When you’re young, particularly if you grow up in an environment of stability and privilege, you don’t realize that much of the world is made up of damaged, broken people.

My father was a lawyer and politician; my mother worked as a newspaper editor, then eventually became a journalism professor. We were not rich — in fact, there was a time, shortly after I was born when my parents had very little money — but the life I led growing up in Missoula, Montana was almost entirely absent of strife or drama. When I watched things like The Cosby Show or Family Ties, I saw reflections of my own day-to-day experiences: Stern but loving parents; annoying but earnest siblings. There were vacations with sing-a-longs, arguments that ended in hugs, bills that were paid on time and family portraits at Christmas. My friends seemed to live a similarly idyllic existence. We understood that addictions and infidelities existed. They just weren’t present in our lives (as far as we knew).


Partially because of that privilege, The Jerry Springer Show, which became nationally syndicated when I was a freshman in high school, offered a window into a world that was as foreign as it was fascinating. I cannot pinpoint when it became appointment television for my friends and I, but I vividly recall dozens of teenage afternoons when we leered and gawked at the parade of misfits Springer welcomed on his show, people willing to shamelessly reveal their torrid affairs, and brawl over the fallout.

It felt more like a trip to the zoo than it did an afternoon talk show most of the time. I’d never seen a lion in the wild, just like I’d never seen a stripper confess she’d been having an affair with her husband’s brother, but I could observe each from a safe distance and suffer no lasting damage. If you were home sick, the episodes could feel oddly comforting, a quick dose of mindless escapism or schadenfreude to pass the hours as you nibbled on toast or Saltine crackers.

There was no humiliation that seemed beneath the show. A man once showed up to confess he’d married his horse. Hillbillies fought each other, shirtless, over unpaid utility bills. Strippers appeared out of nowhere like summer squalls, wreaking havoc and ripping out weaves, upending countless (already doomed) relationships. Sometimes a virgin got catfished, or a serial cheater was exposed as being neck-deep in baby mama drama. Furniture was frequently thrown. Tops got ripped off. More than once, a Nazi or Ku Klux Klan member got his ass kicked, which is especially satisfying considering, in 2023, the same kind of people get to befriend Kanye West and wave around tiki torches without catching a beating.


It was America’s weird underbelly exposed for entertainment, and Springer — a man who was once the mayor of Cincinnati, and whose parents escaped the Holocaust during World War 2 — seemed to float above it all. He was never the draw of his own messy circus, he was merely the master of ceremonies, gently nudging his damaged and somewhat-deranged guests to spill their tea so the audience (both in the studio and those watching at home) could sneer with glee or disgust, then chant his name when the inevitable eruption occurred. My friends and I enjoyed it so much, we paid for a VHS version of “Uncensored Jerry Springer Tales!” to be shipped to our house. My one recollection was that we found it mildly disappointing, our expectations raised too high by the promise of mayhem and chaos unsuitable for television.


Was it exploitative? Without question. Even though the guests signed on to be willing participants and air their messiest laundry, Springer certainly preyed on Americans’ bottomless appetite to be famous, if sometimes for the strangest reasons. The frequency that trans people were cast as the driver of relationship drama was, at best, abhorrent. Supposedly the show offered counseling to any guest who wanted it, though it’s hard to imagine many took them up on it. The point of Springer was to be the messiest version of yourself on screen, not go on the show with the expectation that any of your problems would be fixed.

Springer, to his credit, never seemed interested in judging his guests or their choices, he believed he was offering a stage to the kind of people that television wanted to ignore. He didn’t traffic in celebrity worship. He instead shined a spotlight on the kind of people who fill out every city and every town in the world, people who are trying to get by and live with — or hide — their desires or their mistakes.


“We didn’t have any celebrities on our show, just regular folks with no fame, little if any wealth, and very little influence,” Springer 

said on the program’s 25th anniversary.

