"Have you lost your f**king mind?" The voice said as it roared out of the office. I was 5 minutes early for my meeting with Superintendent Z. It was clear that something was wrong.

"Well, answer me, a**hole", the rant continued. And I recognized the voice of the superintendent as I wisely stayed away from the view of the doorway. "F**king dumbass. I mean really, you must be the worst damn employee on any golf course, anywhere". Not mincing any words here, clearly (and these are actual quotes).

"I told you and I've told you plenty of times before, that when you do that, it f**ks up the whole operation", louder this time. Words slashing through the air like verticut blades thrown like weapons in some kind of Turfhead Kung Fu movie. 

I stood there for another 15 minutes. Not really wanting to move, but also realizing that if this kept on, there might actually be blood. Only one voice carried the conversation with perhaps a mumble coming from the asschewee. A word maybe. A sentence, never. So finally I thought it best to walk back outside and wait for the ash of the eruption to fall inside whilst staying in the cool morning outside air. It didn't matter much. I could still hear the chewing of the fescue ass through the walls of the shop. Volcanos make a lot of noise.

A few moments later I was joined by the equipment manager and we didn't share any words. It was almost as, if we did, the door would burst open and the Tasmanian Super would whirl through the door, severing our limbs. Nope. Best to just listen. Another 6 minutes by my watch and the door opened and a red faced young man flew out, jumped on a cart and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

"Wilber, is that you out there?", Super Z barked. I answered something to the effect of a frog voice mating with a goat and was subsequently invited into the office. Great. Perhaps the move, I debated in my head, would be to just walk to the truck feigning sickness and call proclaiming I was on my way to the ER. Nope. Too late. Into the office I strode. Super Z was snorting a face-full of coffee and just took a moment and looked at me. 

"When you were growing grass, did you ever kill any assistant supers?", he asked and didn't wait for the answer as he went on to tell me about the galactic stupidity of his current Number One. Spock, he may not be. But at the same time, Super Z really isn't a Kirk. From my vantage point of the guy just beaming in, this Enterprise is kind of doomed.

Super Z and I had our chalk talk over his recent soil tests. It wasn't a bad meeting. It wasn't great, either. I felt myself contracted and sort of waiting for the shoe to fall. And it was in the moment that I realized that my sensors never did actually hear what the sin was that caused today's explosion. And guess what? I wasn't going to ask.

As I was leaving the property, the assistant flagged me down. He began to apologize for what I had heard and told me he was really embarrassed. I couldn't resist asking what caused the uproar and the answer was pretty interesting. Essentially, Mr. Assistant was spraying greens and had to go out of the dictated spray order, because one of the section guys was slow getting his first two greens mowed. Meant a little extra travel time to "back and forth" a bit to spray greens that were mowed. And the assistant didn't want to throw the section guy under the bus, so he took the abuse when something seemed out of order to Super Z.

"When you were growing grass, did you ever kill any assistant supers?", he asked and didn't wait for the answer as he went on to tell me about the galactic stupidity of his current Number One. Spock, he may not be. But at the same time, Super Z really isn't a Kirk.

I wanted to turn around and take the young squire and walk into the guy's office and mediate the whole thing. I mean really. What an unfortunate waste of energy. A little voice in my head reminded me that I don't work at Golf Club Z every day, so there could be some sides of the story yet untold. So the incident became blog fodder for me and Kirk and Spock can work out their "issues". 

As an assistant super, I got yelled at. It happened. And as a super, I yelled. It happened. Of course in each case, the superintendent was always right. Right? Not always. And we all know that. A little maturity on my part came with the realization that if I was going to be a good leader, I had to find a way to correct while being under control. Often that meant letting myself cool down for a period of time. And suddenly I had followers who respected me, but enjoyed my leadings and even my corrections.

So here is my question to you: Are you, when things don't go your way, a Turfhead Terrorist Monkey? And if you might be, do your explosions happen in a way that everyone would rather keep you calm than tell you the truth? Can you handle the truth? Can you mostly never hear yourself say, "I'm sorry, I was wrong"? 

If the questions above prompt a "yes", perhaps the answers as to why things really don't get done the way you want them to be done are more obvious than you thought. Yes, yes, yes, I know...it wasn't that way back in the day. Embrace the fact that we live in a different world today. Because that fact couldn't be more obvious.

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For the last week, I've been talking a ton about water. It's kind of how it goes this time of year and crossing all the climate, locations and turf types that I work with, there is a universal truth. Spring brings on irrigation.

A good thing would be to take a look at one of the more popular posts that I've made since being made into a blogger by Maestro McCormick. You can find it here. May be a good refresher and very refreshing! (I'm starting to channel Randy Wilson, is there a spray for this condition?).

Honestly, since writing that post, there seems to have been nothing but years of strange weather and abnormal weather events all over. But one thing rings true, Turfheads just want to water. It's like this box that just has to be checked, the nose that must be picked, the butt that must be... you get the picture.

The explanation of how Poa cannot check out in April or May if it needs to support the Ladies' 9-Hole Regional Golf and Bridge Festival Day in August was laid on me in all the expected forms.

