Monday, April 14, 2025 – Day 244
Good morning, and welcome to a new week. Sorry—more golf talk. I’ve been watching The Masters about as long as I’ve been a Cubs fan, starting just before the infamous 1969 collapse. Yesterday was a classic couch-pota

Monday, April 14, 2025

Monday, April 14, 2025 – Day 244
Good morning, and welcome to a new week. Sorry—more golf talk. I’ve been watching The Masters about as long as I’ve been a Cubs fan, starting just before the infamous 1969 collapse.

Yesterday was a classic couch-potato day—one for the books. I settled in at 11:00 a.m. for The Masters and didn’t move much until the sun was dipping low in the afternoon sky.

If you caught even a glimpse, you already know it was an electric roller coaster ride from start to finish. The leaderboard was a living, breathing thing—constantly shifting, with every name in the top ten holding a real chance to win. The gallery erupted each time a new leader’s name appeared. Just like the Cubs’ scoreboard, the Masters leaderboard is changed manually. With no cell phones allowed, fans fix their eyes on the board between shots, scanning for updates. It’s great that this tradition of manual scoreboards are still used…it’s very special even if it’s not realtime.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get more dramatic—enter the 18th hole. A short putt for McIlroy (easy for me to say from the couch) grazed the edge and stayed out, forcing a sudden-death playoff. Rory McIlroy vs. Justin Rose. Two class acts. Both deserving of that green jacket.

The playoff hole delivered everything a fan could hope for—two elite players trading blows, not with fists but with flawless golf shots and nerves of steel. It felt like golf’s version of the first Joe Frazier–Muhammad Ali fight in 1971. Two undefeated champions going fifteen unforgettable rounds.
I was eleven years old then, lying in bed, glued to my clock radio, listening in awe as the announcers described what felt like a clash of titans.

Yesterday’s playoff had that same gravity. This wouldn’t be won by someone blinking first—it would take grit, precision, and sheer will.

And when it ended—McIlroy dropping the birdie putt, collapsing to his knees, arms catching him as the emotion hit—I felt it, too. His hands on his head, tears streaming, finally conquering the course, the field, and maybe most of all, himself. I teared up on the spot. It was one of the greatest finishes I’ve seen. Pure sports magic.

Congratulations, Rory. And thank you—for the heart, the drama, and the reminder of why I watch. See you next year.

Of course, Sunday also came with a dose of reality. Another sign that ALS continues to progress. Over the past week, I’ve had to rock myself off the couch more than once—sometimes needing multiple tries before my quads engage enough to stand. It’s easy to imagine getting stuck there soon, calling for help.

Bear, our solid little mini Goldendoodle, watches with those big eyes, wondering if we’re playing a game. He’s ready for action, no matter what. At least he’s smart enough to move aside when I start to stand—he must sense the wobble and fall risk. So far, I’m managing. But how long will this new technique hold?

It’s time to reach out to Angel Peggy, my care coordinator, and see what the durable medical closet has to offer for this stage of ALS. I’m grateful these tools exist—to help me meet the day and new challenges.

Have a great Monday.

Love you guys! ❤️