 “It’s folks just taking a moment, which they rarely if ever get, to let the world know something about what they are thinking, feeling or doing. Admittedly it’s often crazy or outside the norm of accepted behavior, but what I’ve learned over our quarter century of shows is that deep down we are all alike. Some of us just dress better.”

When the news trickled out that Springer died this week at age 79, I realized I hadn’t thought about him in years. No one in 2023 needs a sick day if they want to tap into cringy drama; they can pull it up on their phone in seconds while waiting for their Starbucks order. Some people are convinced Springer opened the door to the further degradation of society, but the truth is, he more likely revealed than inspired it. Instead of the Jerry Springer Show, we have Instagram, Twitter or Reddit at our fingertips. People now embarrass themselves daily, and for free, hoping it will lead to bigger things.


Springer’s passing did allow me to revisit my naive teenage innocence and all the messes I’ve lived through since. I don’t know anyone who married his horse, but my friends and I — the same people who watched Springer regularly with bemused curiosity — now know a little about divorce and addiction, about heartbreak and drama. I’ve lived through some things that would make a decent episode of voyeuristic television. (Most of us have, by the time we reach a certain age.) When you become an adult, you grasp that no one’s life is the Cosby Show. Even the Cosby Show feels more sinister than Springer, considering what we now know about its creator.

Jerry Springer was not a philosopher or a sage. That would give him far too much credit. He was a uniquely 90s creature who endured even as the world around him grew more comfortable with the exploitation of relationship drama. But he also understood we’re all a little broken, and we’re all carrying baggage. Whenever a brawl would break out, he’d drift to the edge of the stage and fold his arms across his chest like a disappointed school teacher as he waited for things to simmer down. Then he’d ask the guests if there was any way they could reconcile or work through their issues.

As stupid as it was, as staged as it often felt, there was something endearing about his desire to stand there, amidst these peculiar people with an assortment of problems they were eager to share, and listen.

Nest Exclusive: Jerry Springer Was Here to Listen

Editor’s Note: We’ve heard a lot in recent years about how much middle-aged sportswriters are infatuated with Bruce Springsteen, so when our own middle-aged sportswriter KVV (something of a Springsteen agnostic) joined Casey Landman and her husband Jon for one of Springsteen’s performances in Philadelphia, we sent him to the show with an assignment. Write about what Bruce means to you, and explain why so many weirdos of your generation (and so many Big-Js in your profession) adore this man, even if you’re not exactly one of them.

I can’t say why, exactly, just that he’s never been a mythic figure to me. Yes, I’m familiar with the standards. I vaguely remember Ronald Reagan’s campaign misusing “Born In The USA,” thinking (like many who weren’t listening to the lyrics) that it was uplifting and patriotic instead of a broken man’s wail; a lament about feeling left behind. I laughed when The Sopranos slipped in a line from “Born to Run” and made Stevie Van Zandt sit there stone-faced. I have, when I was a cosmic kid in full costume dress, left a bar at 2 am with friends and walked the streets while belting out some mangled, not-sober version of “Thunder Road.” But I can’t name most of the albums. I have never 

pulled over to the side of the road and cried during the saxophone solo in “Jungleland.”

 I know sportswriters of a certain age are supposed to treat Springsteen’s songs the way orthodox scholars treat the study of the Talmud. It has become one of those cliches that is grounded in a lot of truth, but it has never fit in my case. I have friends who write (brilliantly) to his music, who would skip their kid’s birthday party to see him play in a football stadium. I’ve had bosses who have spent more time in the front row of Bruce’s shows than some of his roadies. It’s just never been my thing.

I am not indifferent — I enjoy The Boss for all the reasons you are supposed to enjoy him — but I have a theory that we only love the artists who find us at the right time, the right age, the midst of the right angst or heartbreak. For whatever reason, Bruce Springsteen missed me when I probably needed him the most.

I became a Jason Isbell person, which is a little like saying you prefer Max Homa to Tiger Woods. The whole world knows who Bruce and Tiger are. They are important pieces of Americana, icons to even casual observers of culture. Isbell and Homa are the artists you feel like you discovered when no one was there, and now you still feel a little protective of them, proud they climbed the ladder to find mainstream success, but deep down you’re a little annoyed you have to share them with the world. You were there when shit was bleak, but it still felt like they were speaking to you.