The feedback over my admonitions of not watering or watering with flair and style befitting springtime has been overwhelmingly positive. A great email from a wise TurfWizard told me in detail how monitoring of moisture had delayed his initial irrigation by weeks and reduced the water used when irrigation had to occur by more than 30% with results that were nothing short of greatness. 

There were, as there always seem to be, a few communications telling me that I just don't get it. The explanation of how Poa cannot check out in April or May if it needs to support the Ladies' 9-Hole Regional Golf and Bridge Day in August was laid on me in all the expected forms. And that's where being a fear based tufhead is a bad thing because that kind of thinking leads to all kinds of Chicken Little management decisions and still, dead grass. Go figure.

Now, I am not saying that the Double Rainbow of Perfection will enter your life if you stay away from the pump station. But I am saying that spring is the perfect, and mostly safe time to really see what the plant actually needs and in most cases, it's way less than we think. 

Time to do some thinking (or not thinking) about Spring Irrigation.

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I'm a big fan of having the numbers before making the diagnosis. It just makes sense, really to try and eliminate guess work from a business that often fosters licking one's finger and sticking it in the air or throwing some grass blades in the wind to determine what shot to hit or application to make. We do bad things to ourselves with these actions.

But sometimes things are just too clear cut. Case in point, at a recent early morning meeting, I was asked to grab some soil samples to submit to the lab. Said Turfhead didn't have any soil bags, so we rebagged the samples at his desk, making sure to spill some material onto this desk to get the full turfhead desk effect. Later I'm sure someone would bring a quick coupler and lay it there to fully make the acceptable desk mix.

While rebagging, two green samples jumped out at me. I know this client and I know that the green on the left has been a source of difficult times. The one on the right, a solid citizen. The difference? Lefty is a new green, built out of the same materials as Righty, but just a youngster.

Look and color: completely different. Smell: not the same. Feel: not at all similar. Texture: same. And having done the physical analysis for construction of both of these greens, I know we didn't hit it in the lake with the greensmix. It's the same stuff.

So, common sense tells us a few things here. And the biggest thing is that something is up with biological development. Not to say that there isn't any for sample on the left. There is, or it wouldn't grow grass at all. But clearly there is a difference. And in the field, the green on the left has been the bad actor, not easy to irrigate, prone to some disease, saw insect activity when other greens did not and isn't as strong as it needs to be for traffic.

Off to the lab the samples go because while the desktop observations are valid, I'd like a little more data to see what's what. And the numbers, while predictable, were startling.

The young blonde sample shows up with .18% organic matter. It had more than that prior to planting. Ditzy. And thus the flighty characteristics and the tendency not to do what you want it to do.

The sample on the right, the experienced brunette, shows 1.22% organic matter. Not quite push up Cougar level, but certainly this one has been to the puppet show and knows how to attend the rock show or spend the evening in front of the TV watching Downton Abbey.

So the biggest mistake we could make now would be to treat our Blonde and our Brunette the same and expect the same results. Insanity. And the rest of the soil testing proves this, with the more experienced dance partner carrying minimum sufficiency levels of what's necessary and shucking off the rest. Blondie doesn't know what to do and in rescue mode, is hanging on to the good and the bad and therefore, wandering aimlessly around the club. Sand, after all is just rocks broken into small particles. It's parent material for soil. It wants to go through the process of maturation. And it will, one way or another. Best that we help it along by supporting the concept of air, water, light and organic matter needed for the entire plant growth system.

Sand, after all is just rocks broken into small particles. It's parent material for soil. It wants to go through the process of maturation.

The younger sample needs some carbon in the diet to feed and develop the system that will provide the end product of biological activity and degradation. Humus. Not too much, but enough that this green stops being a pain. The more experienced sample needs a few adjustments to hair and makeup, but is hanging pretty solid. If we treated them both the same, the problem child wouldn't come around and will always struggle. So, in this situation, addition of some carbon-based fertility and some work to remove some undesirable minerals (sodium and bicarbonate to start), will have the OM % on the rise and an overall energy structure supporting a dynamic life system.

A lot of people would look at this situation and really over think it. And the current velvet ropes outside the club have some people getting the wrong idea, that you can't or won't make a difference in all of this. Just apply Nitrogen, light fuse and get away.

Really? If that's true then why does the soil on the right look and act so different? A little bit of getting dirty enough to support biology got that soil to be a rock star in the first place. I'm pretty sure that we want life to get easier, and not more complicated.

(PS - I just want to thank everyone for the influx of monkey pictures sent lately. Good material. Although, Maestro McCormick told me in a meeting at the GIS that my days of Monkey Posting may be over, he's actually been inserting his own monkeys into my posts of late. Go figure.)

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After GIS insanity and then the Sierra Pacific Spring Symposium my plan was to disappear to Mexico for a deep breath before summer Turfhead grillage begins. I don't do well with time off. It's a language I don't really speak. So this trip was designed to take my head out of the game.

Week One was dropping into a small Mexican village known as a hippie escape. Yoga twice daily. Teaching what has become my new hobby, Energy and Bodywork in the evening. Minimal booze. Maximum sun.

