In sixth grade, I met a kid named Matt Bowyer. We were
introduced by my sister, Angie, who had taught Matt how to
dance. The two of us connected right off the bat because we
loved what many kids that age love: video games and
motorcycles. We became quick friends and spent most of our
evenings and weekends either sitting in front of his
grandmother’s TV battling on Atari or escaping into the
rough paths of the nearby woods on Matt’s dirt bike.
The game of
golf introduced itself into my life again through Matt’s
brother-in-law, Scott Stanley. One of Scott’s favorite
pastimes was hitting golf balls in the field behind Matt’s
house. He’d usually aim his ball at an old bathtub used as a
water trough for the cows that roamed the family’s land. It
was only a matter of time before we were aiming at the rusty
tub with Scott’s clubs. I remember feeling pleased when
Scott told me I was a natural.
Matt was
raised by his grandparents -- the same as I was -- and I
always looked forward to Matt’s trips to Baltimore, where
his mother lived and worked, because he usually asked me to
join him. During one particular visit, his mom set up one of
those golf contraptions in which you putt a ball in a
plastic holder, and it would kick the ball back to you. We’d
wear that thing out, putting balls across her plush
townhouse carpet for nickels or quarters. Again, the motion
always took me back to hitting a pool ball.
I’d never
been to a driving range – in fact, I’d never heard of one --
when Matt took me to a range during one of our Baltimore
visits. I thought it was cool to pick up a driver and hit
the crap out of a ball; it felt like hitting a homerun. I
can recall one evening when I was killing the balls, some
folks who were walking by suddenly halted and started
watching me. I loved every minute of it because, as an avid
baseball and football player, I excelled under the eyes of a
crowd. I’d say that was my first taste of golf’s glory.
