Golf Journeys: More Than Just the Scorecard
Look, golf. It’s easy to get caught up in the numbers. The score. The handicap. The bloody stats. But that’s not the whole story. Not even close. The real game, the stuff that sticks with you, happens way off the fairways. It’s about the places golf takes you. The people you bump into. The sheer, unexpected ride of it all. Forget the birdies and bogeys for a minute. Let’s talk about the damn adventure.
The Early Days: Figuring It Out
Starting out, you’re just trying not to embarrass yourself. Back in the day, when I first started writing about golf, I was 25. Fresh out of college. Living at my parents’ place. Didn’t really know what I was doing. Not as a caddie, not as a writer. Just… winging it. It’s a bit like that first book I wrote, “The Green Road Home.” Came out when I was 26. Forty years ago now. Crazy. That first copy showing up… felt surreal. I had no clue. But that’s kind of my deal, I guess. Puzzling through. Asking questions. Looking around. Like some damn detective. That’s the gig. And honestly? Can’t think of anything more fun.
You hear about those early years after college. Susan Orlean talks about it in her book “Joyride.” Those first jobs, first loves, first big discoveries. For some people, it’s not a thing. Doesn’t compute. But for others? It screams. It screamed at me. Graduated in ’82. Moved to Martha’s Vineyard to be a reporter. Caddied on the pro tour in ’85. Book came out in ’86. Then got hired by The Philadelphia Inquirer as a high school sports guy. Life in the typing trade. My life. Taking off. “Joyride.” Good title.
Newsrooms, Caddies, and the Smell of the Game
Newsrooms. That’s where I spent my time. Outside of press tents and boxes, yeah, but mostly newsrooms. Good places to shoot Nerf basketball from a swivel chair. Or bet on imaginary Jeopardy! Everyone at The Inquirer knew the story about Gene Roberts, the editor. Back when he was a cub reporter in North Carolina. His boss was blind. Gene would read him his stories. And the boss would say, “I can’t see it — make me see.” That stuck. Any reporter could run with that.
Then there’s Red Smith. Legendary sports columnist. He said, “I like to get where the cabbage is cooking and catch the scents.” Sight. Smell. That’s your reporter’s toolkit. Along with hearing, touch, taste. You gotta have empathy. Gotta be curious. That’s non-negotiable. When I was trying to get hired, Roberts told his deputy, “I like the way he got around the country on the cheap, doing that caddying thing.” Yeah. People Express. Off-peak flights. That was my ticket to the big leagues.
Remember that old Dartmouth greeting? “The places you’ll go!” “The people you’ll meet!” They were onto something. The people I met. Fast. At the Vineyard Gazette. At The Inquirer. On the golf tour. Almost felt unfair. On the Vineyard, Toni Smith Giamatti. Smart. Encouraging. At The Inquirer, I wrote about this skier, Wesley Wilson. Poetry lover. Nearly 90. His dad was born into slavery. On the golf tour? Billy Britton. Mike Donald. Brad Faxon. Real golfers. Sam “Killer” Foy. Bruce Edwards. Caddies. Great caddies. Chuck Will. Golf director for CBS. So many others. Wouldn’t trade that first half-decade after college for anything. Not a damn thing.
The New Yorker and the Lark
Summer of ’85. Got a rejection letter from The New Yorker. Standard stuff. Except… there was an addendum. William Shawn, the editor. Invited me to his office next time I was in New York. Shawn. A word god. His son, Wallace, the actor in “My Dinner with Andre.” Anyway, I went. Hot summer day. We were both in suits. I told him I’d been caddying on the tour, planning a book. He asked if he could give advice. Just asked. “Celebrate the lark,” he said. He knew golf from editing Herb Wind. He was sizing me up. Pure intuition.
Back then, 1985, the caddie yards on the PGA Tour? Dominated by traveling lifers from the South. Many of them Black. They brought so much color, language, culture to the Tour. Not many English majors with typewriter dreams from the Northeast. Herb Wind’s office was on the 18th floor. Shawn’s was one floor up. Met Herb in ’86. Brought him my manuscript. Hoping for a blurb. He had a framed letter from Bing Crosby on his wall. Later that year, met my future wife. Dinner party. Her boyfriend played hockey. Sent her a book soon after. You can guess which one.
The Tour: Gypsies and Survival
The PGA Tour I knew in ’85. Rich. In every way. Today? It’s different. Not really a tour anymore. Not for decades. The paydays are insane. No reason for anyone – player, fan, caddie – to care about the money list. Used to be everything. Guys roamed. Players. Caddies. Windblown. Roaming. Raymond Floyd nailed it: “We were gypsies.” And he was a star. The Tour was a place to test your survival instincts. Cutthroat. Brutal. On the course. In the caddie yards. Players were self-reliant. Caddies? Con men, in the best way. Giving players the confidence they needed. “Nothing but driver, babe.” You were trying to win. Top 10. Make cuts. Just “stay out.” Going home wasn’t an option. Unless you had a clear path back. The Tour was fair. Intoxicating. Merciless. But then… random acts of kindness. They softened the whole damn thing. Couldn’t see it then. But now? Forty years later? Yeah. Small kindnesses. Like a protective coating. Softening the sharp edges. Mike Donald next to Bill Britton. Brad Faxon next to Tom Kite. Pointing out swing flaws. Little things.
