As I pondered my words for this week, I looked at writing about a recent stay in Downtown Los Angeles and the change it’s undergone this past year. I wrote notes on the change of the dynamic in that area and the future it holds. And then Phil Mickelson happened and that piece is set aside for another week.

For those of you not sports inclined, Phil Mickelson is arguably one of the top ten golfers of all-time and the second best golfer of his generation (Tiger Woods has a vice grip on number one) and my personal favorite. I started following Phil thirty years ago when I was still green with youth and he wasn’t much older. I’ve rooted for him through the years much as I have my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers. And like my beloved team, Phil has let me down. Often. More than often. His brilliance has often been offset by incredibly dumb decisions and mistakes.

And yet, he would win often, as well.

I got my dad to become a Mickelson fan, much in the fashion that he made me a Dodger fan (yes, I had a brief dalliance with the New York Yankees when I was four but decided it would be better for the family if I was a Dodger fan. True story.). We’ve spent the better part of three decades rooting and suffering for Phil. Being a fan is a beautiful exercise in futility wedged by the occasional glimpse of absolute joy. Watching the Dodgers win a title for the first time in thirty-odd years provided such a moment of exultation for me and my 88-year old dad that I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that exact excitement again.

But this weekend, at the age of 50, Phil Mickelson won the PGA Championship, a major championship. For those of you who don’t know, don’t care and don’t follow, Phil’s win is a tip of the cap to longevity and perseverance and the attitude and effort to Not go gently into that good night.

As the tournament and final round played out, and each subsequent event occurred, Phil played as he’s played these many years, creating drama where there should be none and making miracles happen when the mundane would suffice. And as he gave Father Time a swift punch in the jaw, I smiled for his win. I saw an understanding that gaining age and getting older isn’t just a battle against time but a recognition that there are still things to do and accomplish. And I’m all for that.

As we stare into the dim hallway toward the darkest night, it’s a grand thought to strive for what we have not achieved and reach out for that elusive ring. Rolando wrote his first novel at the age of 85; who am I to give up goals and dreams at half that age. It’s time for me, you, us to all go out and win our own championship. Why sip from the cup when we can drink from the river? And that’s what I intend to do.