No Such Person as Bobby Jones

Robert Tyre Jones

Come Masters weekend, golf’s rank and file fans will be joined by millions of drop-bys.  They will look for a spare chair in the living room and ask who’s winning, what an eagle is, why anyone would wear that ridiculous get-up.  But most simply absorb the beauty of the golf course, and as they do, they fall silent and grow attentive.  A very few of them have little stories they can tell. Among the kibbitzers is my ex-father-in-law.  Never a golfer, he is however, a Georgia native, Atlanta born and bred.  In the ‘60s, as the South agonized its way through still more ... Full Story
Of Needles and Haystacks

Waiting for the ferry I watch Strangford Lough tighten and boil whitely through a last narrow chute.  Somewhere beyond a horizon made brief by sullen clouds, it spills into the Irish Sea.  Beyond the crossing sits the Portaferry quay and behind it a steep hill.  It is a sunless Monday morning in October. Full Story

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Looking For Signs

Snowing.  Again.  We live in our zip codes and take what we get. Up here on the mountain, winter is emphatic in cleaving golf into separate seasons: one forever gone, one way too far in the future.  There is last year, and next year.  Between them is now. If we didn’t strain for signs of the Full Story

  • Coming Up Silver
    Only a bigamist has as much to celebrate in 2011 as do I. This year I mark not one, but two, silver anniversaries. 
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Coming Up Silver

Only a bigamist has as much to celebrate in 2011 as do I. This year I mark not one, but two, silver anniversaries.  My golf clubs and my pickup both hit 25.  It’s a time to pause and reflect. The pickup is a 1986 Chevrolet C10, the line’s entry model.  It was cherry red when I bought it, but itâ Full Story