NOT BAD

We’ve become uncomfortable with ordinary

Volume 92, September 19, 2026

HEY! I NEED FIVE SECONDS OF YOUR TIME

I know how many people receive Webber’s Whipping Post, but I’ve been wondering how many of you actually read the darn thing.

So PLEASE, take a measly five seconds and tell me. Okay...pretty please?

Welcome to Webber's Whipping Post.

This week's edition contains one of my commentaries that appeared in the Chicago Tribune, a stop off at Wrigley Field, a nice video of Eric Clapton, and of course, Twain ends the show.

NOT BAD

NOTE - THIS COMMENTARY WAS ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE

Before he passed away, I played a lot of golf with my father. I’ll never forget the day we were playing the first hole at the Kankakee Country Club. I faced a long putt. The ball tracked perfectly toward the cup but stopped a foot or two short.

As I walked toward it, I looked over at him.

“Good?” I asked.

He smiled with that familiar twinkle in his eye.

“Not bad.”

Like many fathers and sons, we occasionally communicated in different languages. I took his response as a rebuke. He wasn’t going to give me the second putt, as golfers often do. In my mind, “not bad” wasn’t exactly praise.

I remember thinking that if there was ever a time for a little enthusiasm, this was it. I’d hit exactly the putt I’d intended, straight at the cup from the opposite side of the green. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t an accident. It was one of those shots golfers remember long after the scorecard has been thrown away. If only it had rolled another eighteen inches.

Years later, it dawned on me that Dad wasn’t criticizing me at all. He was simply evaluating the shot for what it was. According to the rules of golf, the ball wasn’t in the hole yet. There was still work to do.

It wasn’t bad.

Perhaps that’s where most of life is lived, somewhere between making the putt and missing it.

Golf has a funny way of imitating life. On some extremely rare days I make every putt I look at. Other days I can’t make a two-footer. (Yes, you read that right. Move on.) But most days fall somewhere in between.

The same is true of almost everything that matters. Marriage isn’t wonderful every day, nor is it miserable. Raising children isn’t one endless Disney movie, nor is it constant chaos. Businesses have good months and lean months. Friendships ebb and flow. Some endure for a lifetime; others quietly come and go. Most of life simply unfolds in the ordinary moments.

Dad belonged to a generation that measured success differently. They had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, Korea and Vietnam. They believed work was honorable, promises mattered, debts were meant to be repaid, and not every day had to be extraordinary to be worthwhile.

He wasn’t a man who handed out compliments easily. If something pleased him, you usually knew it because he nodded his head or gave the slightest smile. Looking back now, I realize praise wasn’t scarce because he lacked affection. It was scarce because, in his generation, words carried weight. When he spoke them, he meant them.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that everything must be either magnificent or catastrophic. I suspect the media has played a role in that, but that’s a rant for another day.

Every movie doesn’t have to be the greatest ever made or a complete waste of time. Every vacation doesn’t have to be unforgettable. Every president isn’t destined to save or destroy America. Every disagreement now becomes a crisis. Every success demands a standing ovation, and every failure becomes a tragedy.

Life simply doesn’t work that way.

We’ve become uncomfortable with ordinary. Social media teaches us that every meal should be photographed, every child’s achievement deserves applause, every sunset should be breathtaking, and every opinion must become an argument. Somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten that ordinary isn’t something to escape. It’s where most of life actually happens.

The older I get, the more I appreciate ordinary days. They’re usually the ones that make up a good life.

Most days are just...not bad.

Looking back, Dad probably forgot that conversation before we reached the next tee. He’s been gone for more than ten years now, but I’ve never forgotten it. Funny how two simple words spoken beside a golf green can stay with a son for the rest of his life.

I used to think Dad was talking about a putt.

Now I think he was talking about life.

The older I get, the more I think he was right.

Not bad.

Also available at your favorite internet book provider.

EVERYTHING YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT WRIGLEY FIELD*

* But Were Too Busy Watching the Cubs to Ask

There are baseball parks, and then there is Wrigley Field.

For more than a century, the old ballpark at Clark and Addison has survived changing owners, changing names, expansions, renovations, football games, night baseball, countless heartbreaks and, finally, a World Series championship.

Wrigley Field opened in 1914 as Weeghman Park, built for the Chicago Whales of the Federal League. The Cubs didn’t arrive until 1916, after Charles Weeghman purchased the Cubs and moved them from the West Side Grounds. Today, Wrigley is the second-oldest ballpark in Major League Baseball, trailing only Boston’s Fenway Park. Its current capacity is 41,649.

The park became Cubs Park around 1920 after the Wrigley family took control and was officially named Wrigley Field in 1926 in honor of Cubs owner William Wrigley Jr.

In the early 1920s, workers cut portions of the grandstand apart and moved them to enlarge the ballpark. In 1937 the bleachers were rebuilt, the famous center-field scoreboard was erected and ivy appeared on the outfield walls.

Amazingly, no batted baseball has ever struck the center-field scoreboard.

While virtually every other major-league stadium embraced night baseball, Wrigley stubbornly remained a daytime ballpark. Lights weren’t installed until 1988, making the Cubs the last major-league team to add them. Naturally, the first scheduled night game, on August 8 against Philadelphia, was rained out before becoming official. The first official night game came the following evening, when the Cubs defeated the Mets 6–4.

The Chicago Bears played at Wrigley from 1921 through 1970, squeezing a football field into a stadium designed for baseball. The scoreboard was converted on Bears game days to display downs, yards to go and quarters.

Wrigley has changed considerably since Weeghman Park opened in 1914. Video boards have arrived. Luxury clubs have been added. The neighborhood has changed. The ballpark underwent a massive modernization project.

Yet somehow, when you walk through the entrance at Clark and Addison and see the ivy, the bleachers and that hand-operated scoreboard, it still feels like Wrigley Field.

Presence of the Lord by Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood.

(with Doyle Bramhall and Derek Trucks.)

© 2026 Black Mountain – Independent Publishing

All rights reserved.

Opinions expressed are those of the respective authors and guest contributors and do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher. Brief quotations may be used with attribution.

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