A Peene tradition unlike any other....

The Masters has always been the sporting event I look forward to most on a yearly basis. Why? Because it is timeless. It represents a generation and a time where sport was not dominated by corporate logos which make our golfers look like they are a Nextel Cup Monte Carlo. Beers are still $1.25 and not $9. Sandwiches are $1 and good...not $12 and stuffed with mystery-meat. When the azaleas come out to bloom, Augusta National Country Club takes center stage. And this weekend, it truly is the perfect storm, as there is nothing greater than sitting, surrounded by your family at around 6 pm in a tryptophian induced state hoping to see Tiger and Phil (or Phil and Tiger) 1st and 2nd on the leader-board trading shots for sports ultimate individual prize: the Green Jacket.

Five years ago, I wrote a commentary in The Daily Targum regarding the "de-genderization of Augusta". Feminist activist Martha Burk had tried to hijack the 2003 Masters with protests and shenanigans that only an ACORN fan would love. In my column, I tried to illustrate that Hootie Johnson and the club weren't a caucus of "He-Man Woman Haters", but exercising the free-will of a club...chauvinistic or not. If you want a blast from my past, click the link above. I've mellowed a little since then. It was in Randy Pausch's book The Last Lecture in which he categorizes individuals into two categories: "Tiggers" and "Eeyores". (I am not going to get into the details because if you haven't read it yet, I can guarantee that it is among the most awe-inspiring books you will read, and then use as a guide for your life.) But I think in the world of golf (and maybe even life), you're either a Tiger or a Phil. While you can respect both immensely, you can only relate to one.

In my history. I can relate to Phil. So therefore, I like to think I'm a Phil He smiles a lot. He's happy-go-lucky. He's a risk-taker. And of course he chokes. (as per my baseball post, you can see "choking" has been a theme in my sports career...must be the Mets thing) My brother is a Tiger. He's the hardest-worker I know. He's a physical specimen. And historically on the golf course (and in law school) he comes through when the pressure is the greatest.

The brothers Peene are a competitive bunch, especially when it comes to sports. We have the same skill-set, we've just been given different God-given ways to employ them. After all, he is a little taller, a little more graceful...I'm much more of the "win at all costs" type. During my basketball days, I played shooting guard with the physical mentality of a power-forward. (My sister, a 3 time all-county basketball star during her high school years, still will not play me...I think she's afraid) 4 years ago we were golfing at Fiddler's Elbow. Going into the last hole, I had a 3 stroke lead on my brother. It was a par 5 on the river course. I figured I had it locked up. Its not like the US Open was at stake, but you always like to beat family. But, somehow I got "the yips"... The demons caught up and I looked like Phil on the 18th hole at Winged Foot almost 2 years ago. Shanked a drive, took a drop, wound up with a triple-bogey 8. Brandon birdied the hole. I lost by 1 stroke. He won the Tiger way. (Mo - they don't call him "Peene the Machine" for nothing) I lost the Phil way.

On Sunday, when we're watching the Masters...I know we'll both be rooting for a moment when the leaderboard is tied and having the consummate professional storyteller, Jim Nantz, dictate a timeless story about two of the greatest athletes of our time. (See slim Phil now? He's not a golfer...He's an athlete). Then of course, we all revert back to being "Phils" and "Tigers". That's what I'd like in my Easter basket.

Oh, and don't forget a few Cadbury creme eggs too. I love those things.

Then I'll get on my knees and pray....We don't get fooled again...

My good friend Frank posted a half-serious Facebook comment a few days back that he would like me to do a "match by match" breakdown of Wrestlemania 25...My knowledge of "pro" wrestling stems from growing up in the 80s and 90s (ever more indented in my mind from the few nights I watched those great "Wrestlecrap" compilations back at 66 College Ave.) WWF (and no, I don't mean the World Wildlife Federation which forced the WWF to become the WWE) was as prevalent in my elementary years as history books on American Presidents and "Donahue" on Channel 4 at 4:00 pm with an exclusive interview with Joe and Mary Jo Buttafuoco.