Some people may have that connection with Bruce, but I take a contrarian pride in the fact that I’m not one of them.

2. When my friend Jon texted me to say he had an extra ticket to Bruce’s show in Philadelphia, I couldn’t resist saying yes, despite all the words I typed in the previous section.

It was not a cheap ticket, even with Jon acquiring it at face value through his work in the industry. But there is something to be said, I think, about choosing to spend your money on experiences instead of items. Someday Bruce Springsteen will be gone, much like Tom Petty. I never understood how much I missed Tom Petty until I no longer had the chance to have him in my life. In my basement, there are thousands of dollars worth of golf clubs I no longer play, and books I’ll never get around to reading. There are piles of things I once cherished but no longer remember why I purchased them, and one day my children will throw them in a dumpster when I’m gone, or give them to Goodwill if they don’t smell like mildew.


There is something about the perniciousness of STUFF that is slowly suffocating. I don’t have many philosophical tenets, but one I do try to remind myself of is that experiences require zero storage.


3. He looks like an incredibly fit grandfather.

This was what struck me most of all when he burst onto the stage to sing “No Surrender,” the opening number. It’s not that he doesn’t look 73. He does. In recent years, he’s grown less vain, apparently accepting that there is a dignity to letting (much of) his hair go gray. He jogs and fist pumps and zooms around stage like he’s trying to inhale every last bit of whatever time he has left, but you’re also left with the unshakeable truth. He doesn’t have many of these left. This is the winter of his performing life. A finite number of shows remain. How many? No one wants to speculate. Why ruin the illusion that it can go on forever?

When you’re a massive Springsteen fan, I suspect you see him so frequently — in interviews, concerts, political campaigns, album covers — that the gradually aging process that every last one of us is tethered to doesn’t shock you. He is a part of your life, always. The coolest uncle. He ages, sure, but he’s immortal.

But if you’re like me, and he’s this nebulous concept that you don’t obsess over but still appreciate, he was frozen in the amber of your mind at a younger age. He is forever That Dude, wearing jeans that look like they were painted on, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up like he’s a Jet in West Side Story, 

yanking Courtney Cox (and her bob haircut)

 up on stage so he can sashay back and forth, two beautiful people radiating youth, possibility, energy.

It makes no sense, but I did not expect to see a man on the stage in Philadelphia who could benefit from scheduling regular colonoscopies. This is the curse of being beautiful once, of epitomizing youth and possibility. You are not allowed to be mortal. You’re supposed to be a photograph, a Greek god, eternal. Instead, he is the same age as my dad, I realize now. When each of them was born, Harry Truman was President.

4. The people in the audience at the Wells Fargo Arena are not broken heroes on a last chance power drive.

They are not the working class characters that populate Springsteen’s songs. They are mostly white, mostly upper middle class, mostly in their 50s and 60s. They drive nice cars and have 401ks. I was, I can say this confidently, one of the younger members of the audience. (Not the youngest, but certainly in the youngest third.)


None of that is any kind of revelatory observation, nor is it a particularly new critique. It’s easy to poke fun at the tone-deaf privilege of Springsteen audiences these days, to point out the hypocrisy of paying thousands of dollars for a ticket to a show so you can cosplay in the lives of characters who exist on the fringe of society, who are one busted engine or factory layoff from permanent misery. A lot of fans in recent years have been understandably pissed that Springsteen gave in to the allure of Ticketmaster’s predatory dynamic pricing model, meaning you essentially have to fork over a mortgage payment to see him perform these days. (The fact that we allow Ticketmaster to operate like a mob boss remains one of the most baffling choices in American life.) Backstreets, the fan magazine that has been covering The Boss for 43 years, 

announced in February that it was shutting down

, at least in part because so many hardcore Springsteen fans feel they’ve been priced out of his shows.