“Try flexing that right knee a hair more.”
“A swing.”
“That’s it.”
Now? Players are CEOs of their own little corporations. Swing coach watching every shot. Caddie recording on an iPhone. It’s a whole different ballgame.
Caddies: Legends and Mentors
Regular caddies? Less of a thing in ’85. Unless you were at the top of the money list. Tom Kite had Mike Carrick. Tom Watson had Bruce Edwards. Hale Irwin had Killer. Brad Faxon? No regular guy. Bill Britton. Mike Donald. Same. Killer. A legend. From Houston. Former boxer. A gent. First week, ’85, we just nodded. Second week, we talked. Kept talking. Through ’85 and beyond. He always had time. For me. For anyone. Pointed me to the best breakfast buffets. Reliable hotels. Small kindnesses. When you need them most? Huge. Reading my book again recently… saw that Killer and I had dinner together at the ’85 B.C. Open. Don’t remember the meal. Probably nothing fancy. But just knowing we broke bread? Tickles me. Met a guy a few years back. Old Boston club member. Knew Killer when Killer was a caddie at Houston Country Club. The guy was a rich-kid junior member. “Killer raised me,” he said. That’s how you hear it sometimes. “Grew me up.” Southern thing. Used to be common on Tour. The ’80s Tour? Still very Southern. Texan, too. Players. Tournament spots. Curtis Strange. Lanny Wadkins. Payne Stewart. Ben Crenshaw. Hubert Green. Keith Fergus. Bill Rogers. The list goes on.
The Tour had glitz, sure. The majors. Pebble Beach. Doral. The Memorial. Jack Nicklaus there. But the real Tour? For the players and caddies just trying to hang on? That was the South. If you needed to keep your card? You needed good weeks in Columbus. San Antonio. Pensacola. Ray Floyd. Big Jack? Off hunting. Fishing. You had a chance. Maybe. Every tournament ended with payouts. Then a fresh money list. Shots played. Money earned.
Vegas, Amateurs, and Lasting Connections
The 1985 Panasonic Las Vegas Invitational. Purse? $950,000. Biggest in America that year. Curtis Strange won. Took home $171,000. Five rounds. Multiple courses. Rich amateurs playing alongside the pros. Something tacky about Vegas. Seedy backdrop. Made it… fun. Stakes. Adventure. Amateurs rolling up in stretch limos. Slot machines. Dive bars. Check-cashing places. Harsh lights. Late hours. I caddied there for an amateur. Lee Roy Pearson III. Oil prospector. From Ranger, Texas. He’s the star of chapter four: “The Two-Fisted Golfer.” Met him in the parking lot of the Las Vegas Country Club. Killer told me where to go. Looking for work.
Came home from the Masters this year. Another season started. Wrote to Lee Roy. A week later, got a letter back. Two pages. Handwritten. On stationery with “L.R. Pearson” stamped on top. Here’s about half of it:
“Michael My Boy,
It was so good to hear from you. It has been 39 years since we met. I still remember that you went after my brother-in-law, Jim Adams, first. What a mistake that would have been. Your CAREER would never have been the same without me.
I was always known as a pretty good golfer all throughout West Texas. I wasn’t a constant champion but I did win my share. But after your book came out I became A LEGEND. My wife swears that the main character (Roy) in the movie “Tin Cup” was based on my chapter in your book. What do you think?
I remember back in Las Vegas one day I asked you what you did at night after the round. You said you just went back to the room and wrote down things that happened to you that day. I thought that was the dumbest thing I had ever heard. But after the book came out it suddenly all made sense.
Things are OK here in Ranger + Eastland. I have my cattle and of course still have some oil. I’m 75 years old and can still shoot my age (not every time). If I am ever in Philadelphia I will call you and we will play. By the same token, if you are ever in Fort Worth or Dallas, call me and I will be there. It’s just 85 miles.
It was great to hear from you, Michael. You made my day.”
With some distance, I see it now. Lee Roy’s letter. It captures that old campus greeting. The places you’ll go. The people you’ll meet. Hope the book does too. It does for me. I got myself from New Orleans to a parking lot in Las Vegas. Lee Roy got himself there, too. He played. I carried his massive golf bag for a week. Wrote about it. Lee Roy in Vegas. Did my best. That was 40 years ago. In a way, we’ve been together ever since. Me and him. Dateline: LAS VEGAS.
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