We were one of those families with the "illegal box" (the Northern New Jersey term for it..otherwise known as "descrambler")...You know, the ones that were able to get every channel by paying for just basic cable. They looked just like everybody else's box from the neighborhood. The only difference is we were able to see every great Pay Per View event that nobody wanted to pay to see. Like good 8 year old suburban children, we enjoyed violence and story-lines because we never believed the rumors that it was "fake". When Sgt. Slaughter threw fire in Hulk Hogan's face was that fake? What about when the 450 lb Earthquake took Jake the Snake's precious python "Damien" and proceeded to squash the snake with his patented "Earthquake splash"

My favorite wrestler growing up was the "Macho Man/Macho King", Randy Savage. I think I picked him because everybody loved Hogan and the Ultimate Warrior(and had their WWF wrestling buddy stuffed likenesses, which were marketed so that young kids wouldn't beat the living crap out of each other..While the WWF made a fortune, it's social statements on issues such as steroids and this speak for themselves)....but the other reason was I had developed a pretty good impression of wrestling royalty. (ask Mr. Mondello...honest to God)

But on this historic occassion...the Silver Anniversary that has become ingrained in our culture as the "wing bowl" and the "Biggest Loser" finale..I'm reminded about my day with one of the great wrestlers of all time. This man was WWF champion for 5 1/2 years! (albeit before my brother was born) Ok, he defeated Bret the Hitman Heart at Madison Square Garden to hold the WWF Championship (for 10 days). The curator of the "cross-faced chicken wing" himself (and former Presidential candidate), Bob Backlund.

So fast-forward to February of 2000. Yours truly was in the midst of his state-chairmanship of the "New Jersey Teen Age Republicans" and with that title came power. Up in Glastonbury, CT, Mr. Backlund was preparing to be the Republican challenger to freshman Representative John Larson. Now, when you are a kid in politics, you believe anybody can win...even if the demographics of the district are totally the other way. Why would Bob Backlund run if he couldn't win?? I mean, WHO WOULDN'T WANT BOB BACKLUND TO BE THEIR CONGRESSMAN? So, I called the HQ of the CT GOP looking for the number for Backlund's HQ. They obliged, I called...and Bob Backlund answered the phone at his HQ. I mean, how cool is that? We chatted. He answered all of my great wrestling inspired questions. And then proceeded to tell me that he was going to be in New Jersey for a Monday Night RAW taping in a few weeks and would love it if I helped him campaign at the event. (not to mention, we'd get in free to a sold out event) He would be selling t-shirts at a table, on the concourse in the arena formerly known as Brendan Byrne. In hindsight, it didn't matter to me that he was selling t-shirts to raise money for his bid, instead of hitting up political action committees, big companies, wealthy donors who could max out, or even the Republican National Congressional Committee.

So the day comes. My brother tags along for the ride and we meet Mr. Backlund in the driveway where cars can pull directly to the arena floor, thinking we'd get a peek at "the Rock" or something. After exchanging pleasantries, Bob Backlund proceeds to give my brother and me a box of t-shirts to sell in the parking lot. Mr. Backlund believed that "showing them to people on their way in" will entice them to come see him on the concourse near the "Winners Club". We obliged. Because Bob Backlund said so. Brandon and I did this for about 5 minutes until a van from the NJ Sports and Exposition Authority security (those "yellow jackets" who swarm evil-doers and break up fights during Giants and Jets games) came by and told us to get in the car.

They then took us to an undisclosed location beneath the arena that none of us only believed was in Philadelphia. They'd ask the standard questions: "Who told you to sell these?" "Did you know what you were doing was illegal?" "Who is your daddy and what does he do?" And we earnestly answered "Bob Backlund told us to! We're with him and he works for the WWF and he told us to stand out here." We're 17 and 15 year old kids who just wanted to get our wrestling hero elected to Congress. After about a half hour in the care of the pseudo-authorities (and through the countless thoughts if we were going to juvie or not) , we were discharged to the arena to the care of Mr. Backlund, who was already was taking $10 bills, signing the t-shirt, posing for pictures and not exactly reporting where the contributions were coming from (an Federal Election Commission no-no).

