Other than quality time with my two sons, there’s
not much I miss about the U.S.—especially in its current
squabbling state. But I sure wouldn’t mind getting daily delivery of The New
York Times. I started reading the Times when I was a junior in high school, and
it remained a fixture of my morning routine for three and a half decades, until
we made our jump across the pond.
In the U.K. the only places the paper can be found
are the big newsstands and posh hotels of London. There’s not a copy to be had in
Scotland, where the closest
approximation is the international Herald Tribune, and even those sightings are
rare. In St. Andrews, just one shop carries it,
and I shall never forget my first attempt to buy one there.
“Do you have the Herald Tribune?” I asked the
proprietor.
“Aye,” he said. “Would you like today’s paper or
yesterday’s?”
“Why, today’s,” I said, mildly flummoxed.
“Now, you’re sure you’d like today’s and not
yesterday’s?” he queried.
“Yes, it’s definitely today’s paper I want,” I
said.
“Right,” he said, “then I’m afraid you’ll have to
come back tomorrow.”
Oh, I’m aware I can keep up with the Times on the
Internet, and I do check it out occasionally (even noodling the crossword
religiously every Sunday) but the experience just isn’t the same.
Ghoulishly, the section I miss most is the
obituaries. They took on special importance after I passed 50 and began feeling
intimations of mortality. I never actually read the full articles, mind you,
just skimmed the headlines:
“Oscar Schlumberger, 91, Radio Pioneer”
“Patrick ‘Woofer’ McSorley, 69, Dog Trainer to the
Stars”
“Frank Sperling, 82, Served With Patton’s Army”
The names could be colorful, but what I obsessed on
were the ages—all part of a desperate little game I played each morning. It was
match play: me against the dead guys. If the first fellow on the page had died
at an age more advanced than my own, I scored myself 1 up; if the deceased was
younger than I, I stood 1 down. Usually there were a half dozen or more dearly
departed in the morning lineup, sometimes nine or 10 (plenty for a decent
match), and most mornings I scored a solid victory. At home or at work, it was a
rousing, upbeat way to start each day.
Deprived now of that daily joy, and fully
seniorized at 55, I seek solace elsewhere. In a variation on my necrological
match-of-cards, I now make a habit of comparing myself in age to prominent and
powerful (living) people from all segments of society—the kind of people who
tend to have some years on them.
Starting with, say, the Pope. When saintly old John
Paul died this spring, I was briefly worried. Then I saw the white signal smoke
and the extremely white hair of Cardinal Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI. At age
78, the Holy Father is old enough to be my father, and I find that very
comforting.
For an entire feel-good group, there’s the U.S.
Supreme Court, where the average age is 16 years over mine. Sweet justice,
indeed.
Moving to the executive branch, I can report with
pleasure that no major-party presidential candidate has ever been younger than I
(granted, it was a close shave last time with both Bush and Kerry). For 2008,
I’m hoping it’ll be Rudy versus Hillary, a square-off that would keep my streak
intact.
The three other national figures I benchmark are
the anchormen for the major television networks. I was batting 1.000 in that
regard until last year, when Tom Brokaw quit on me and was replaced by that
callow youth, Brian Williams. Needless to say, I’ve stopped watching
NBC.
In the world of golf, I keep tabs on a select few
figures. Sadly, the president of the USGA, Fred Ridley, is two years younger
than I am (first time I’ve been beaten in that category), but on a brighter note
the brand-new captain of the R&A, Tom Gault—a supreme court justice from New
Zealand—is comfortably older. (Only one captain has not been more ancient than
I, and he was royal—Prince Andrew, a year ago.) Finally there is the leading
money winner on the Champions Tour. Bless you, 60-year-old Hale Irwin, for your
confoundingly continued brilliance.
Clearly, I can’t win this game much longer
unless I want to redefine “prominent people” as anyone who voted for Woodrow
Wilson. Therefore, as part of my morbid obsession with decrepitude and death
I’ve developed a new game—one that is more participatory and has the capacity to
last as long as I do. In my rounds of golf, I establish a target score that is
simply the course’s par plus my handicap. For every hole I complete without my
total score hitting that target, I award myself five “life-expectancy points.”
Currently my target is 79. If I shoot, say, 85 for
the day and my 79th stroke occurs on the 17th hole, it means I have survived 16
holes—16 times five gives me a life expectancy of 80. If I make it through all
18, it means I’ll live to be 90. For each stroke I shoot under 79, I give myself
one bonus year. Thus, should I ever manage to break 70, I’ll have the compounded
pleasure of knowing I will live to be at least 100. Of course, that life
expectancy lasts only until I shoot my next 85.
Is all of this a
little sick? Indeed it is. But I figure it’s no less manic—and a lot more
fun—than counting calories, rationing liquor, pumping iron, popping pills and
squatting lotus every day. Plus, it keeps my pre-Alzheimer’s mind focused right
where it should be: on my golf game.
