By the time most aspiring professional golfers are 22, they’re
usually graduating from the ranks of their college golf team, working at a
golf course as a caddy or simply earning money however they can in an
attempt to practice every day and play in tournaments. At 22, my only
connection to golf was the controller that plugged into my Nintendo game
system.
When we weren’t in class, my college buddies and I were
clustered around the TV playing Nintendo golf. It was on computer-animated
fairways and greens that I finally learned how the game is played – what
makes a par and a birdie and the characteristics of the clubs in the bag.
Just as I began to master the video game, one of my buddies suggested we
play real golf. That was on a Friday night, I recall. On Saturday morning,
we headed for a nine-hole course called Forest Hills in Chesapeake, Ohio,
right across the Ohio River from Marshall University.
I was a bit apprehensive as I approached the clubhouse to pick
out a set of rental clubs. After all, I wasn’t sure how I would be accepted
on the golf course, remembering the comments from guys in my old
neighborhood about the prejudice surrounding the game. Encouraged by my
friends as we approached the first hole, I relaxed and pulled out the driver
only to hit a severe slice, not uncommon among beginning golfers.
During my first round, I shot 126. I could have cared less
about my score. The only thing that mattered to me was the epiphany that I’d
experienced as I walked the course. As an athlete who had always played team
sports, I’d never known what it was like to play a sport in which you were
in control of your own destiny. That’s when I realized golf is about
mastering your inner-self and not the people around you. I’d learned that
lesson in the span of 18 holes, and it changed me forever. That day I knew
that my life would be connected to the game of golf in some way.
Up to that point in my college career, I’d never had a true
focus. My college years were as much about learning to live as learning in
the classroom. College was a way for me to get out of my hometown, which,
like many dying West Virginia coal communities, was battling economic hardships. I
longed to explore myself in a new environment and along the way earn a
college degree. I started out majoring in accounting but soon switched to
psychology, a better fit for my analytical view of life. I always felt I was
a bit of a thinker, and I found reward in understanding myself and the
people around me.
At the same time, I was drawn into the party scene and, like
so many students, didn’t always appropriately balance having fun and
studying. After a few years on this slippery slope, I found myself
financially strapped and unfocused. That’s when I decided to join the U.S.
Army Reserves. Once I made the decision, it was a short two months before I
was on a plane to
Fort Jackson, S.C., for basic training. The military proved to be a healthy
experience for me, helping to enhance the leadership skills I’d developed in
high school football.
Within the first week of basic training, I was appointed squad
leader. I loved the respect I received and control I wielded, and I
considered enlisting full-time. By the end of my training, though, I’d come
up too many times against hypocrisy within the ranks. I’ve always had a
problem with the mentality of “do as I say and not as I do,” and I figured
that my personal views would eventually clash with the Powers That Be if I
chose a career in the military.
Going for reserve duty rather than full-time enlistment, I
decided to do my reserves in
Charleston, W.Va., which
allowed me to resume classes at Marshall. My leadership skills again took
center stage as I went on to earn the Army Reserves Achievement Medal for
Soldier of the Year in 1989. Although I stayed busy with college and
reserves, I didn’t have a true passion for either one. It seemed I was only
going through the motions.
That is, until I played 18 holes at
Forest Hills. After that, my
focus was clear: to learn everything I could about the game of golf. I
became a student of the game, reading golf books from Marshall’s library,
scanning dated golf magazines from second-hand stores and hitting balls into
a makeshift driving range I assembled in my one-room Huntington apartment.
There’s no doubt about it: I had to catch up for lost time.
And I worked on my game like it was a full-time job. I started selling CDs
from my music collection to local record stores to supplement my greens
fees, and I eventually took a job as a clothing salesman at the mall to pay
for the ever-increasing costs of playing the game. I’d been playing for
about a year, and I was still paying for rental clubs; I didn’t even get my
first sticks until a friend bought me a set for Christmas. These beauties
ended up in a raggedy golf bag I found at a pawn shop for $5.
