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While in Bhutan,
I had time to write at the end of every day. At the end of 4
months, I had enough for a book, at least in volume.
Currently, I am working with an editor to make it a
marketable entity; in the next months, chapters of the
original manuscript will be posted here.
I remember the day, in fact the moment, I got hooked on
golf. It was in Rhode Island on a summer day; I was an 8
year old, caddying for my Uncle John. It was the first time
I had ever set foot upon a golf course, although I had been
whacking a ball around the back 40 of Grandpa’s farm since I
could walk.
My job on that first hole was learning where to stand, where
to walk, and what (not) to say. I put clubs back in the bag,
held the flag, and generally kept out of the way. Following
the flight of the ball was impossible, as John was a good
player, literally hitting it out of sight, to my untrained
eye.
The second tee on the West Warwick Country Club is elevated,
the green waiting 300 yards below, guarded by water. I
happened to be standing directly behind Uncle, as he
attempted to drive one over the hazard. I still remember the
sound, 50 some years later. Persimmon compressing balata is
a sound that stays with you a long time.
But what a sight! The ball took off like nothing I had ever
seen, climbing, floating, drifting, seemingly a dot painted
in the sky. I must have been quite a sight, mouth hanging
open, my mind ejected into space along with that Spaulding
Dot. In hindsight, I also glimpsed in that moment that there
were other states-of-mind than the one I had become accustom
to. This was also the first step on my Buddhist path.
That was the moment, the karmic juncture, when my entire
life was laid out in front of me. I would from that point
on, dedicate my life to recreating that flight, both of ball
and mind. I would become a meditator and a golf
professional.
Shortly after the out-of-body experience with John, I began
to nag my parents to take me to the course, and every
birthday and Christmas asked for golf equipment. I began to
play every chance I got.
For practice, I would walk a few miles after school, with a
5 iron and as many balls as I could scrounge up, to the
local cemetery.
Two graves were located about 150 yards apart, in a separate
field that was left alone by the graveyard staff. My quest
was to hit the ball from grave to grave. I remember vividly
the day I succeeded in hitting up and back those 150 yards.
My joy was so overpowering it was probably felt by the two
stiffs lying under my targets. Younger brother Paul got the
`golf bug’ at the same time. And so we played, and played,
and played.
My game began to evolve through high school. I was named
most valuable player on my team, and became a very good
ball-striker, thanks to my time spent with Bill Strausbaugh,
first in a succession of fortunate meetings with
extraordinary individuals. Bill was the long time head
professional at Colombia Country Club, in Maryland. He was
later named PGA Teacher of the Year, and in an even bigger
honor, had an ongoing yearly national award named after him.
Established in 1979, The Bill Strausbaugh Award is presented
to those PGA members who by their day-to-day efforts have
distinguished themselves in the field of club relations,
causing dramatic improvements in employment conditions in
their local Section and/or the PGA of America.
I began taking lessons from him in the mid 1960’s. A second
life changing moment occurred during an early lesson.
Because of limited space, the practice tee aimed over one of
the holes, and we had to stop while golfers played through.
During the breaks we would chat; Bill was a very engaging
conversationalist, even to a gangly 16 year old. Again, the
defining moment was a thought that hit me without any
hesitation attached. `I want to be like him. I want to teach
golf to people’.
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