Farewell to a fairway friend

This column is about somebody you probably don't know, and might not even care about.

That's OK. You are excused for the week. This is about something important to me.

George Burger died this month of complications from bacterial meningitis. He was 50 years old. George was a friend of mine. He worked for the PGA Tour as one of Tim Finchem's right-hand men, serving most recently as the point man for the Tour's new FedEx Cup Playoffs system.

I got to know George when he was the Tournament Director for the Presidents Cup golf tournament in the Washington D.C. area. He was also Club President of the (beyond magnificent) Robert Trent Jones Golf Club in Manassas, VA.

George Burger and I did not go way back. No, we went back only about four years. Still, I felt like I had known him my whole life.

George had that way about him.

George and I did not spend a lot of time together away from the golf course. Actually, we never spent any time away from the golf course. Still, he was like a trusted friend every time we teed it up.

George had that way about him.

The heart-stopping news that came to me via a headline in the paper was even more stunning because I literally was thinking about picking up the phone and calling him.

I've never had somebody on my "To Do" list pass away suddenly. Have you?

I got my first invite to play Robert Trent Jones Club (aka RTJ) when George was working with our radio station on covering the 2003 matches. When the invite to play was extended, I tried to suppress an urge to whoop like I had just won the lottery. The course is quite simply a masterpiece.

One invite led to another and every time he had me as his guest, I anticipated the experience like a 10-year-old kid at Christmas. Over the course of perhaps 10 or 12 rounds, I never once lost my awe and wonder at playing there.

I also quickly came to cherish George's company on the links. George was a world-class conversationalist. Neither impressed with his own success (although he had every right to be) nor oblivious to that of his guest (proven by his often insightful questions about my business) George was totally in his element.

Every round we played, we always had the option of either taking a cart, or hiring caddies. Naturally, I always asked for the caddies, since nothing compares to a round with a legitimate looper at your side. Those long walks between shots, gave us many hours to traverse a world full of obscure topics.

My wife sometimes asks what the guys and I "talked about" while on the course. I usually say: "Um, nothing." Because it usually is mindless banter, spliced in with bragging and expletives.

Not with George. We talked about everything, and it was effortless.

George was a walking library of fascinating life experience. He could tell stories about what it takes to get somebody elected in Louisiana politics (answer: yeah, all of that and some other stuff you wouldn't believe), or why a certain weapons system the Pentagon wanted had absolutely zero chance of being approved.

George had a huge shag-bag of golf stories too, and most of them had the added value of actually being true. One round, he began spinning a lengthy yarn about how he tried to get renowned Titleist wedge-maker Bob Vokey to make him some lefty wedges to his preferred specs. After a lengthy dinner and too many glasses of wine, George said he feared his chances were shot when at the end of the dinner Vokey said: "Oh, by the way, George, you've been calling me ‘Paul' all night long. I'd really prefer it if you call me ‘Bob.' "

Oops.

My bullshit sensors were going off like mad about this one - George was too smooth, too composed, I thought, for such a gaffe.

Then he showed me his sand wedge. Left-handed Vokey 56-degree, with a stamp next to the Titleist logo that read: "F.U.G.B." He got his wedges anyway. Pure George.

I'd like to say that George was a great humanitarian, saved a child while drowning, taught Sunday school to inner-city kids or any of those other ultra-noble accolades often cited in remembrance of the departed.

Sorry, but I didn't know that George.

All I knew was a guy who positively loved golf and life. He was a consummate gentleman to everybody we played with, the caddies and the staff. He put me so at ease, that on several occasions at this world championship caliber venue, I shot some of the best rounds of the year.

George had lots of game too. He hit a tall, booming tee ball, usually with a slight power draw. He putted like a thief, especially on slick greens. These are sort of stupid things that non-golfers wonder: "And how is that important?"

(Eh, you have to be a golfer to understand. I'd want that stuff mentioned, too.)

They say that you should "live every day like it is your last" and to spend "as much time as you can with friends and family."

It's trite. It's clichéd. It's true.

I tried to enlist George to come along on one of my golf trips over the years because it was one of the few ways I could possibly repay him for his hospitality. I had planned to take my radio show to Jacksonville for the newly revamped TPC in May.

So many plans, so many good intentions.

About a week after I heard of George's passing, I got the stomach to "Google" some stories about his death. I wanted and needed to read more.

Yet it was depressing to find mostly just AP copy, repeated from one website to another.

That's why I decided I needed to take this moment to offer a small Internet message in a bottle about how George Burger intersected my life. Perhaps others who knew him better will find this column, too, when they take a quiet moment to process their grief by logging on to their computers.

If George was still with us, he'd be the first guy to share a laugh about him screwing me out of a hook-up at such a great course like RTJ. Truth is, getting on a nice golf course is easy and I'm sure I could work other angles.

But, I'm not even sure I would have the enthusiasm to play RTJ without him, since it was never really about the course, it was about the company. I've played lots of nice golf courses. I've only met one George Burger.