Lee Geiger

Money’s the cheapest thing.

Liberty and freedom is the most expensive.

Bill Cunningham

I’ve had a few notable birthday celebrations during my 50-odd years of circling around the sun. My tenth birthday was memorable because I got kicked out of Disneyland. Seems security wasn’t too thrilled with my cake and ice cream gang after one of my buddies tried to pilfer a leather coin purse from a gift store in Frontierland. Sweet sixteen was special because my Mom gave me exactly what I wanted, a new tape deck for my orange VW Bug. Only she asked one of my friends to buy it, and they punked me by buying a clunky 8-track system instead of a supercool cassette deck. Turning twenty-one was fun…I think. And in more recent times my fiftieth was momentous because two ladies from my neighborhood decided it wouldn’t be right if they didn’t place a giant sign on my lawn proclaiming that my age for the next decade would feature a 5-handle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

But this last birthday celebration was special for two reasons. One, I told everyone who asked that I would be turning 58. This numeric fact actually made me happy because, A) I was now only eighteen months away from being able to tap into my 401-k, and B) I was two years away from qualifying for the senior citizen discount at Denny’s. However, it was only last week that I realized I had messed up, that I had flipped the calendar to “only” 57 years of age. So I guess that’s a good thing…sort of.

As for the second reason…keep on reading.

I woke up that morning at Caves Valley Golf Club in Owings Mills, Maryland. As many of you know, I was a Caves Valley member a couple of bull markets ago, and an act of charity gave me the opportunity to return to what is for me the happiest place on earth. Caves is known for having an assemblage of famous and noteworthy members, including many high-ranking politicians, numerous overpaid CEO’s, and a few local sports celebrities (which begs the question as to WHY I was ever allowed to wear the club’s hallowed red jacket). As I waited in line for my scrambled eggs, I turned to my left and noticed bestselling author Tom Friedman, who also happens to be my favorite New York Times columnist because, quite frankly, he gets it. I said hello and we proceed to have a short but worthwhile discussion about the state of our upcoming presidential election. After we both agreed that we’d be better off being hung upside down and having our fingernails removed than having to live through a Trump Administration, we returned to our respective tables where Tom introduced me to his breakfast and golf buddy…former New York mayor and Wall Street icon Michael Bloomberg. Mr. Bloomberg didn’t bother to make eye contact with me, and he shook my hand as though I had the plague. But I was thrilled nonetheless.

Fat, fed and fulfilled, I made my way out to the practice putting green to work on my yips. It wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning and already the sweltering mid-Atlantic heat and humidity made my shirt look like I had flunked lactation class. As I made my way back to my room to change shirts I heard a familiar voice emanating from the first tee, a sound I hear practically on a daily basis. It was none other than Tony Kornheiser, co-host of ESPN’s mega-popular “Pardon The Interruption” show, as well as a podcast I listen too frequently aptly named “The Tony Kornheiser Show.” After Tony teed off I lobbed in his direction a quiet cry of “Le Chesserie,” which means nothing to you unless you’re a regular listener to his podcast. Tony smiled and waved in my direction, wondering why such an uncouth gnome would be allowed to roam the sacred grounds of Caves Valley.

Three celebrity sightings in a single morning. Not bad. But signs began to appear indicating the day would only get better.

Maybe it was the bomb sniffing dogs suddenly poking around the golf carts. Or the snipers in bulletproof vests waving metal-detector wands across the caddy shack. Or the ripped Secret Service agents in golf gear wearing dark sunglasses and packing heat instead of golf clubs.

I would soon find my answer. That day’s tee sheet listed my name next to the 1:06pm starting time from Tee #1. Teeing off at 1:06 from Tee #10 was a Caves Valley member named Kevin Plank, who happens to be the founder and CEO of Under Armour. Underneath his name was his guest for the day. It said simply…

“POTUS.”

Yes, that POTUS. A 25-vehicle escort featuring an armada of Black Cadillac Escalades, SWAT vans and an ambulance signaled the president’s arrival. The entire back nine of the golf course had been cleared for his pleasure, giving President Obama free range to hit his ball whenever and wherever he wanted. At one point, after a 90-minute lightning delay, I found myself standing near the club’s pro shop, waiting for the president’s entourage of a dozen or so golf carts to make its way from the eighteenth hole to the first hole. It was at this point where President Obama, his rail-thin legs sprouting from his khaki golf shorts, drove his golf cart (yes, he drove) within twenty feet of me. I waved and said “Well done, well done,” and he returned the greeting, looking directly at me saying, “thanks, fellas, I appreciate it.”

Game. Set. Match.

Whether you agree or disagree with the man, I believe you have to respect the office of the President of the United States. The fact I played the same golf course on the same day as the most powerful man on earth, and got within shouting distance of him in a non-political setting, is something I will never, ever forget.

Oh yeah, and I shot an 86.