Swinging a club has always been a natural motion for me. I’m pretty sure it comes from the days when I used to cut down brush on my family’s land with a mowing scythe. It turns out that the strong, fluid swing I used to clear tall brush harmonizes quite well with the smooth swing required to pull off a good golf shot. I didn’t realize this, though, until Jocko gave me his seven iron.
A local railroad worker with greasy blond hair, Jocko used to hang around my grandfather’s store in Oak Hill, WV, drinking beer and talking with the guys. Of the men who made visits to granddad’s store an evening ritual, he was the only one who talked about golf. Jocko was a devoted fan of Arnold Palmer’s and always talked about how Arnold was never scared to "go for it" on the golf course.
My granddad’s store sat on several acres of land, and it was a regular sight to see me and my friends whipping up a game of baseball, chasing rats down by the pigpen, hunting for snakes or, sometimes, trying to sneak a beer from behind granddad’s back. Of course, we’d always see Jocko swinging his golf clubs. You couldn’t miss him. He was one of the few white guys who lounged around the store, and he always talked about golf. I didn’t pay much attention to the talk, but I always liked watching the dirt fly as he’d make divots in the ground.
One day when I couldn’t get any ballgames going, I asked Jocko to show me how to hold a golf club. He handed me an old seven iron with an Arnold Palmer signature on it and showed me an interlocking grip. I took a swing, and I remember his surprise when I pulled off a fairly smooth movement.
After that, Jocko figured he had an interested audience when he talked about the Master’s and other tournaments. I only half-way listened to his hole-by-hole recounts; my eyes were always on his old seven, which he eventually gave to me. Having the seven iron meant that I could practice hitting when Jocko wasn’t around. When I couldn’t find lost balls near the ponds of White Oak Country Club, I’d hit acorns, rocks, apples, tennis balls, or whatever else was handy, across the field near the store.
Little did I know that Jocko’s scrappy seven iron and his simple instruction would, in part, later become the basis for my love of the game. Come to think of it, Jocko’s probably the reason the seven iron is my favorite club in the bag today.
