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Sweet baby James Hanging with Driscolls makes for memorable Masters
Updated: Friday April 06, 2001 6:19 PM
AUGUSTA, Ga. -- Funny how life works. Last August I covered the U.S. Amateur, at Baltusrol, and it was there that I met James Driscoll, of the Brookline, Mass. Driscolls. In the final match, James, you may recall, put on one of the most outrageous displays of clutch golf in recent memory, storming back from dormie-three to square the match and send it to sudden death. On the 36th hole he famously sliced his ball into the woods, only to have it settle hard against a pine cone, and yet he still got up and down to win the hole. Part of the fun of the week was getting to know the sprawling Driscoll clan. James is the baby in a family of seven, a rough-and-tumble Irish Catholic brood that worships at the altar of sport. Two of James's brothers played college golf, another college hockey, but the tough guy of the family is the only girl, Molly, who captained Brown University's ice hockey team. Because James ultimately lost the final match to Jeff Quinney, I wasn't able to tell the Driscoll story in full, a grave disappointment given how much good material I had in my notebook.
Fast forward to Tuesday of Masters week: I am eating collared greens and hash and fried okra with the entire Driscoll family, 36 hours before James would set the Masters on its ear with his historic first-round 68. In the weeks leading up to the tournament I had been burning up the phone lines with James, his parents and his siblings, getting the story behind the story. Tuesday I walked the course with the family while James played a practice round with a couple of cats named Nicklaus and Norman, and then we adjourned to the Driscoll HQ, a three-story house in which the entire brood was hanging out for the week. The second-oldest brother, Timmy, had been in charge of organizing the family dinner, and not only did he bring in the soul food, but he also provided live music in the backyard. James was simply glowing that night -- not only from his spin around the links with Nicklaus, but he was also reflecting the shine of his girlfriend, a Danish cutie-pie he had met in Boston. (Talk about pressure: Masters weeks was the first time she was meeting the family). There was much cigar smoking, and tall tales were told, though sadly I must save them all for my ever-expanding story, which will be in the upcoming edition of Golf Plus. The next afternoon, no doubt fueled by all that fried catfish, James played well in the par-3 alongside another guy you might have heard of, Arnold Palmer (oh, and that morning Driscoll had teed it up in a practice round with Seve, Lee Janzen and Bernhard Langer). Before the first round even began it had been a magical week, and then James went out and played some of the best golf of his life. Reporters are supposed to be impartial, or some such nonsense, but I was cheering the kid's every step. My wife, Frances, is along this week and she has been a part of all of the festivities, bonding with the Driscoll family along the way. When James holed out that bunker shot on 16 Thursday, Franny looked at me with tears in her eyes; she was so caught up in the emotion of the moment. Me, I was too distracted by the circling buzzard, er, reporters, who had come down the hill to try to poach my story. Anyway, I'd love to share more details about what has been such a memorable Masters experience, but right now I'm guarding my material like the Hope diamond. If James goes on to win this thing, the book will be bigger than Tuesdays with Morrie. Sports Illustrated senior writer Alan Shipnuck periodically waxes about life
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