Bob then wondered what happened to us, we told him the story, and he then proceeded to put us to work.(I don't think he knew that hawking unlicensed product in the parking lot of the largest sports complex in America was a crime....I mean, its not like we used a garbage bag to hide the stuff....or I was standing there with an "I Need Tickets" sign and my brother was 10 steps away selling them) I'd collect the money and take the pictures. He'd be Bob Backlund. Posing with fans, giving them the cross-faced chicken-wing and a lasting photo that probably hangs on the mantle of many whom were there that night. After the line died down, we found some seats in the arena and watched the show. Bob Backlund may have been a "wrestling hero". But not the Peene family. "Bob Backlund is the strangest man I've ever met", still says my brother. A grainy photograph and mental scars are all that remain from this infamous day.

If I knew Oliver Stone, his hypothesis would be: If wrestling were fake, would he have endangered the futures of two young Republican kids who just wanted to meet their WWF heroes? I mean, someone must be so mentally deranged to do such a thing...Mr. Stone, that's debatable.

That would not be the end of Bob Backlund. Turns out the contact number I had was really a home-office. Because I was that kid in the college who had a Treo smartphone (the one that would flip open....and was replaced 3 or 4 times), he did get a few calls from wrestling-aficionado and some would leave undiscernable messages on his tape during the wee-hours of the morning.

Hey Brandon, I hear Randy "the Ram" Robinson lost his job at the Acme deli counter and might be running for Congress from his Elizabeth trailer. Feel like selling t-shirts?

We learned more from a three-minute record, baby, than we ever learned in school...

A few of my friends with more life experience than I were sitting around the Brick House one night after another night on the political circuit and the topic of mix-tapes came up. I was young enough to know how to make a mix tape, not necessarily understand the value of a good mix-tape...It would be a few years since I would get behind the wheel of the Dodge Neon that would be my car for the remaining 2 years of high school. (My mother did give me the keys to her Mercedes once or twice during that period...and one of those times was for the Christmas Dance (the other of course, the senior prom), in which entering the car I happened to slip on ice and snap off the turning signal...I mean, I was going for the Gerald Ford way to impress my date) In the junior high years, the average CD boombox had become sophisticated enough to dub the CD track to a Maxell, which gave me the ultimate gift of the mix. But then blank CD's became the rage and the cassette went the way of the 8-track, Betamax and the Laserdisc. (and Nintendo Virtual Boy)

But as I went back & sifted through some of those old blank CDs. One was a gift from an old girlfriends (like the one entitled Valentine's Day Mix - XOXO, Di...it was interesting popping that in for a quick scan...These Are The Days (not the 1993 MTV Unplugged version..10,000 Maniacs - Unplugged...truly an underrated album...I wish Natalie Merchant never left) , Jersey Girl (which by the way, does not include rooting for the Philadelphia Eagles and down the shore everything's alright if it's north of LBI...could be one reason it didn't work...), I Got You Babe, some early John Mayer, that song Amazing by Josh Kelley which was popular in the early part of this decade...Most of the others were just mixes I made that weren't very descriptive: Bruce #2, Country, U2 Mix, Rock...The ambiguousness of what they contain didn't bother me. I mean, after all, I did make them...but popping a few of them in made me come up with the hypothetical question: If I were on Oceanic Flight 815, it went down...and I was left with one CD (i know this is all mute because we all have iPods...but that takes the fun out of this)....So i'll change it to: "if my life were a movie, what would I pick to be on it's soundtrack?"

Like a good mix-tape, it shouldn't (and can't be) an album featuring just one particular artist...While Harry Connick, Jr. leapt to musical superstardom and Jill Goodacre with the bulk of the music on the When Harry Met Sally motion picture soundtrack (and many others like the Bee Gees, Prince and the Beatles did so as well..and they are all among the best soundtracks), but they're not exactly "mixes"...The great ones of the past 30 years in my own opinion: The Big Chill, Reality Bites, Forrest Gump, Fast Times at Ridgemont High (and not just because it gave me an excuse to post a picture of Phoebe Cates) and Singles.

