A tribute to Mike Spellman
[Your Name Here]Writing from Chicago
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Daily Herald reporter Mike Spellman, as accomplished a writer as you will find, and as giving a person as you will find, died Tuesday, one day before his 51st birthday. Spellman covered the Blackhawks, the Bears, horse racing and just about everything else for the Arlington Heights-based paper. He was especially lyrical when covering golf.
I asked Mike to be a columnist when the print edition of Illinois Golfer was launched. Thanks to logistics, there hasn’t been a second issue, but the column he turned in for that first issue in April 2012 was a gem. Here it is, reprinted online, for you to enjoy again.
Please remember Mike in your prayers.
– Tim Cronin
If you’re been there, you understand
By Mike Spellman
It happened to me at Wrigley Field as a kid.
It happened again as a young teen at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
And just a few years ago it returned again while on assignment at Augusta National.
You know that feeling when you walk into a place and it absolutely overwhelms you and you can’t exactly explain why? All you know is that you’ve entered very, very sacred ground.
For me, Wrigley had it the first time I emerged from the dark and dinge that is the lower concourse and there it was … the green. The field, the ivy, the scoreboard - I was hooked, and it didn’t matter that George Mitterwald and Steve Swisher were our catchers and we had about as good a chance of winning the division as Pat Paulson did of winning the presidency.
At Indy, my three memories are of walking forever around the perimeter of the track on race day, hearing all the hubbub inside and dying to be a part of it. The second memory is ridiculous but here it is – a young couple holding a leash in front of them as they walked an invisible dog around the infield like it was no big deal. I don’t know why that sticks out, but it does.
And finally, it was getting to our seats way up in pit row. Music playing, the cars lined up on the track, and across the way, a jam-packed double-decked grandstand that stretched for what seemed like miles down to Turn 4.
Sandi Patty, “Back Home in Indiana,” the invocation, the anthem, the orders to start your engines, the balloons, the fireworks, the pace laps, the checkered flag … spectacle indeed.
Want to guess what my next school project was on? That’s right, A.J. Foyt winning the 1977 Indianapolis 500.
In mid-March of 2006, I remember my editor calling to set up a meeting.
“We’re going to send you to the Masters,” he said.
Thanks to smelling salts, I think I was only out for a couple of minutes. Kidding, but I remember hearing only every third or fourth word of what he was saying as my mind raced. And honestly, I don’t think my leg ever stopped twitching.
Holy Majoley, I was going to the Masters.
I was going to the tournament that had hooked me on the game. The same place where Jack Nicklaus won at age 46 and moved me to purchase a yellow golf shirt just like his (in a great move considering my age, I opted not to get the checkered pants as well). The same place where a dozen years later he made another run, at age 58, ending up finishing sixth in a remarkable performance.
Can you tell I’m a Jack fan?
Because of the late notice, there wasn’t a hotel room to be had anywhere near Augusta. Or anywhere in Georgia, for that matter, so I ended up booking a room in Columbia, S.C.
It was a ridiculous drive, but I didn’t care because it was the Masters for crying out loud.
I arrived in Columbia on Sunday afternoon and by the time 6 a.m. Monday rolled around, I had enough adrenaline flowing in me to clean and jerk a small building.
After about an hour on the highway I exited at Washington Road, lined as far as you can see with cars, Waffle Houses, gas stations and cheap hotels, but that all ended with one quick right turn.
And there it was – Augusta National.
The big state trooper with the mirrored sunglasses, seeing that my parking pass was legit, surprised me with a friendly Johnny Carson-like golf swing, the follow-through of which directed me to the correct parking lot.
I found my seat in the media center, dropped off my gear, and out I went.
I almost felt guilty for walking on the most manicured grass I had ever seen, but I did anyway. And actually, it wasn’t really walking, more like floating as I visited ever corner of the rolling, tree-lined, immaculate course, including Amen.
The highlight of a week that was an absolute blur came on Wednesday when Jack and his son Jackie stopped by the media center on what was the 20th anniversary of their amazing win.
There I was standing a few feet away listening to the legend talk … it was happening again.
Reader Comments (1)
The golf as a passion is more than enough to put you to the passion and enough to get you landed where you are and never be more than that. Even the people who hate going there have become fans and they want to play more than half of the population in USA play and to be honest for me that say a lot and even KJ Golfs and http://www.cartsmax.com/ said that this is true.