I have a hard time, however, blaming the fans who can afford to go to his shows, regardless of whether or not they’ve been gouged. To call them hypocritical kind of misses the mark. What is the dream, after all, of every working class stiff but to escape the gravitational pull of their broken hometowns, and will themselves into a better life somewhere else? These are the people who got out. (Or, just as likely, their parents got out.) A part of them never wants to forget that it could have gone another way.


They used to be cool and now they are not. But in the arena, they still get to feel cool. This is what Bruce reminds them of, a time when they weren’t rich and didn’t have to think about doing yard work on the weekends or saving up to make college tuition payments. They are IT managers and lawyers, dentists and software developers (and sportswriters!) and they have kids that roll their eyes when they sing along to “Hungry Heart” as they wipe down their fancy kitchen countertops.

(Those kids will understand one day, I promise, when they’re humming Taylor Swift songs or Kendrick Lamar songs in an underground climate-safe bunker, or in a colony on Mars, and their own kids feel a mixture of love and embarrassment.)

The people in the audience at Bruce shows used to be the kind of romantics who would tuck a cigarette behind their ear in a smoke-filled bar and make eyes at a person standing near the jukebox. They are the Marys and Wendys, the Bobbys and Eddies from Bruce’s songs who had the audacity to grow up. To keep living. It happens to a lot of us.


We ain’t a beauty — at least not anymore — but yeah we’re alright.

To a Bruce fan, this must feel like one of the most obvious sentences ever written. 

Wait, you’re telling me one of the best-selling artists of all time has many, many songs that are great? What a brave take.

But I was struck, in the arena, by how many songs I have absorbed into my bloodstream over time and can hum along to, even if I don’t know the lyrics. How ridiculously good is your catalog if 

 is maybe your 10th best song? Why was I, someone who would previously have described his Bruce Springsteen fandom as residing somewhere between admiration and polite indifference, playing an imaginary air piano during 

6. There are so many members of the E Street Band!

I know, technically, everyone on stage isn’t an official member. I will leave it to actual Springsteen fans — Bruce Tramps, I see they are sometimes called — to educate me on who is worthy of the designation and who is an interchangeable part. I’m not sure what I expected, other than Van Zandt dressing like an aging musketeer, but it wasn’t 

 on stage. “I think E Street is more like an avenue or a parkway these days,” my friend Jon quipped. Between back-up singers, roadies, keyboard players, a drummer, horn players and his wife (also a singer and guitarist, but absent for the Philly show), he has to be close to the 50-employee threshold where the law requires you to offer health insurance. (Just kidding! I’m sure various loopholes and shell companies have been invented to prevent this very thing.)

I couldn’t help but feel a little mesmerized by Jake Clemmons, the saxophone player of the E Street Band and also the nephew of Clarence Clemmons, the man who had that role from 1972 until his death in 2011. What a blessing and a burden it must be to live with the ghost of a family member on your shoulder every night.

It’s like Hamlet, except every night you have to nail the solo in Thunder Road.

7. Speaking of Thunder Road, I think it’s bombastic, embarrassingly earnest, a bit too operatic and also goddamn perfect.

I know “Born To Run” is supposed to be the better song, the American anthem that Springsteen wrote as a young man when he was trying to change his fate and also go down in history. It’s going to be the first line of his obituary, and it deserves to be. Rolling Stone named it 21st on their list of all-time greatest songs. But I love “Thunder Road” more, and for all the reasons I listed above.

I love it because even though you shouldn’t use the word “redemption” in a song about redemption, Bruce does. It perfectly captures the angst and longing of wanting to be SOMEBODY and be loved by SOMEONE but having no idea how to get there other than driving your car very fast toward the edge of town, hoping there is adventure beyond the swamps of New Jersey. (Or in my case, the mountains of Montana.)