Remember, it's self-applicable....I'm sure you'll all have different ones on your "ultimate soundtrack....But the only rule I have is you're only allowed to use one song by each artist. And like a good soundtrack, its a mix of mega-stars and minor-leaguers and little people..So here is the soundtrack to "the yet to be titled film" about me:

Two Princes - Spin Doctors
They could use a comeback..My God, they were on the cover of Rolling Stone..."Pocket Full of Kryptonite" was a great album...and i'm pretty sure this song was on the first actual mix-tape i've ever made, not to mention the first song I ever played on a jukebox...which was at Nellie's Place in Waldwick.

Do You Love Me - The Contours
One of the first and fondest memories I had sitting in the front seat of the car was singing this song from the "More Dirty Dancing" soundtrack...which obviously was a spin-off from the wildly successful "Dirty Dancing" soundtrack. I'd play DJ and just keep this song playing. In 1987-1988, it was a staple in every woman 18-50's automobile.

Wonderful World - Sam Cooke
Combines a truly great song about school, love and an image of John Belushi on a cafeteria line that remains timeless.

Best of What's Around - DMB
My favorite Dave Matthews Band song. All about perseverance. "Turns out not where but who you're with that really matters"

Jungleland - Bruce Springsteen & The E-Street Band
I can't decide if Clarence Clemmons sax solo or the piano/guitar ending of the original "Layla" is my favorite music performance of all-time

You Took the Words Right Out Of My Mouth - Meat Loaf'
Just one of my favorite songs of all-time..Bat out of Hell was one of the first albums I ever had..and if it's my soundtrack, its on there.

Friday I'm In Love - The Cure
While the Cure was huge in New Wave, this early 90's was home to great little indie-rock pop songs

I Want You Back - Jackson 5
C'mon, whats a soundtrack without a little of Gary, Indiana's most famous quintuplet Michael, Tito, Jermaine, Jackie and Marlon

End of the Road - Boyz II Men
The first slow-dance I ever had was in 4th grade to this song with a girl named Lara Kowalski who seemingly moved not too long after....I wonder why. Plus the obligatory Barry White-like speaking part that has become the M.O. of most of this groups classics are a 9.5 on the unintentional comedy scale.

A Little Respect - Erasure
It took me until I got XM a few years ago to figure out the name and who sang this song...If you had to put one song in time-capsule, admit it, this is the true definition of the 80's...It really can be on any soundtrack....and the video....just watch the music video.

Up Around the Bend - Creedence Clearwater Revival
I mean, it starts with "There's a place up a head and I'm going...Just as fast as my feet can fly"...They're flying a lot faster than last year...

Vienna - Billy Joel
"You've got your passion...you've got your pride...but don't you know that only fools are satisfied...Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true...When will you realize Vienna waits for you?" Reality check.

All for You - Sister Hazel
Late 90's...Reminds me of high school...

Day by Day - The Hooters
Did you know they played Live Aid? Amazing....Not to mention, one of my good friends Kerry, is a former "groupie"...It's the "Main-Line" thing...

Walk On - U2
While U2 was a mega-group since "The Joshua Tree" and kept growing (with a little hitch in the road with the album "Pop") I truly think they morphed into something that we cannot explain or comprehend in the days after September 11, 2001 . One of the greatest experiences of my life was seeing them at Madison Square garden a month and a half after 9-11. This song is the anthem that ensures that I and many other Americans "Never Forget".

Goodbye, Goodbye - Oingo Bongo
A happy song to end with...and keeps with the Phoebe Cates theme...

I hope I got people thinking and I'd love to hear what some of y'all think would be on yours.

In the meantime...Stay Classy, San Diego.

So you're scared and maybe you're thinkin' we ain't that young anymore...

Danny Glover's acting career hit relevance again...which Hollywood execs may suggest that Lethal Weapon 5 might be on the horizon. The plot of this week's How I Met Your Mother (aka: the "Friends" of our generation...but based in Brooklyn...because, I mean if The Real World went there 5 years later, it must be cool) As Sgt. Murtaugh in the 80's police comedy series without "The Gute" or Judge Reinhold, the good officer was known for saying on many occasion as Mel Gibson would pull of stunts that proved Mad Max was no fluke: "I'm too old for this shit". Ted uses the guise of the "Murtaugh List" to then write down all the things he thinks he's too old to do. When I sat & applied the "Murtaugh List" concept to my own life, one glaring example came to mind.

