why I was so excited.
“Dude, guy is awesome. Wicked funny and talks about golf,” I retorted like that same 12 year old girl talking about her boyfriend Tommy who sits in the first row of 6th grade.
Um, ok man. Never heard of him,” he gingerly responded.
“Pffft,” was all ‘Susie Pigtails’ could muster.

“Watching Phil Mickelson play golf is like watching a drunk chasing a balloon near the edge of a cliff.”

Conference opens but my only focus was catching my man DF speak rather than targeting that next big client. As I stated above, he is truly a stand up comedian so I made sure I was available to attend his speech. When I snuck my way in to the (customer-only) luncheon event I wiggled my way to the back so I could casually catch all of his wit which would surely be wasted on these propeller-headed-tech-geeks attending this conference. And so it went…side splitting jokes….spit up your drink stories…and so on. It was an hour of awesomeness. Totally lived up to my expectations.

“I lost 150 lbs. if you include my wife.”

I darted my way out the door and back to my sad little exhibit booth. I was pumped. My buddy was there waiting….and waiting to make fun of me.
“Well, I hope that was as good as you thought it would be?” he grimaced as he sat bored anticipating the next rush of nerds to come speak to us.
“It was…you should have come with,” I proclaimed.
“Yeah, whatever. (pause) You know, it just hit me,” he said with a light-bulb-over-the-head look about him. “This dude Feherty is a better, cooler, more successful version of you?”
“Huh, what the hell are you talking about,” I growled.
Yeah, he is. He is a better golfer than you. Funnier than you’ll ever be. He is even more Irish than you. It all makes sense to me now. You want to be this guy”
Hit a nerve like an errant 1 iron.
“Shutup,” I weakly replied.
Maybe I did have a slight man-crush/bro-mance/Elton AND John type thing happening. So what?

“When CBS came to me and asked me to do on-course commentary, I said, ‘You know, I’m only 37, I still have hopes of [playing] a little better.’ So they told me what they were going to pay me, and I said, ‘You want to buy a set of clubs?’ “

Time ticks by. The day ends. We learn that David will be signing autographs and giving some putting lessons to guests of the conference. Color. Me. IN.
Without getting in to it I waited in a short (45 minute) line. Got his autograph (alright fine, and a picture). It was, again, cool.
Shook his hand, gave him my spiel about watching him on Sundays with my Dad yada, yada, yada. He gave me the politest ‘good for you now move along you creep’ smile and head nod. I don’t care. I was content.
Here is where it gets interesting.
Fast forward about 4 hours. We’ll call it 11:00PM. All of our working duties were long over and we decided to grab a (one more) night cap and call it a day. Enter the lobby bar of this plush resort and order a cocktail. As I awaited my drink, I happen to look down the bar and notice (a now famously sober) David Feherty sipping something ‘brown’ with one of his mates.
Excuse me,” I golf whisper to the barkeep. “Would you mind sending Mr. Feherty down a drink from us and I’ll have whatever he is having.”
Bartender gives me the eye roll but moseys his way down the long bar to offer my offer. He quickly returns back.
Mr. Feherty says thank you, but he is all set.”
“Oh.” I sadly mumble
And by the way, he is drinking a double Black Bush (an expensive Irish whiskey)…neat”.
Yeah, right, that sounds good. I’ll have the same”
My buddy gives me the hairy eyebrow and questions this decision.
“Come on dude, you are gonna start drinking straight whiskey now? We have a long day and…”
I cut him off.
Dude, will you shut the f&$% up. I’m fine. I’m Irish too. I love this stuff,” said the liar.
Big. Mistake.
After a couple of giant vats of warm whiskey from the homeland I was acting like the spawn of Doc Holliday and Frank Sinatra.
The last thing I recall I was yelling at the bartender something along the lines of “You can never beat up your father no matter what age you are!” (Pretty sure I challenged him to an arm wrestling match as well)
The last thing that actually happened, according to my buddy, Sober McHatesme, was I literally fell off my barstool.
Apparently I was making a trek toward Feherty to confront him for not accepting my drink. Yeah, that will impress him.
More apparent, my man Feherty had departed the joint an hour earlier.
So…that’s my story.