I can remember listening to “Thunder Road” late in college, getting ready to leave my hometown. I was going to drive across the country and make it in the big city. Unlike the main character in “Rosalita (Come Out Tonight),” the record company had not given me a big advance, but a newspaper in Baltimore had given me an internship, which in my eyes might as well have been the same thing. So I was going to roll down the window and let the wind blow back my hair. This is, I think, the enduring power of Springsteen. Most of us have these earnest, operatic moments at some point, moments where we’re trying to bust free of invisible chains we can feel but can’t properly describe. I didn’t feel like my town was full of losers but needed to escape to figure out who I was.


Twenty-three years have come and gone since that moment. There are lines in “Thunder Road” that hit differently now, like being scared and thinking that maybe I ain’t that young anymore. These days, I like the 

acoustic version of the song where it’s just Bruce and piano

. The same lines that felt like a youthful howl of defiance can also read like a sad lament if you slow everything down and let your hair go a little gray, which is another reason the song rules.

But the operatic version is still magic. When Bruce sang “Thunder Road” late into his encore, nobody felt old. We were all belting out the lines of the song like idiot kids, trying to remind ourselves that, hey, we know it’s late, but we could still make it if we run.

Kevin Van Valkenburg is the Editorial Director of No Laying Up. Email him at kvv@nolayingup.com.

7 Thoughts From A Sportswriter Upon Seeing Springsteen For The First Time At Age 45

Note: While KVV's golf writing will remain free and available to all readers, his writing on other topics, similar to this piece, will likely be restricted to Nest members only. Please 

One of my favorite Randy bits is the one where he believes that Tiger, when faced with a tap-in bogey to win the Masters in 2019, should have done something irrational and beautiful and borderline insane. Instead of making the putt, he should have scooped it, tucked the ball in his pocket, then walked into mist, a family member under each arm, never to be seen again. The idea behind it is simple: Tiger didn't need to win a 5th green jacket to prove he is the greatest golfer of all time. We should have awarded him that crown already. Instead, all he needed was to prove to himself he 

 have won more, and that in and of itself would be validation.

The fantasy has a mystical quality to it, but I also love to imagine the panic it would inspire. Think about Jim Nantz trying to convey to the audience what had just unfolded, or the writers tasked with chasing him on his way to the parking lot, shouting their questions in confusion. Grown men would be weeping, begging him to return. It would feel like the end of a novel, the kind of book that infuriates some readers, mesmerizes others, and is debated for years. He would have left us wanting more, not less. 

There is a reason why Tin Cup is arguably the best sports movie ever made. There is a hint of sadness there, and it leaves you a little unsettled, trying to unpack what you just watched. But there is also an honesty to it. The most interesting endings aren't warm and comforting.

I was reminded of Randy's fantasy this week when I watched Tom Brady give his retirement announcement from an undisclosed beach location, in a t-shirt, with condos in the background. There was no 1-day contract with the Patriots, no ceremonial press conference or happy send off with confetti in the air. His speech, if you can call it that, lasted less than a minute. In the end, the greatest quarterback of this generation — and likely of all time — said goodbye all alone, at the end of a season with little to no fanfare. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He said goodbye with a selfie.

The great ones rarely care about narratives. Most don't ride into the sunset, they limp in the general direction of the sunset, frequently pausing and turning around several times, uncertain if they're truly ready to let go. We often want the best athletes to go out on top because it provides a beautiful coda to everything we've invested in them emotionally. But it's hard for them to wrap their brains around such silliness. 

To us, Tom Brady's career is a story, something with a natural arc, but to Tom Brady, it's his life, his passion, and football is his addiction. He wanted to suck every last bit of marrow from the bone. When people debate his legacy one day, no one will spend more than a few seconds mulling the ups and downs of his final year in Tampa, when he seemed adrift, frequently angry and unhappy, demanding perfection from those around him but unable to meet the same standard with his own play.

There is part of me that wishes Tiger and Phil would have walked away at their apex, in a moment of triumph. But Brady's ending feels like a more honest blueprint of how it may play out someday. We're already seeing some of it with the final chapter of their careers. Part of being great at a sport means you never want to quit, and then one day you find yourself alone on a beach, choking back tears, not giving a damn how any of this looks or if you missed your moment, because you're still furious that it all went by so fast.