How do people STILL start their nights at 10 pm or 11 pm....meaning hit their first bar or place of entertainment for the night. I mean, most of the people who do this probably prepare all day for this 3 hour installment of their social lives, which in my humble opinion doesn't make them THAT cool considering there are 21 hours left in the day. During the good ole' days of 66 College Avenue, our parties used to start at 11. And it was fine. Most of us anyway would "pre-game" in our respective code-violation bastions anyway. It was college.

Like a good Kenyan distance runner, you give me a happy hour it'll turn into quite a few "happy hours". Down the shore everything's alright because it's a marathon. Go to the beach, have a few on the back porch of the Parker House, change & shower, relax, go back downstairs to continue the fun by changing from grog-shop Clark Kent into Sea Girt Superman with salmon shorts.

Our Giants tailgates start 4 hours before kick-off, and most days we tailgate after the game as well, watching the cars stalled on the access roads surrounding that concrete masterpiece I have so many memories from. While those cars are listening to the Bob Papa post-game wrap-up and flipping off the car with Connecticut license plates in front of them, there's no sweeter feeling than chowing down on a nice crispy Thumann's hot dog on a Martin's potato roll, doused with sauce from the Hot Grill on Lexington Avenue in Clifton. As per the picture on the left, concert tailgating takes on a whole different animal. One must start at least 5 hours before the show and in the case of a Jimmy Buffett concert, one must take a half-day from work. The Far Hills Hunt? I can't even recall what time I started at...

Though I will say, when delving into a night of the Hoboken nightlife, we've started having a dinner at about 8 pm...then going out. That's honestly my cut-off. Which I think proves my point. "We're too old for this shit".

So, my friends, show a little faith, there's magic in the night....even if it starts before the sun goes down.

**********

On another related, yet unrelated note, the one thing that you can never be too old for is visiting your favorite bars in which you spent your formative years. We had a fraternity reunion Saturday afternoon and we all wound up on Easton Ave...and it never gets old. Going to Shortway's Barn or Bender's on Thanksgiving Eve never gets old, just like Stuff Yer Face or the Golden Rail never get old when visiting New Brunswick. The 'Backer will never tire, especially because its scheduled to become part of the ND campus. And anytime a bunch of people get together and head on down to McSorley's, no matter how many meat-heads may be there chugging mugs of dark or light ale, you're never too old for it. So go on, relive the days before cirrosis and relish in the memories that go with it.

Put me in coach....I'm ready to play...

After sophomore year of high school, I "retired" from baseball to the world of Hawthorne High School golf. (Watching Todd Delaney & Sean Garner mercilessly compete for that 4th spot, defeating Bergen County Sheriff's Officers during Hooters trivia night, and many a trip to the Wendy's on Hamburg Tpke are some of my fondest memories) I never thought I'd be back on the diamond, playing the "hot-corner" and stealing second. Especially for a team called the Blue Jays, in which I am stuck wearing the jersey of a bird from the home of Molson XXX and crappy socialized medicine.

This whole year (and a few months) has truly been a "fantasy camp": saw the Giants win the NFC Championship in -30 degree weather, I started grad school at Notre Dame (aka fat camp because I lost 25 lbs when I was there), joined the ULC, spent the rest of the summer in good ole' Sea Girt, and wake up every day truly enjoying what I love to do. Continuing with that "new Ryan" theme, after not much thought, I decided that being I can get myself around the bases, why not come out of my "retirement" and play ball?

Baseball has been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. The first Met game my father took me to, as a 5 year old in 1988, we sat behind home plate, right next to a woman named Bo, who regailed us with stories from that magical 1986 season. "Nails" aka Lenny Dykstra was (and still is) my favorite player, the man to hold the distinction of the ultimate training regimen, which individuals noticed Spring Training 1987 when he showed up with 30 extra pounds of muscle mass.....and the worst day of my young life was 2 years later when he and Roger McDowell were traded for Juan Samuel......Exactly.

