My feature on Bill Rodgers, in the May issue of Runner’s World, is online here.

For newcomers to the website, my essay on Tiger, from the April issue of Golf Digest, is here.

And the story on my family’s violent history on the golf course, from the December issue of Golf Digest, is here.

I have a 5,000-word profile of Bill Rodgers, four-time winner of the Boston and New York marathons, in the May issue of Runner’s World, on newsstands now.

I wrote that the shortest poem on record is “Fleas” and reads in its entirety: “Adam/Had ‘em.” G.A. points out that Ogden Nash wrote, “Further Reflections on Parsley,” which reads in its entirety: “Parsley/Is gharsley.” But why are these considered short poems?

I could write any number of shorter poems. “On Self-Loathing,” for instance: “I’m/Slime.”

Or “What I Was Told When Trying To Switch to An Aisle Seat”: “Screw/You.”

Or “Karol Wojtyla’s Lyrical Reply to Those Who Asked, ‘Are You By Chance a Cardinal?’”: “Nope/Pope.

And “Reader Reflections On My Short Verse”: “You/Blew.”

They say the shortest sentence in English is “I am” –  it is certainly the shortest Earth, Wind & Fire album title — and the longest sentence in English is “I do.” The shortest poem in English is called “Fleas” and it reads: “Adam/Had ‘em.” Hemingway wrote a six-word novel: “For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.” The Gettysburg Address was 246 words. Twain once wrote, “I didn’t have time to write a short letter so I’m writing a long one instead.”

Asked to write a two-page short story on a two-day deadline, Twain is said to have telegrammed back: “NO CAN DO 2 PAGES 2 DAYS. CAN DO 30 PAGES 2 DAYS. NEED 30 DAYS TO DO 2 PAGES.” Or so reported the New York Times in a piece on the death of telegram-writing. And though that particular telegram sounds to me less like Mark Twain than Cookie Monster, the point remains: Writing short — while writing well — is difficult.

My wife is now on Twitter — here — sending 140-word dispatches from the road while broadcasting basketball games. The referee’s whistle was not the only thing tweeting during the SEC women’s championship game last night in Little Rock, Arkansas.

To read her dispatches, I had to get my own account, which is here. I thought writing 800-word columns was a ship-in-a-bottle challenge. Writing 140-character columns ups — or perhaps downs — the ante.

After reading that Bill Gates won’t let his children have iPods or iPhones, I thought of my own childhood Scotch problem. My father made his living selling Scotch brand recording tape. Other brands were forbidden in our house and the embargo was strictly enforced. If a friend recorded his Kool & the Gang album and gave me a copy, I prayed that copy was not on a Maxell or TDK cassette. If it was on a competing brand, and my desire to hear “Too Hot” overcame my (prodigious) fear of reprisal, then I kept that tape hidden as if it were heroin. At age 12, I would have rather been caught with a case of actual Scotch than a cassette that was not Scotch.

Many of my friends had similar embargoes, depending on where their fathers worked: They could only shop at Red Owl or they couldn’t ride in a Ford or they were made to start drinking Grain Belt in middle school. Even now, my sister-in-law who works for Adidas will chastise me for wearing a competitor’s logo in my own house. My own children, meanwhile, are free to do as they please, with one exception: They’re not allowed to read anything that I haven’t written.

My friend Mike McCollow, studio analyst for Minnesota Timberwolves games on FSN, breaks down the basketball scene from “Teen Wolf,” with help from our mutual friend Ope:

Mike writes:

1. Has anybody ever played against a team wearing tight-fitting European discus-thrower singlets? The opposing team antihero looks like the unholy offspring of Annabella Sciorra and Greta Scacchi.

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2. Why didn’t rival teams take the ball out of the hoop and push it down court and get wide open layups every time? It took Wolf’s team 25 seconds to get back on D after every basket.

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3. What the hell kind of game plan did Wolf’s coach have when the very first time down the floor in their big game the first entry pass goes to John Goodman Jr. and not a single player moves after that? A confused team looks over to coach who shrugs and says “What the hell? Shoot it!” Really? You couldn’t have at least scripted one play? Perhaps a high pick-and-roll for Wolf to go to his right and crotch a layup that somehow crawls up the rim and goes in, which is how he scored 95% of his points over 2 seasons and 2 movies?

To this point, Ope adds:

Since Wolf is only 5′2″, it’s surprising how successful he was going inside.

I went to Marquette. Why? Because I liked their basketball uniforms in the 1970s, as I explain to CrackedSidewalks.com, the Marquette basketball website.

Here are my Ten Reasons To Celebrate Tiger’s Return, from the April issue of Golf Digest.

My four-year-old daughter, who grows half an inch a month (and thinks every one else does for the duration of their lives),  said after school: “Dad, did you know there’s a president who’s two hundred years old? He must be as tall as the stars.” And I conjured an image of the crescent moon, bearded and be-warted, looking like Lincoln in profile.

Already, it’s been a long February of cabin fever – of log cabin fever — and I’m going a little stir crazy. My driveway, encrusted in ice and heavily salted, looks like the world’s largest margarita. And it’s every bit as dangerous. While gift-wrapping my garbage at the curb the other day — tying the cardboard in ribbon, alphabetizing my bottles, arranging the  newspapers in chronological order per city instructions — I slipped and tore up my hand and ankle. The cliche, it turns out, is exactly right: The road salt in my wounds was precisely like salt in my wounds.

So I literally can’t wait until the arrival of spring. This afternoon I’ll stretch a beach towel over my head and laptop, shading the screen from the sun, and write outdoors on the deck, all the while looking like Ed Hochuli going under the hood at Giants Stadium.

I’ll shoot a few Js in the driveway with a basketball so flat that it hits the front rim and sticks there, like a lemon wedge on a glass of lemonade.

And then I’ll come back in and warm my hands, content in the knowledge that spring is now closer by — you’ve got to be kidding me — three full minutes.