Lessons From Elysian Fields

Prologue

Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.

- Charles Dickens


For a golfer who’s conversed with the ghosts of the game’s past, the sight of an orange summer sun setting on the town of St. Andrews, Scotland is like a little piece of heaven. Standing on the sandy turf out by the River Eden, at the tip of the Old Course, you’re removed from the world and your troubles. The wind buffets your body and the sea air refreshes your lungs, reminding you how good it is to be alive. There is peace there. You feel closer to God.

So it was on a Sunday in early September, as an old woman made her way to the edge of the hill leading down to the beach past the 11th green. She came here to fulfill a wish of mine.

Creeping up to the edge of the brae, she pulled a plastic baggie from her coat pocket. “Alex, my darling man. We miss you. I love you so much.” She looked back toward town across an expanse of green grass and yellow gorse. “We had such a wonderful life together.”

Opening the bag, she shook out its sandy contents. The breeze swirled the ashes, whisking some of them past her left shoulder onto the ground while others carried toward the water down below. I had wanted her to sprinkle a part of me on this place that had meant so much, this place that had given my life back to me.

“I’ll be seeing you, my love,” she whispered. Kneeling down, she kissed her fingers and touched them to the ground. Tears slipped off her cheeks, splashing the grass.

“Rest well sweetheart,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, her eyes closed in quiet remembrance. Her journey to the Old Course was now complete, but mine had begun years earlier, before I was even born.

The Golfer's Creed

Golf is a science, the study of a lifetime, in which you may exhaust yourself, but never your subject.

It is a contest, a duel, or a melee, calling for courage, skill, strategy and self-control. It is a test of temper, a trial of honor, a revealer of character.

It affords the chance to play the man and act the gentleman....It means going into God's out-of-doors, getting close to nature, fresh air, exercise, a sweeping away of mental cobwebs, genuine recreation of tired tissues.... It is a cure for care, an antidote to worry.

It includes companionship with friends, social intercourse, opportunities for courtesy, kindliness and generosity to an opponent. It promotes not only physical health but moral force.

- 19th Century “Golfer’s Creed” by David Forgan

You Think Hogan Would Smile If Tiger Beat Him?

Tiger Woods is the best golfer the world has ever seen, but he is also without challengers who possess his same killer instinct. In the “old” days men like Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Sam Snead, Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Jack Nicklaus, Lee Trevino and Tom Watson would never have taken losing to Tiger as easily as today’s “competitors.” Stewart Cink got destroyed by Tiger in the Match Play tourney earlier this year and was smiling and laughing about it while being obliterated. Phil gets beat and he smiles, he always has great self- talk, i.e. “I’m happy with how I played, it just didn’t happen today,” but he never gets pissed off. None of these guys do. They are so soft!

Can you imagine Ben Hogan laughing like Cink did when getting his ass handed to him, or Nicklaus? Hogan saw his father blow his brains out when he was a kid, he and Snead grew up in an era in the 1930s and 40s when anything outside of the top ten or fifteen didn’t get a paycheck. Gary Player lost his mother when he was a boy, turned pro and slept on the beach the first time he played the British Open at St. Andrews, he was so broke. Lee Trevino grew up in a house without running water and without a father, and was a golf hustler. He was self-made, like Hogan. You think he’d be intimidated by Tiger? No way. Nicklaus had an easy life growing up by comparison, but he had a killer instinct and hated to lose. Watson, my favorite player as a kid, had a burning desire to win. These men all would have respected Tiger in their prime, but never would have shrunk in his presence. Like him, they thrived on pressure. Today's players wilt up and blow away, except for hard scrabble players like Zach Johnson and Woody Austin, who respect Tiger but don't fawn over him.

Oh, Tiger would beat the old guard a fare share of the time, but he would be beat too, I guarantee it! Give him persimmon woods and butter knife irons (anybody out there remember those?), along with balls that went 40 yards shorter than they do today – and crooked – and the playing field would be evened a bit. We heap praise on Tiger, as we should, but he is a champion among guys out there who are only trying to make a living. He plays to win, as it should be, the others are happy to just make a ton of money and keep smiling. I love Tiger because he wants to be the best and also works at it like a man possessed. And losing is not to be accepted with a light heart. Bury them all Tiger, and to the Phil’s and the Ernie’s and…who the heck else is out there to challenge him…prove me wrong.

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