On Life Goals & Why I'm Not A Professional Wrestler

When Justin Rose sank the winning putt on Sunday at the Memorial, I was sitting on my couch - with my lovely wife - in my gym clothes.  I hadn't actually gone to the sweat factory that day; I just wanted to not be in just my underwear.  Before Jim Nantz referenced Bette Midler in a baffling exhibition of golf's lack of manliness, it had been rammed down our earholes that there had been ten twenty-something winners on the PGA Tour in 2010.  (10 for 10, anyone?)

As soon as Rose won, I realized that the Englishman was 29 years old.  Rose has been in the public spotlight for some dozen years now, and he's not even 30 yet.  This kid, now man, has been grinding for what must have felt like an eternity to validate the meaning of a clip from an age when he probably still had serious acne issues.  Sure, he had won in Europe a handful of times and taken the Order of Merit there.  But just ask Colin Montgomerie or Lee Westwood how much respect they earned by taking the European Tour by storm.  Even Rory McIlroy realized that Europe was a hype shield for him and that his only real recourse was to join the PGA Tour.  He's 21.

During the mega-slo-mo replay of Rose's muscle-bursting fist pump, I started to question what I have actually accomplished in my life.  I stand now at 27 years, one month, and nine days old.  What have I really notched on my belt?  I'm happily married, though for less than three weeks so far.  I own a home.  I have a Masters degree.  I write a blog whose merit can be debated (because, really, can a blog be that influential?).  But compared to the life goals that I had when I was little, have I kind of missed the mark?

When I was five, I was introduced to professional wrestling.  Having grown disinterested in He-Man and just before the advent of Ducktales (woo-ooo!), there was a gap in my Saturday morning cartoon plans.  The WWF filled that.  With Hulk Hogan, the lovable Earthquake, and the like, wrestling offered a bizarre mix of cartoon, athleticism, and baby oil that just struck a chord.  As the elementary school years passed, I vowed to become a pro wrestler. 

Before extreme wrestling became a lazy go-to alarmist story on the 11PM news, my friends and I had formed our own league.  The notion of children fighting one another in a pseudo-wrestling promotion sounds like some kind of Children of the Corn sequel, but it was fun.  In fact, I was world champion for a while.  Being the biggest kid among fourth graders made that a cinch.  The idea, though, was that I would hone my craft for the next ten years, become a pro wrestler, and then somehow overtake Hulk Hogan as the megastar of the mat.

What little did I know!  I had no clue that the only thing Hogan and I would have in common some 15 years later is male pattern baldness.  Then again, I also had no understanding of the kind of work, time, and sacrifice that it takes to become outstanding at that craft.  Wrestling and Justin Rose intersect today with my goals professionally and personally. 

(In the interest of time, I'll leave out my empty goals of becoming President of the United States, a game show host, professional golfer, and/or journalist.  Clearly, none of them are as compelling as the wrestling angle.)

This is the ninth year for me in covering golf in one fashion or another.  I started in the basement of Sean O'Connor's house doing something called a streaming radio show.  The boys gave me a live mic and let me talk about golf for an hour.  For the longest time, it was probably only my parents and I listening to the show.  At some point, I realized that success would require a lot of initiative and drive.  So, I did what came naturally - I poked and prodded at journalists I admired to see if they would talk golf with me and my attentive parents.  (I kept that part about the three person audience away from them.)  Surprisingly, it worked.  Scott Van Pelt came on the show.  I got Sally Jenkins.  Martha Burk came on the show.  LPGA players soon joined in, including now friend Christina Kim, then 17-year-old Paula Creamer, and a very shy rookie from Norway named Suzann Pettersen.  I got better at asking questions and making observations, but that was about it.  The fame and fortune (or at least perceived) was - and still is - far, far away from that basement.

In time, I envisioned a future that would see the confluence of journalism in all forms - radio, ink, and video - that would require me to be great at each.  Naturally, I chose writing first.  Somehow, I landed a gig with a small, local fan site (before the advent of blogging) called Sports Fan Magazine.  I wrote a weekly column named The 19th Hole to create synergy with my podcast.  Submissions went to a guy by the name of Greg Wyshynski, who is now probably one of the best authorities on hockey in this country and was named one of the 100 Most Influential People in Hockey last year.  Small world, huh?

Two small personal sites and a not-so-cleverly named Blogger site later, I landed here with SB Nation.  Not knowing what was to come, I wanted to mold Waggle Room into a community of peers, discussion, commentary, and information that could be found nowhere else.  I modeled myself after Geoff Shackelford, who wields quite a bit of influence as a real innovator in how golf is covered.  Applying my own "all buckets" approach, I wanted to forge relationships at all reaches of the sport.  Thanks to some luck, very accommodating contacts (many I can call friends), and persistence, I think Waggle Room has come to that point.

Yet, I still feel like Justin Rose probably did three years ago: a slew of success, but no win on American soil.  Or perhaps like Randy "The Ram" in The Wrestler, which I watched the other night - and not just for Marisa Tomei as a stripper.  I could see myself in these guys, one being a figure who is just reaching his potential and the other being a man who was in rapid decline.

The lesson from Rose seems simple.  It is persistence that matters.  Hard work, determination, and getting the right breaks - like Rickie Fowler rinsing one on 12 on Sunday - can lead to the ultimate breakthrough.  But, along the way and through the toiling, it is important to appreciate all of the other great things about being alive.  Clearly that final putt meant the world to Rose, but surely seeing his child clapping for him before his eyes meant even more.  The achievement was no longer personal for Rose, as it probably would have been some dozen years ago.  It was for his family.

As for The Ram, he was frankly the opposite - so driven by the cheers and the glory that he would destroy himself to keep the applause going.  He did it physically with barbed wire matches and staples in the chest.  It was done literally by missing his daughter's life, becoming a drug addict, and ultimately shedding the love of a broken person like him for one last match.  Rather than pursuing a well-rounded life that could have brought him a smattering of joy, he obsessed over the praise of an anonymous horde of people that changed outside of every ring, every venue.

In one of those rare moments of synapses firing to make bizarre connections, the moral of the fable became clear.  The determination that I have to make doing this - sharing golf with you - is as strong as it was when I began this absent-minded quest some nine years ago.  Quixotic at times, spellbinding at others, and flat out discouraging in spots, I still feel this is the goal...the BIG goal.  Looking back on whatever portion of Everest I have climbed (and up at the foggy crest before me), I know still that the happiest people are the ones who do what they love.  I love this and I am a happy man.

Simultaneously, I've always been driven to find a way to do this on my own.  Start a blog, build a company and an empire, and then put my feet up on the desk with an everlasting grin of self-satisfaction.  Despite what The Big Lead may prove, that would be like finishing Everest and jumping over to K2 for good measure.  And that's where The Ram can show me the light.  Ambition is one thing.  In its purest form, it is transformative and moving.  At its worst, it is blinding.  Good things come with ambition and aggression, but also patience.  Just like they did for Justin Rose.  And perhaps even better for Rose was that he had so many more people special to him to share it.  That made it worth the wait, and it will for me, too.