I still remember the first glove my father had gotten me. It was a Mizzuno and I remember not being able to touch it for 3 days as the glove sat, bathed in oil, so my Costanza-hand would be able to clench the ball. My brother and I would play home-run derby in the backyard. In Hawthorne, baseball (and softball too) are the first organized sports that kids were able to join. In the 2nd grade, they gave all the kids numbers, packed them in the Roosevelt School gymnasium, and went through hitting and fielding rotations as if it were a MLB combine. You were drafted and there in lied your identity for the next 2 years, as you proceeded to face off 18 times a year on the fields of Wagaraw and the "Pumphouse". Some kids were concerned about winning, some about "batting averages" that were somehow always inflated, and yes, some about the Cheetos and Ssips juice packs at the end of the game. While it was about having fun, it was also about earning that jacket at the end of the year. Winners always got jackets...unless the sponsor was cheap. And in a small-town, no member of the chamber of commerce could afford that reputation.

As I went to little league and my father started coaching my brother's teams (the epic moment coming in the 6th grade when during a regular season little league game, the pitcher was taken out and replaced with my brother so he would be able to face me....For the record, I did get a hitI played on a team known as Paul's Motors. Of all the organized sports I've played during my youth, those three years during 4th and 6th grade. It was nice because kids were treated fairly. There were no father's coaching their own son's on this team. It was fair. It was fun. And it was because of those 5 men.

The last game of my little league career ended in the championship game. It was Paul's Motors vs. Hawthorne Travel. (Its one of those things that has been rehashed on so many occassions by my former coach and tailgating maven, Al, that nobody forgets it...and the story never changes) The series was a "best of 3" and tied at 1-1. We were up 9-8 in the bottom of the 6th. I was having a career game (4-5 with 6 RBI, including the one that put us up going into the bottom of the 6th...Didn't I say personal statistics were for losers?) Turano flied out and we were 2 outs away....Then Mike Phillips hit a double, Casapulla hit a error-forced triple and during the obligatory visit to the mound to calm him down, our pitcher complained of arm pain. This is little league. Runner on 3rd, 1 out. What do you do? While intentionally walking was banned from the rules of the Hawthorne Baseball & Softball association, it's what had to be done.

So they bring in the righty, who really hadn't pitched all year, but they had faith. My job was to give them nothing to hit. Don't throw a strike. I remember parents complaining that that wasn't baseball...So I walk the first guy. To make it look like I was intentionally walking, I'd throw balls. Some of those balls took bad hops. One of them took an especially bad one, and Mike Casapulla stole home to win the game, ala Benny the Jet Rodriguez in the most underrated sports movie ever created, The Sandlot.

You would think that this particular event would fade from people's perception. "We're just kids." Well, like many before me, everybody remembers Hawthorne Little League. You remember who played for what team. You remember the colors of the uniforms. You remember that during "All-Stars" the pitcher from Long Hill with a hyper-active pituitary gland which i'm sure caused him to shave at the age of 12. Whether win, lose, or heartbreak, they're all cherished memories that somehow always come up when a bunch of us get together.

So, yeah. I'm back on the field. Playing 2nd base. For a guy who's taken 10 years off, forgone performance enhancing drugs and showed up at camp 30 lbs lighter than he was a year ago, I think I'm doing just fine.

Do you ever get down on your knees and thank God you know me and have access to my dementia?

I never thought I would succumb to the blogging bug. Facebook status messages were enough of a window into my life through various inconsequential observations to the occasional where I am at a particular time, as well as the random lyrical reference just to see who can pick up on it...but in a world where individuals are "tweeting" every five-seconds on the most inconsequential events and stupid daily trivialities in a few lines, I decided...."Why not blog"?

One of the things I was most proud of during my four years at Rutgers was that I spent the fall of my senior year as a columnist for The Daily Targum. There were some columnists that would write as if they were auditioning for National Review or The New Republic. I just enjoyed being able to weave my pop-culture musings and what the hell was relevant at the moment into my work to share with the Rutgers community. I miss that. It was theraputic.

So those of you who enjoy the legalized stalking of Facebook, and other work-place distractions, I hope that the musings of a 26 year-old Catholic male working in government affairs are relevant and interesting enough to make it into your heavy rotation.

Buckle up, kids. It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive.