Golf's Unseen Paths: How the Game Takes You Places You Never Expected
Look, golf. It’s more than just whacking a ball around a manicured lawn, right? It’s easy to get stuck on the scorecard, the birdies, the bogeys. But sometimes, man, this game… it pulls you sideways. It throws you into situations, introduces you to people, and sends you down roads you never saw coming. The places golf can take you? Way beyond the 18th green and that awkward post-round drink. It’s about the whole damn journey.
I remember writing my first book, “The Green Road Home.” I was barely out of college, living back in my parents’ place. Felt like I had no clue what I was doing, not as a caddie, definitely not as a writer. But you soak it up, you know? You just kind of… do it. That was back in ’86. Now, forty years later, there’s a new edition out. Wild, right?
The Reporter's Hustle: Puzzling Through It All
When that first copy landed on my doorstep, forty years ago, I was kind of floored. Didn’t know squat about caddying. Didn’t know much about writing either, to be honest. But that’s the gig, isn’t it? As a reporter, my whole damn life has been about puzzling through things. Ask questions, look around, try to figure out what the hell is going on. Like a detective. Lieutenant Columbo? Yeah, he’s a hero of mine. What could be more damn fun than being a reporter?
Susan Orlean talks about the “outsized impact” of those early years after college in her book. First jobs, first loves, first big discoveries. For some people, that whole post-college chapter just… doesn’t compute. It’s not a thing. But for others? It screams at you. It screamed at me. Graduated in ’82, bounced to Martha’s Vineyard to write for a local paper. Then, ’85, I’m caddying on the pro tour. Book comes out in ’86. Later that year, boom, I’m a high school sports reporter for The Philadelphia Inquirer. My life in the writing trade was officially off and running. My actual life, too. “Joyride.” Good title.
There was this writer at The Inquirer, Joe Logan. Guy moved like molasses. Went to USC. He’d actually reviewed my book when I was trying to get hired there. I figured his lukewarm take had killed my chances. Then I get the job, meet the guy. I hit him with it: “You trashed me!” His reply? “Nah, I just… lukewarmed ya.” Newsroom humor, man.
The Smell of the Story: Finding the Core
Newsrooms, press tents, press boxes… those are the only real offices I’ve ever known. A newsroom’s a good place to mess around with a Nerf basketball from your chair, bet imaginary money on “Jeopardy!” Everyone at The Inquirer knew the story about Gene Roberts, the editor. Back when he was a cub reporter in Goldsboro, North Carolina. The editor there was blind. Young Gene would read him his stories. The boss would give him notes. One critique he’d hit him with more than once? “I can’t see it — make me see.” Any reporter worth their salt could run with that.
Then there’s this famous quote, at least to some people, from Red Smith, the legendary sports columnist. He said, “I like to get where the cabbage is cooking and catch the scents.” Sight. Smell. Two of your main senses right there. Add hearing, touch, taste… that’s your reporter’s toolkit. Obviously, empathy and curiosity are non-negotiable. Roberts, the deputy editor, told someone about me: “I like the way he got around the country on the cheap, doing that caddying thing.” My ticket to the big time? Off-peak flights on People Express. Cheap as hell.
Back in the day, Dartmouth students had this greeting. A hundred years ago, maybe more. They were onto something.
- Student 1: The places you’ll go!
- Student 2: The people you’ll meet!
The people I met, right off the bat, on the Vineyard Gazette, at The Inquirer, on the golf tour… it almost feels unfair. On the Vineyard, Toni Smith Giamatti was my neighbor for a bit. Smart woman, great reader, always encouraging. At The Inquirer, I wrote about this skier, Wesley Wilson, nearly 90, who loved poetry. His dad was born into slavery. On the golf tour, I got to know guys like Billy Britton, Mike Donald, Brad Faxon. Real golf souls, those guys. Then there were the caddies: Sam “Killer” Foy, Bruce Edwards. Even Chuck Will, the one-of-a-kind golf director for CBS Sports. And countless others. I wouldn’t trade that first half-decade after college for anything.
The Lark and the Legend: Unexpected Doors Open
Summer of ’85. I get this standard rejection letter from The New Yorker. But there’s a handwritten addendum. William Shawn, the editor, inviting me to his office next time I was in New York. If you don’t know the name, William Shawn was basically a god of words. His son, Wallace Shawn, is that guy from “My Dinner with Andre,” the super-curious dinner partner. Anyway, I meet with Mr. Shawn. Hot summer day. He’s in a suit. I’m in a suit too. I tell him I’d been caddying on tour, planning to write a book about it. He asks, actually *asks*, if he can give me some advice. “Celebrate the lark,” he says. Golf knowledge? Came from editing Herbert Warren Wind. He was sizing up my little golfing adventure on pure intuition.
Back in ’85, the caddie yards on the PGA Tour were mostly filled with traveling lifers from the South. Many of them Black. That crew added so much color, language, and culture to the Tour. The number of English majors from the Northeast with typing dreams? Like, nine people. Total. Herb Wind’s office was on the 18th floor, one floor down from Shawn’s. I met Herb in early ’86. Brought him my manuscript for “The Green Road Home,” hoping for a blurb or something. He had a framed letter from Bing Crosby on his wall. Later that year, I met my future wife at a dinner party. About forty blocks north of The New Yorker building. She left that dinner with her hockey-playing boyfriend. Soon after, I sent her a book. You can guess which one.
The Old Tour vs. The New: Gypsies and CEOs
The PGA Tour I knew in ’85? It was rich. In every way. Compare it to today’s Tour? Can’t. The modern tour isn’t really a tour anymore. Not for decades. The paydays are insane. There’s no real reason for players, fans, or caddies to obsess over the money list anymore. But back then? The money list was everything. Guys roamed. Players and caddies, windblown, just… roaming. Raymond Floyd nailed it in three words: “We were gypsies.” And he was a star.
The Tour back then was a brutal test of survival. On the course and in the caddie yards. Players were fiercely independent. Caddies? They were con men, in the best possible way. Giving players the confidence they needed. “Nothing but driver, babe.” You were trying to win, to top-10, to make enough cuts to “stay out.” Going home wasn’t an option unless you had a clear path back. The Tour was fair, intoxicating, merciless. But through all that, random acts of kindness softened the whole damn thing. I couldn’t see it then. But now, forty years later? I see it. Little kindnesses. Like a protective coating. Smoothing out the sharp edges of all those scorecards. Mike Donald, hitting balls next to Bill Britton. Brad Faxon next to Tom Kite. Pointing out subtle swing issues. “Try flexing that right knee a hair more.” A swing. That’s it.
Now? Players are like CEOs of their own little corporations. Swing coach in on every practice shot. Caddie recording everything on an iPhone. The regular caddie? 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 didn’t have a regular guy. Neither did Bill Britton or Mike Donald.
Killer's Kindness: The Unsung Heroes
Killer was a legend. From Houston. Former boxer. A gentleman. In ’85, my first week out (Honda), we exchanged nods. Second week (New Orleans), we talked. And it went on from there. Through ’85 and beyond. He always had time. For me, for anyone. He’d point you towards the better breakfast buffets, the reliable budget hotels. Small kindnesses when you need them most? They’re huge. I was reading “The Green Road Home” recently, for the first time in years, and I saw that Killer and I had dinner together at the ’85 B.C. Open. I don’t remember the meal. Probably nothing fancy. But just knowing we broke bread? That’s cool. Met a guy a few years back, from an old Boston club. Told me he knew Killer when Killer was a caddie at Houston Country Club and he was a rich kid junior member. “Killer raised me,” the guy said.
You hear that sometimes. “So-and-so grew me up.” A Southernism. Used to be common on Tour. In the 1980s, the PGA Tour was still mostly Southern. Southern and Texan. Players, tournament locations. Curtis Strange, Lanny Wadkins. Payne Stewart, Ben Crenshaw. Hubert Green, Keith Fergus, Bill Rogers… the list goes on. The Tour had its glitzy events, the majors, sure. Pebble Beach, Doral, The Memorial. But the real Tour, for the players and caddies just trying to hang on? That was across the South. If you were fighting to keep your card, you needed good weeks in Columbus, San Antonio, Pensacola. Ray Floyd and Big Jack were off hunting and fishing. You had a shot. Or more of one. Every tournament ended with payout info, then a fresh money list. Shots played equaled money earned.
Vegas Nights and Texas Nights: Echoes of the Journey
The 1985 Panasonic Las Vegas Invitational. Purse: $950,000. The biggest prize money in American golf that year. Curtis Strange won it, took home $171,000. Five rounds. Multiple courses. Amateurs playing alongside the pros every day. There was something tacky about it, though. Vegas as the backdrop. That tackiness, that seediness… it just added to the fun, the stakes, the adventure. Amateurs rolling up in stretch limos choked with cherry air fresheners. Slot machines in dive bars. Check-cashing joints with harsh lights and late hours. Pure Vegas.
I caddied in Vegas for an amateur. Long-limbed guy, mid-30s. Lee Roy Pearson III. Oil prospector from Ranger, Texas. He’s the star of the fourth chapter of my book, “The Two-Fisted Golfer.” We met in the parking lot of the Las Vegas Country Club. Killer’s advice? Head there, look for work. I did.
Fast forward to after the 2024 Masters. Another season kicking off. I wrote to Lee Roy. A week later, a two-page, handwritten letter shows up. Stationery stamped L.R. Pearson. Here’s 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 a little distance, I can see it now. Lee Roy’s letter. It captures that old campus greeting perfectly. The places you’ll go. The people you’ll meet. I hope this book does, too. It does for me. I got myself from New Orleans to the parking lot of the Las Vegas Country Club. Lee Roy got himself there, too. He played. I carried his gigantic golf bag for a week. I wrote about it – Lee Roy in Vegas – as best I could. That was forty years ago. In a way, we’ve been together. Us two. Dateline: LAS VEGAS. Ever since.
Golf’s not just a game. It’s a damn portal. It takes you places. Shows you things. Connects you to people you’d never otherwise meet. You just gotta be willing to walk through the door.