Week Two a bit different. A cheap deal at a luxo coastal resort near a place called Barra Navidad. Still with the twice a day yoga. Exploring the Mexican coast and searching for perfect fish taco.

Isla Navidad Golf Club is here where I am, but like an old girlfriend, I made absolutely no arrangements to do anything turf related. In fact, making it a point to not even respond to any of the talk about post AM yoga class golf. And while I have better golf stories than most players, I'm not interested in telling them.  I didn't even offer to wrap a 5-iron around anyone's neck for telling their hole by hole account of a 110 shot round.

The invitation was something I couldn't pass up. An American, winter marinating in Mexican fun, had been joining the AM yoga group and was taking some people out on his 56-foot Power Cat mini yacht and I was invited to come along. Being a lover of anything with more than 800 horsepower with satnav and radar, I was stoked to ask about a million boating questions. Beginning with, "will you loan me your boat for my next vacation".

Arrival at the dock at the appointed time, finding the boat. Simple. And the welcome surprise, about a dozen caddies from Isla Navidad. As it turns out, the boat owner, a doctor of some reputation (ironically from just near where I live), was showing his appreciation and doing a booze cruise for the loopers, all Mexican locals.

Introductions. My Spanish isn't great but Agronomista, Una Vez Cuidadiero de Verde, seemed to work and this HierbaCabeza was understood to be part of the game for which provided the guys (and one gal) a living.

Meeting all the caddies, remembering names. A Modello in each hand like all of them. New Brothers (and sister).  Big smiles. Happy.

As El Doctore perfectly guides the big rig out of the marina, food was served. The popular item, Sushi from fresh caught tuna and snapper. One particular fellow who seemed to understand my Spanglish and I his Latinglish, lubed by a few beers began to talk golf. Him telling me about his 45 years of being a caddie in Mexico. Manuel. His vibrant energy overflowing as he told me about hanging doubles twice a day as a young boy. And his handicap, a 10. Right. Hold onto your wallet. I told him he'd have to give me a stroke a hole were we ever to tee it up.  Quizas Dos.

Shouts of excitement stopped the chest beating session. A pair of small grey whales had been spotted and the caddies all grabbed phones and cameras and headed for the bow. "Balena!!", was the cry as the pair played in front of the boat as if on cue as the entertainment interval.

In that moment I realized the special people that are involved in doing the work of golf are some of the greatest people I have ever met.  Watching them all joyfully take vids and pics of whales and each other made me cry joyful tears.

As one if the guys told me that none of the other rich people had ever done anything like this for them, he had a smile that would not come off his face. Beyond priceless.

The whales played with us for a while and then headed elsewhere. A Marlin Fin sighting caused new excitement. And so did the cervezas. My conversations with the caddies became easier with our level of blood alcohol rising. Talk of ball roll and dry vs wet and all the cool stuff of a conversation with those that spend every day on the course was easy.

Language or not. It was like I found my family. Mi Familia.  And of course the invites to come play someday, come drink tomorrow, come to my house for really fresh fish, etc poured in with genuine love and respect. Some of the gang had spent time green keeping so they understood. They knew that somehow we Turfheads have to unite.

Even when I work to stay away from The Golf,  The Golf seems to find me. And today I am more rich than yesterday because of a nice doctor, a really nice boat and some of the finest people God has ever created in the form of Mexican Caddies. You can't make this stuff up. Golf brings people together. It's time to remember that Para Me and Para Ti.

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It's been a crazy few weeks. 

GIS Sales Rodeo. The Resulting Post GIS Illness. Many Road Miles. Oh, and the Big One. 

That's right, the Big One. The Sierra Pacific Spring Symposium. Wherein the amazing organization that I work with puts on two amazing days of education, hang time and golf.

My marketing counter-part, Dean Kinney and I pretty much do this whole thing. Administratively we each look in the mirror and tell our assistants what to do. And our assistants speak back with the task list for us. And mostly the details get handled. Mostly.

When 130 people converge on any one place, they are going to have needs. And for the most part, those needs get met by our efforts to be overly prepared. Same goes with our Doctor speakers. I mean really, who never met a high maintenance PhD?

Seriously, this years speakers were flawless and needed very little. Even our keynote speaker, the esteemed head of Nicklaus Design agronomy, Jon Scott, required very little beyond the usual care and feeding. And his talk on The Sustainable Superintendent should be required for all Turfheads.

I never know what I'll actually really learn from others.

Yawn, Dave. Big deal. You put on a meeting. Well sure. That's true. It's not spectacular freestyle. And after 5 years, we ought to know how to do this.

So here is the point. You see, I never know what I'll actually learn from others. And this year, I uncluttered my mind a bit and really made a point out of listening to the amazing conversations of the people around me. It was like mining gold. I swear, Woodrow, the things that people say. The great and wonderful stories they tell. The things they have experienced.

Next time you are thinking that you might miss a Gathering of The Turfheads, think again. Because here are two truths.

One, you will miss out on some incredible conversation.

Two, somebody will definitely benefit from what you have to share.

You can't diminish either one of those facts unless you really think you can do it alone. I consider myself so very lucky. I was selected by the universe to sit amidst the Turfheads and receive. That's cool.

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