The good and bad of golf books

According to my research, the chart peaked last December. I'm talking about the chart noting the number of unread golf books piled up on my office desk. Some are new. Some are like new. Some are several years old and just fell into my hands (ouch).

You never know what you're getting when the latest golf book comes out. I guess that's why people like me (hopefully they're not exactly like me, otherwise they need clinical treatment) write book reviews.

Lorne Rubenstein's fantasy was such a good one, it had never even occurred to me. He moved to the Scottish Highlands for a summer and golfed Royal Dornoch over and over. Sounds good to me. Even better for all of us, he wrote about the experience in A Season in Dornoch. Somehow, he was able to capture the slow pace of life in Dornoch in this journal. Maybe I've been on too many airplanes and read too many suspense novels, but I found this book to be a nice break. No car crashes. No serial killers. No legal maneuvers. No plot at all, in fact. Just a nice window into the daily existence of normal Scots, for whom golf is a part of life. In fact, I hate to call this a golf book. Rubenstein did some nice homework here. He brings along a heap of Scottish history -- most of which is Greek to us isolated, self-involved Americans -- that helps explain Scots culture and their attitude toward life, golf and us. You get to meet some of Rubenstein's new friends, like Sandy and Pipey.

There are a few small things to quibble about in this book. I'd like some of the characters he meets to come to life a little better, to learn more about them. Ah, but maybe that's the charm of Dornoch. It's such a wonderful place to visit, you can't wait to go back.

The opposite of A Season in Dornoch is A Golfer's Education by Darren Kilfara. This writer has a wonderful gift -- within the first 20 pages, you immediately dislike him. He's attending Harvard but decides to wangle a year of schooling at the University of St. Andrews. Not for any real educational purposes; just so he can play golf. He is a standard-bearer for the Me-First Generation, and even in the early pages, when he's nervously facing down Harvard administrators about his proposed year abroad, I found myself rooting against him even though I knew he was going to get his trip approved (otherwise, there would be no book).

Kilfara is oblivious to his utter selfishness. When he was a summer intern at Golf Digest, for instance, he singlehandedly ruined the corporate golf membership the company had at the Yale University Golf Course. The company purchased a set number of prepaid guest fees from Yale for its employees. Apparently, Kilfara went to the course almost daily, blowing a full 18-hole greens fee even if he got there at dusk to play three or five holes. You can imagine the surprise of several real Digest employees who went to play Yale one day and were told the corporate membership had been used up. Incredibly, Kilfara brings this up on page 19: "When I started working for the magazine, we were allowed to play the course as often as we wished, so I did. The implicit 'within reason' in this allowance somehow escaped my attention." In other words, he still doesn't get it.

This book is all about him and what he sees as his entitlement. Unlike Rubenstein, however, he's done little research. This is a book of his opinions about the Old Course, Carnoustie, soccer and of his clumsy attempts at dating a local woman. Why anyone thinks a self-absorbed college student's opinions about a country he doesn't know and centuries-old courses that have been written about thousands of times would be worth printing, I have no idea. A section on him stumbling across some fellow students, I believe, playing golf in the streets of St. Andrews late one night sounds suspicious. I wondered if it was true or just a Scottish version of some old Dan Jenkins adventures.

There's more to hate. Pretending to be a newsman at the Dunhill Cup, he asks Mark James to compare the pressure of the Dunhill Cup with the pressure of the Ryder Cup. When James blows it off as a stupid question, the author smarmily mocks him. James was right, it was a stupid question.

Rubenstein wrote about a community, a country, a way of life and other people. Kilfara wrote about himself. He hardly even quoted anyone else. He should have found a more interesting subject.

Mailbag

Thanks for the overwhelming number of responses to last week's column about my father passing away. There are way too many messages to reprint, but I thought I'd offer some of the highlights this week:

When I read your column, I usually either laugh like hell or think, What has Van Sickle been smoking? But your article about your dad was very moving for me in a Field of Dreams kinda way. I lost my dad almost exactly one year ago, and it seems as if I had many experiences with him similar to yours.
—Mark Ernest, Tracys Landing, Md.

I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated your tribute to your dad. It brought back many fond memories of my time on the golf course with my father, for whom I caddied as a youngster and with whom I played my whole life. I was with him as he broke ground as developer of a golf course near Park City, Utah, which was one of his life's dreams. I attended two Masters tournaments with him, watched him as he played in pro-ams with Arnold Palmer, Johnny Miller, Tommy Bolt, among others. He was with me when I hit my first (and only) hole-in-one, which happened to win me a new car. He played many rounds of golf with my two sons and instilled in them a love for the game as well. My last visit with him was spent in his bedroom as he was dying from cancer, watching the Thursday round of the Masters three years ago, which we both enjoyed immensely. The following morning he passed away. I can't help but think how lucky we both are that we were able to learn such a wonderful game from our fathers, and to spend so much time on the golf course with them.
—Tom Bagley, Salt Lake City

Nice column about your dad -- and mother! Good move or she'd haunt your dreams.
—Vincent Vicidomini, Pound Ridge, N.Y.

My dad and I have golfed together a few times. I honestly try to avoid those occasions, because watching him struggle to break 110 isn't much fun. But after reading your column, the next time we play I'll be watching his face after a good shot and filing that in my memory banks -- instead of being embarrassed after he whiffs his tee shot for the second time in a row.
—Jeff Bosh, Houston

My grandfather passed almost the same way. My last game of golf with him was a memorable one: He fell down a 100-foot hill, and once we found out he was OK, we laughed till we cried. He stood up after the fall and proclaimed, "I am finished with golf forever," and he was true to his word. I miss him, but I'm reminded of him every time I see a hill on a course!
—Dean, Toronto

My dad is now physically unable to play (or even to walk), but I still load him into the cart and play two balls -- one for him, one for me -- whenever I'm home. Golf seems to be one of those few sports that can really create a bond between a father and a son.
—Brian Johnson, Frankfort, Mich.

I hope to have another 20 years with my dad. Your story just reinforces my want to be with my dad each Sunday in our league. He may not be around for another 20.
—Ed Barrett, Wixom, Mich.

My sincerest condolences. Sounds like your old man lived both a full and fulfilling life, bless him. It also made me realize that I have only so many years to break 80 ... tick, tick, tick.
—David Kleinman, Milwaukee

I only got to play golf with my dad a couple of times. You are a very lucky man to have those memories.
—Harry Pate, Hauser Lake, Idaho

My father was a golf nut who passed away from leukemia two years ago. My father also loved the game ... he had a collection of putters as well as assorted sets of irons and woods. The man loved golf: cybervision, lessons, trips to the range; blasting old range balls into the fields across the street. Though he took up the game fairly late and never broke 80, he was always pushing. He took three practice swings before every shot, to which a good friend of mine once remarked, "Man, I get tired just watching your dad swing." What I wouldn't give to see those three practice swings in the middle of the 18th fairway just one more time.
—Gary Conley, Los Angeles

I actually laughed out loud while reading the part about hawking golf balls. My father is in his late 60s and still plays terrible golf. He hates to play on weekends -- "Too damn crowded." Invariably, he'll book us at some cheap, out-of-the-way goat track because he doesn't want me spending my hard-earned cash at my club. Go figure. One of his favorite courses is a ball-hawkers' paradise. Several greens are backed by head-high stands of briars. You often can see dozens of golf balls languishing in the shadows. Every time we play there, I just about need emergency medical care due to all the scratches on my arms from helping him retrieve balls. We once even let two groups play through while collecting the last of the Top Flites and Executives from a particularly nasty spot. Anyway, thanks again and don't throw your father's ball retriever away; hopefully, we will all get old eventually.
—Matt RIvers, Columbia, S.C.

Thanks for the article about your dad. It reminded me of golfing with my grandfather and father. I made my only hole-in-one playing with them but would gladly give it back to tee it up one more time with granddad.
—Mike (Mannix) O'Connor, Coronado, Calif.

There are few things in life I cherish more than the times I get to play golf with my father. He has been battling cancer for the past six months (a success so far), and when he gets his radiation treatments, all he can think about is that it's only 13 more treatments until our trip to Hilton Head. I plan my golf season around his club's member-guest tournament, always hoping that this finally will be the year we qualify for championship flight. We went to Scotland for his 60th birthday, and our picture on the bridge at St. Andrews is my favorite.
—Bill Jones, Annadale, Va.

I am 38 and my second daughter is about to be born. This means that more than likely I will never have a son. Most of my friends keep asking if I feel bad about it, and my answer is always no. But deep in my heart I know there is something I will miss. It is the unique intimacy -- or complicity, if you will -- that only a father and a son can have on a golf course. Your article is the confirmation of that special feeling. Nothing will comfort you on your father's death, but at the same time nothing will take away what you had together.
—Francisco Javier Piqueras Hernandez, Madrid

I'm typing this with tears streaming down my face and co-workers wondering what all the blubbering's about. Anyone with a heart should be moved. And I'm thinking of my dad, still hacking at 77, all excited about the new driver with the ridiculous 420-cc head and 47-inch shaft that has brought new life to his game.
—Barry McCormick, Powder Springs, Texas

Your article certainly did bring to mind my own dad, who passed away suddenly at only 62. For years, golf with him had become a cart thing. We would hit our balls and I would walk to my ball and he would disappear -- looking for balls. The only thing worse was when we would play with my uncle. Then they both would disappear, and I think the real competition at that point was who would finish with the most balls. After my dad passed I found hundreds of rather sad golf balls in the garage. I look forward to annoying my own sons in some other meaningful way.
—Rod Gilchrist, San Francisco

Sports Illustrated senior writer Gary Van Sickle writes for the magazine's Golf Plus section and is a regular contributor to CNNSI.com. Click here to send him a question or comment.

 

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