In summer, the halfway house was staffed by good-looking college girls, and there were always guys hanging around, too. As we walked to the ninth tee, perspiring Yoo-Hoos in hand, we were sure that fantastic and unknowable fleshy acts were going on beyond the brown walls. I went to the golf course almost every day after school. The bus stopped directly in front of the golf course, on South Country Road. After that warning, I carried a brown paper shopping bag in my golf bag and put it over the clubs upside down when riding the bus.
That satisfied the driver. Libin himself. I wanted to work in the game. Juzwiak played first thing Sunday morning, and the men in his group were real golfers. They played quickly, no fussing around, and by the rules. They gambled, with just enough at stake that everyone became quiet and edgy late in the round with the outcome on the line.
Always outside the bunker. They discussed the Masters and the U. Open, although not the weekly tour stops, and Trevino and Nicklaus. They knew the culture of golf and the foibles of life. They spoke as men, and all you had to do to learn something was to shut up and listen. Juzwiak had me hold his pipe between shots. Sometimes, as he handed me the pipe, a string of saliva would stretch from his lower lip to the stem, break off, and come to rest on the stubble of his unshaven chin. This was not the Mr.
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Juzwiak I would see in school. I realized something: The game was a leveler. Sometimes Mr. Juzwiak would ask me about our high school golf team and how our coach, John Sifaneck, was doing. Sifaneck, a math teacher and also the Patchogue-Medford High School bowling coach, was the first adult to treat me as a grown-up.
The boy was a natural, but golf beyond his county did not lure him. I wondered if this Jackson Collier was cut from the same cloth, unmoved by "the next level" and all that it brings. The other day I caught up with Sue Smith. Dickens played college golf in the s at Clemson and North Carolina State. He remembered Jackson as a boy. Hundred thirty pounds dripping wet, and he could hit it yards.
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Great hands, great imagination. He pointed me to Jackson, who effortlessly recounted his He had turned 19 a week before posting that round of 11 under, a high school graduate with no particular path, working at Chockoyotte and playing it daily. Every time out, he tried to shoot the course record. That day he did, tying it with old Mr.
Now he's He's running carts at Wakefield and taking courses at a community college, Wake Tech. He's on its golf team.badged-by.com
This Golfing Life: Jackson Collier was born with a gift, but that's not what sets him apart
He sneaks on to the Wakefield range during lulls. Sometimes he'll see Pettersson there. Jackson didn't have access to a big junior golf program, and maybe he's better off for it. His grandfather, who brought Jackson to golf, played the game and lived it practically to the day he died. Original Title. Other Editions 4. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.
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More filters. Sort order. Start your review of This Golfing Life. Amazing love for golf and it's characters. Every time I read a Bamberger golf book I realize how much alike we golf "kooks" are.
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It does not seem to matter your position in the game - tour pro, teaching pro, caddie, writer, or back. We all love it but never can quit the search. His access to the people that make up the game and their stories is amazing. I can't wait to find another one. Sep 16, Tommy Williams rated it it was amazing.
Fun recounting of Mr. Bamberger's life as a golf correspondent. I really enjoyed the stories he's covered, and it brought back some nice memories. He does a good job of recounting he life, without giving the air that he was somehow superior. Mar 29, Grant rated it really liked it Shelves: summer09 , sports-golf , apl-book.