The Swagger News

Why nice guys finish last.

When Rory McIlroy snap hooked his drive on Augusta's 13th hole back in April, I felt sick. If you were watching, you felt sick too. Rory buried his head in his arm, hiding. The errant shot was the final blow in an epic meltdown. Within 30 minutes he'd thrown away what seemed an insurmountable lead. The television cameras, mercifully, stopped showing Rory. Nobody could bear to watch. 

After the round he gave one of the most poised interviews I've ever seen. He took the questions. Spoke openly about his feelings. His maturity was phenomenal. 22 years old.

Then the chattering started. Rory would be devastated, they said. Rory would never win the big one. Rory was too nice. Sure he was a tremendous talent capable of winning 'normal' events, but did he have the chutzpah to win the game's most coveted trophies? Most people wondered. Doubted. The pundits reminded us that lesser men had never won again after suffering such a public thrashing. Greg Norman comes to mind. 

But Rory wasn't listening. He kept hitting golf shots and believing. When I read his words after last Saturday's round at the US Open, I knew Rory would win:

"I needed to be a little more cocky, a little more arrogant on the golf course, and think a little bit more about myself, which I've tried to incorporate a little bit, just on the golf course,” McIlroy said. “I just try and have a bit of an attitude.”

Swagger personified.

We all face pressure. Some of us choke. Some win. Who wins and who chokes? The winners win by ruthlessly refusing to believe the negativity. They WILL NOT buy into the opinions others have of them. They DO NOT let other people's self doubt become their own. The only voice they hear is their own, reminding them of the good stuff. Always the good stuff. 

Once the fury of a setback has subsided, the winners call their coaches and go back to work. They get honest about what needs improving. They roll up their sleeves and start doing the dirty work. 

By all accounts, Rory McIlroy is a hugely likable dude. Well mannered, killer smile, intelligent. He's a nice person. All good. Gimme a nice guy over a schmuck any day. But when we get into the heat of battle, we need to forget about 'nice'. We need to adopt the vicious competitor persona. Let us be utterly mean about not listening to the critics. We must shun the doubters with every fiber of our being. Once we get done, we can go back to 'nice'. 

Congratulations Rory McIlroy, 2011 United States Open Champion.  

How to be financially independent forever.

In my closet hangs an exquisitely crafted garment designed by the great Ozwald Boateng. I bought it at Boateng's boutique on Saville Row in London. Most days, I partner the suit with a pair of metallic Patrick Cox shoes, bought at Printemps de l'Homme in Paris. It's a killer look. When I strut my stuff in these my Sunday best, people say nice things to me. It makes me feel better about myself. Confident. 

I am wrong about the suit. And the shoes. How I've come to know this is something I wouldn't wish upon anybody, but it is a possibility wrapped in a circumstance. 

You see, I currently, temporarily, do not have a pot to piss in. Broke. Strapped for cash. Singing the greenback blues. 

Now don't get me wrong; my kids won't go hungry. I have a roof over my head. And there is work coming in. But life, as I used to know it, is gone forever. 

How did it used to be? Every summer a trip to a sunny locale like the South of France or Barcelona. Golf whenever I wanted. Comfortable car. New clothes. Good restaurants. The Albert Heijn. All without thinking twice about money. Not anymore. This year it'll be a 'stay-cation', a.k.a. a stay at home vacation. As for golf, both Tiger and me are on a hiatus of unknown duration. Shopping? Al fresco fine dining? Nope. Not happening, amigos. 

Had you predicted this just one year ago I'd have broken out in a cold sweat. But guess what? It ain't half bad. A blessing in disguise. There is tremendous freedom in not being able to buy anything beyond the essentials. As my hero Todd Snider sings, "watch what you say to someone with nothing, it's almost like having it all."

My point is this: I've been white bread and corn fed for so long, I've forgotten the inherent privilege of luxury. I've forgotten about the value of a Dollar|Euro. Before you go thinking I'm some kind of spoiled trust fund brat, I most definitely am not. But my parents provided me with a life of plenty, and I've never been afraid of a day's work.

So my current economic malaise has caused me to re-evaluate. Re-prioritize. Get my shit together. What have I learned? A simple and priceless lesson; I have never needed what I thought I needed. My Ozwald Boateng suit, exquisite as it is, has nothing to do with clothing. I see now that it's just me saying to the world, "I'm good enough. I'm worthy. I'm significant. Love me." Like a 10 year kid standing next to the soccer field, quietly summoning the courage to ask, "Can I play too?" 

My relationship to money has always been about proving my worth, and quieting the nay-sayers. Yes I am good enough. Yes I am appealing. Yes I do have 'good taste'. Yes I can play too. Yes. Yes. Yes. But it has nothing to do with stuff. It is my heart that matters. My being. The man I am. Nothing more, nothing less. 

As I steadily extract myself from the hole I'm in, I know this newfound knowledge will serve me well. And even though I'll most surely buy a lovely Boateng suit again, and play golf in exotic destinations, I can promise you this: I will cherish every moment, every luxury like never before. 

In the meantime, however, I'll keep buying my cucumbers at the Aldi. 

Haven't I known you for years? The magic of music.

I'm standing in a sticky, windowless room surrounded by amplifiers. Sanne sits at his drum kit, sticks in hand. Pascal whips his shirt off, the heat oppressive, and straps on his bass. Aafke coddles her ukelele and sets up the keyboard (keeps her shirt on). I fiddle with my amp, nervous and a little too giggly. 

 We don't know each other from a hole in the ground. But here we are, about to jam.

Sanne counts us off and starts the tune. It's a cover of Sublime's 'What I got.' Cautious at first, we're like the Millenium Falcon when it first takes off: a clunky, lumbering beast, fighting to fly. Eight bars in, Sanne finds the pocket. Pascal funks the shit outta that bass, Aafke nails a harmony, and I shun my fear, close my eyes, and sing.

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!

We are flying. Like the Falcon when they hit 'hyperspace'. The world is a blur and we are lost as the stars and planets race by, speeding recklessly to a place unknown. Somewhere. Anywhere. Gone for a precious few hours to a galaxy far, far away. 

And yet, I remind you, we are 'strangers'. 

How is this possible? We just met. Where did this fierce chemistry, this undeniable buzz, this addictive energy come from? How can complete strangers become instant lifelong friends while our own families, our own flesh and blood, remain strangers? How, I beg you?!

Ever the teacher, I need answers. I require strategies. Theories. Analysis. The shit needs to be explainable. Measurable. Definable. 

But there are no answers. 

And don't think it's only musicians who are afflicted. It's not. We have ALL, no matter our pursuits and passions, been struck hard by the seemingly unbearable arrow of instant chemistry, first love, dangerous infatuation. It is intoxicating. And bat shit crazy.

I am walking through a leafy park in an ancient city. I ask my dear friend and newest musical partner, "How can we have known each other for a few hours, but we can jam like that?" 

"Don't try to analyze the magic Dave" she says, her eyes diamonds. "Just let it be." 

OK, fine. No analysis. No answers. No peace of mind. Just madness and music. Love and longing. Fear and swagger. They didn't call it a Magical Mystery Tour for nothing.

"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom. Let it be." The Beatles