In the Nest: KVV on Brady's Sad Goodbye

Note from No Laying Up: The following is a Nest member submission originally posted to our member message board, 

. After consulting the author/Nest member, we decided to share the story here on our website as an example of the type of stories and discussions that pop up on The Refuge every month and why the message board continues to be the epicenter of our 

. On top of full access to The Refuge, a 

 includes a monthly member podcast, early access to events, exclusive member merchandise, an annual gift, and the opportunity to play at our year end Nest Invitational Tournament. Thank you to the original poster for sharing, and we hope you all enjoy this epic story!

Original Title: How I met and befriended my childhood hero the "Unicorn," Anthony Kim

I recently posted a couple of photos of one of my putters into the “

” thread that generated some intrigue. The putter in question is a Nike Method Prototype and to my knowledge one of the first to be released to a select number of Nike Athletes (from what I am told 3 to be exact Tiger, Rory and Anthony Kim). The initials on the putter read AK.

How I came to be the proud owner of the putter is what I would like to expand on in this thread.

Before I dive in, I need to provide a little backstory. I was born with a heart condition called Aortic Stenosis and other chronic concerns that go along with the condition. My body never allowed me to participate in contact sports which is how I found golf. The game was a great medium to take my mind off of my condition and allowed me to compete with my peers. I always felt different than other kids due to my condition, but on the golf course those thoughts were never present. I was just focused on the task at hand…getting the ball from the tee to the hole in fewer strokes than my competitors.

Over the years, I had many check ups to go along with a handful of smaller surgeries to address the concerns with my heart. In the fall of 2008, my Freshman year of High School, my doctor delivered the news that I had been dreading my whole life. I needed to have open heart surgery to correct my aortic valve. The medicine and smaller procedures, while helpful, were truly buying more time for my body to develop to have a surgery that would last me longer into my adult life.

My surgery and subsequent recovery took place in the spring of 2009. The surgery was scary, but the challenge was the recovery process. The most difficult part of it all was not being able to play golf. I was able to play a round of golf for 6 months (it felt like a lifetime).

My morale was low, but then a bright spot showed itself. My physician had recommended me to Make-A-Wish Illinois for the opportunity to have a wish granted. A few weeks later I found out that I had qualified. I was truly in shock. There were so many things on my mind in relation to my wish. Where could I go? Who could I meet? How could this all shake out?

One thing I knew was that I wanted to do something related to golf.

The Make A Wish Illinois team walked my parents and I through the process. We talked through the many possibilities of what my wish could become. At the time there was an influx of young talent entering the PGA tour and the idea was floated that I could meet one of them. While all of the players were possibilities one stood out above all others. That person was Anthony Kim. His personality, self confidence, swagger and style of play resonated with me as a 15 year old kid.

I asked if Anthony had ever granted a wish. The answer was no, but only because no one had asked.

The team at MAW (Make A Wish) got to work on planning. They reached out to AK’s team through their PGA Tour contacts. One day I arrived home from school to receive the news that AK loved the idea. He wanted to have my family and I fly out to Dallas in April of 2010 to play some golf. I was overcome with excitement. For the next few months all I could think about was teeing it up with a true PGA Tour superstar. I had new motivation to get back to my new normal as quickly as possible. I went to work even harder on the recovery process. I got stronger, healthier and more confident that by early fall I was back on the course.

Then the time finally came to fly down to Dallas. My wish was set with AK on the Tuesday after The Masters at TPC Las Colinas. It was crazy timing because we boarded our flight on Saturday of The Masters. On that Sunday we watched in awe as AK gassed it on the back 9 on Sunday to become the leader in the clubhouse. It made me believe that I might be meeting a Masters Champion. That story line did not play out, but his play only made me more excited for Tuesday to arrive.

Tuesday finally rolled around and I couldn’t believe I would be teeing it up with my hero in a few short hours. I was nervous that AK was not going to live up to the hype. That the guy I saw on TV was going to be completely different in person.

Spoiler Alert. He was everything I hoped for and much more.

We rolled up to the course to find AK already out front. After a whirlwind of intros, AK escorted me over to our cart. We got acquainted while we drove over to the range for a practice session. We had the range to ourselves which was extremely cool. We hit some shots, he gave me tips, I asked him questions and I had to pinch myself to make sure this was all still real. At one point he turned to me and said, “I didn’t know what to expect today. I thought I was going to be meeting a frail kid who was super sick. I would have never guessed you have been through what you have been through. Life sucks like that sometimes. I’m sorry you had to go through all that shit. I guess it makes it even more important to know that there are people out there who look completely fine but are fighting something difficult. I can already tell you’re a fighter and I admire you for that.”

…Holy shit I had to stop hitting balls at this point. I had known him for 15 minutes and AK already surpassed any expectations I had.

After our range session we made our way to the first tee. I was super nervous to get the round underway, but after a few holes I started to settle in. He kept up with the pointers and I kept up with the questions. AK was an open book with nothing off limits. We laughed about golf tournaments, he gave me some scoop on the ins and outs of tour players, we talked about school and discussed our sports affiliations. At the time I was a Texas fan which AK wasn’t afraid to call out (he attended Oklahoma for college). We ribbed each other like old friends and shared a lot of laughs. I can also proudly report that I dropped a 30 footer for birdie on him to win a hole which had those in attendance going nuts.

We hit all 18 cups and had a blast doing it. I later learned that AK’s agent only agreed to have AK play 9 holes while planning with the MAW team. Apparently after the 9th green AK’s agent pulled him aside and said “Okay AK you’re good to go. All in a day’s work.”

To which AK responded, “Fuck that. I’m playing 9 more with Nick. I’m having fun. If you have places to be, I’ll talk to you later”.

In the moment I didn’t realize the interaction took place. In hindsight, I can not begin to put into the words the level of appreciation and respect I have for that move. I suppose he may be the founder of the TC Way.

Once we wrapped up the round AK asked if we had anything planned for the rest of the day. My family and I were supposed to go siteseeing around Dallas, but had nothing set in stone. He invited my family and I back to his house for burgers and to hang in the pool. I couldn’t believe it. He wanted to hangout more?

I will mention at this time the representative from Make A Wish came over and firmly said, “Okay so this is where the Wish Experience ends. We can not tell you to go or not to go, but this is an independent thing after you leave the course.” I of course thought, okay cool see ya! I’m going to Anthony fucking Kim’s house.

We pulled up to AK’s and got the full tour. The coolest part about the house was a massive putting green in his backyard. Being the Golf Sicko I am, I wanted to roll some putts. AK found it amusing that after a full day of golf all I wanted to do was keep hitting golf shots. We did a few putting games and then he went running inside. A few minutes later he returned with a putter I hadn’t seen before. He handed it to me and said, “Nike is coming out with putters. This is one of the first ones they made. They wanted me to test it and give it some feedback. I’m sticking with my Scottie for now, but this thing is sweet. I’d like to give it to you.”

Again, I was floored. A putter built specifically for AK, something no one had seen before and he wanted me to have it. My mind pretty much liquified but not before accepting the gift.

I putted for another hour on my own while my Step Dad grilled the whole crew steaks. AK had his team of friends staying with him at the time so it was an unforgettable atmosphere.

AK let my family hangout all evening. Everyone was asking questions at this point, and he was asking a ton of his own questions. As the evening turned to night AK offered to have us all stay over. My Mom being the voice of reason graciously declined in favor of heading back to the hotel.

Before we left, AK and I swapped numbers to keep in touch. He also offered that if I was ever in town to hit him up for a Mav’s game or a round of golf depending on the time of year. When the BMW Championship was still at Cog Hill I would go out to follow his group. One year he invited my high school golf teammates and I inside the ropes for a few holes and to watch him practice on the range after one of his rounds. He gave my buddies a ton of flack but let them ask a ton of questions as well.

I will conclude by saying, I still keep in touch with AK. We send each other updates on life events/notable things that we encounter in the world. He seems to be in a great place in life and is truly happy. Anthony is nothing short of a hero to me, and he always will be.

I met AK in 2010 when he was 24 years old. Looking back to my experience (with our favorite word) “perspective” it blows my mind how generous he was. He was willing to spend a day with a 16 year old kid who only wanted golf with one of the best to ever pick up a club. AK’s only motive was to make that kid’s day a little bit better, take his mind off of his medical condition, and to send him on his way with a story to cherish for the rest of his life.

Anthony changed my outlook on my condition in a way I never thought possible. I no longer have self resentment for being born different, but rather, I am proud of overcoming challenges that afforded me an opportunity to befriend a hero. I am honored to have met AK and even more so to call him a friend.

If you have the means and are so inclined, I could not recommend supporting your local chapter of Make-A-Wish more. Please check out the links below to find out how to support the mission to grant every eligible child’s wish. Without this organization, its staff, the thousands of generous donors, volunteers and of course AK my wish would have never been possible.

If you, a family member or a friend have a child with a medical condition that qualifies for a Wish and you have questions about the process please feel free to send me a note. I’m happy to walk you through the referral process. I am also here to lend an ear if it is needed. I was a child with a medical condition but I know that the experience can be just as hard for the adults in the room (especially if you are a parent). I am a MAW Volunteer and served on the Make A Wish Illinois Associate board for 3.5 years. My DMs are open for those chats so please do not hesitate to reach out.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story of my putter’s odyssey.

Enjoy this story? Join the Nest & Refuge Conversation

From the Refuge: How I met my childhood hero the "Unicorn," Anthony Kim

Big shout out to Golf.com for these gems – 

Separated at Birth: Pro Golfers and Their Celebrity Look-Alikes

Some of these comparisons are spot on (Lefty – EMILIO; Faldo – Luke Skywalker), some are ruthlessly spot on (Furyk – Mr. Burns of Simpsons; Louis Oousthuizen – Shrek), and a couple are just freaking spectacular (Nick Watney – Gary Busey!!) Here are a couple snapshots of what’s about to be the highlight of your day:

Golfers and Their Celebrity Doppelgängers

Please don’t ask me how I stumbled upon this today, but it turns out that 

Paulina Gretzky has a “99” tattoo honoring her father

, Wayne Gretzky. No big deal right? I mean, The Great One is the reason she’s famous, and what better way to pay tribute to her father than to have his number “retired” on her body.

Wait… the tattoo is on her bikini line? As if Dustin Johnson, her betrothed, didn’t have enough trouble with the Gretzky intimidation factor. DJ habitually goes nuts at the AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am, winning it in 2009 and 2010, and finishing top 7 on two separate occasions. But in 2013, he was paired with The Great One as his amateur partner, and it didn’t go well. DJ self destructed in similar fashion to Happy Gilmore in the 1996 Pepsi Pro-Am.

Johnson shot 73-69-74 to miss the cut, which we immediately attributed to Mr. Gretzky’s presence.

Apparently golfing with your slampiece's dad is intimidating. 

So not only does The Great One’s intimidation factor influence DJ’s golf game, he now has to look at that “99” every time he and Paulina…. Well…. I’m guessing all he thinks when sees that is Wayne cupping his hands saying, “JACKASS!”

Articles

Nest Exclusive: Jerry Springer Was Here to Listen

7 Thoughts From A Sportswriter Upon Seeing Springsteen For The First Time At Age 45

In the Nest: KVV on Brady's Sad Goodbye

From the Refuge: How I met my childhood hero the "Unicorn," Anthony Kim

Golfers and Their Celebrity Doppelgängers

Paulina Gretzky Has Tattoo Honoring The Great One In An Odd Location