Dedicated To My Daughters

Sarah & Alexis

Whose Love, Intellect, Kindness, and Grace

Have Been The Signposts That Have Brighten The Way On My Journey Throughout My Fatherhood

Preface

As I wander deeper into the unassailable dredges of advanced age and the vicissitudes encountered in the descending slog that always accompanies the inevitable isolation and penitence it begets, I find myself troubled by a notion I have acknowledged along the way.

I often think about my life, the person I have become, and whatever legacy I might leave behind.

As I contemplate my mortality, I think about how my life is viewed and recognized, its meaning and purpose, and how family members, friends, and associates might remember me.

This is a normal reaction and observation as we mature and age and suffer through the drama, tragedy, and fulfillment we all encounter as we travel along the pathway of life.

Intrinsically, every living person excels or shines to some degree. “We are all good at something in some capability or capacity,” Clinical Psychologist Doctor Brett McCabe describes it.

Whatever distinctive talent or achievement we have acquired or developed, we often do it as well or better than anyone we know or associate with.

For better or worse, this becomes our gift, the talent and badge of honor we wear, and we are recognized for the singular or multi-purposed ability we are known for, celebrated for, and thought of, whatever that capability or gift is, no matter how trivial or inconsequential that brilliance may be.

The obstacles we all confront, regardless of notoriety attained or accolades achieved, are that one cannot understand and appreciate oneself or value the purpose of one’s existence unless one can identify and come to terms with the personal story and individuality that contributed to the collective interpretations of our past.

Someone along the way has helped us, pushed us, or influenced us, and without remembering and crediting those people or events that shaped our destiny, we have lost the history of those affairs that made us who we are.

Suppose you cannot determine or recall this inherited makeup from an intimate reflection of your temperament and character.

In that case, you may question your purpose in life, and your journey could lack meaning, clarity, dignity, and worth.

We all must recollect our past and acknowledge what made us who we are.

Our passage may contain pain, heartache, and moments of despair, and the path we tread could be challenging. However, our path could also bring moments of great joy and jubilation.

We all need personal validation and to be remembered and appreciated, regardless of how trivial or inconsequential that memoir is.

As I approach the twilight of my mortal lifespan and watch more and more family and friends succumb to the inevitable ravages of time, I have come to believe a person’s purpose and the most meaningful goal we can all aspire to as we hobble through this earthly and fragile existence is to live, learn, grow, love, care for, and respect our fellow travelers, while discovering and learning their personal story that made us who we are.

We all have memories to share and stories to tell.

We should also strive to achieve the most committed and purposeful way of life we can, given our station in society, our place in our community of family and friends, and our resolve in the social-economic structure of nature.

When we perish from this earthly existence, all the stories, feelings, and memories collected from this human encounter disappear also.

The personal narratives, ordeals, misfortunes, triumphs, and other remembrances we collected throughout our years terminate with our demise, never to be re-claimed, recovered, or salvaged, and that is the profound tragedy of this existence.

Our time on this planet is finite and a non-renewable resource, and tomorrow is not guaranteed.

This irrefutable rationale is our undeniable destiny, and we will all die and cease to exist,

Therefore, as we approach the culmination of our lives, I believe as we grow older, develop, and trek along the many paths of discovery and understanding we encounter daily, all the callings, passions, desires, and purposes we enjoy and live through, during our formative years should now transform, I believe, from a quest of engagement and observation of those many experiences and occasions that have made us who we are, and start to gather and catalog those events.

Chronicling the many interactions, histories, narratives, anecdotes, emotions, and beliefs we have amassed over a lifetime of acquisition, however notable or relevant, for whatever reason or motivation, is the only inheritance we can leave for posterity and the future generations that may follow in our footsteps, no matter how hefty, or faint those footprints may be.

We must compose and record our story somewhere, on anything we can, whether it be a journal, notebook, letter, computer, or posit note.

This effort should be a solemn obligation and responsibility that is never dismissed, neglected, or forgotten, regardless of the time, process, or method required.

Someone, somewhere, will someday appreciate that labor, which is the purpose of our living being.

The gratitude of persevering, protecting, and recording our individual stories and memories is the only tribute we can bequeath to others when we pass from this existence.

This modest but noble endeavor validates our legacy, gives meaning to our lives, and will be the most valuable and cherished commitment we can entrust, endow, and leave behind to family, friends, and generations that follow us.

My autobiography,

A Golf Course Runs Through It contributed to that effort.

Chapter One

Whenever I am out and about amongst new folks or socializing in a group setting where people do not know me or anything about who I am or what I do, and the usual chit-chat starts getting bantered about, with the typical mundane questions about who you are, where do you live, etc.

The conversation will always veer to some variant of “What do you do for work?”

When I reply, “I Play Golf,” the conversation takes a different vibe and direction.

Sometimes, they look skeptical, laugh, and repeat the question, “What do you really do?”

Others might say, “Oh, you are retired, or some other clever remark or comeback, as they then delve deeper and inquire, “What did you do before that?”

When the answer has remained the same, the exchange takes on the ritual and explanation that I am a Golf Professional by trade.

Golf is my real job, and I have been involved in the sport my whole life, for over fifty years.

Then begins an itemized and expanded process of amplifying and adding details to my almost half-century engagement and membership in the Professional Golfers Association of America as a trained and certified PGA Master Professional, coupled with an endless variety and assortment of tasks I have performed while pursuing Golf as a living, including as a Player, Head Professional, Teacher, Coach, Administrator, and Small Business Owner.

Additionally, I have been in the public arena as a Journalist, Author, and Broadcaster for over forty years.

Announcing sporting events and sharing news, results, and features on my weekly two-hour syndicated radio show, as well as producing additional content for my blog, podcast, and website.

Experience that covers the whole gambit of my working career in the golf business.

After reciting my resume and career highlights, the dialogue might continue if the person is still interested, has not fallen asleep, or has yet to walk away.

In that case, the conversation usually involves a rundown of the golf courses I have worked at, positions held, tournaments I have played in, Championships I have covered, and whether I know Tiger Woods, etc.

Invariably, if the exchange persists and lingers, it never fails; “What is your favorite golf course?”

That inquiry generates a whole new litany of responses and answers.

Because that is a question I cannot answer.

It is akin to, who is your favorite child, preferred city, or most-beloved relative?

It is an impossible task to convey or consider because each of the hundreds of golf courses around the world I have worked at, played, visited, or broadcasted from during my journey throughout my golfing life calls up a particular delight and appreciation of each of those individual locations, events, and tournaments.

Each one summons their remarkable recollections, histories, and memories.

How do you choose?

I cannot, and the simple reason is that every golf course on earth is a whimsical, fanciful, and genuinely memorable destination, a beautiful thing like a fine wine, a work of art, or a unique piece of music, regardless of where or when I might have encountered those properties or traveled to on this planet.

There is no place on earth I would rather be than on a golf course as the sun sets on the finishing holes and the end of another blissful, perfect day.

I have spent much of my adult life immersed in the game, celebrating, and preserving its reflections as best I can, for each golf course I have visited is a distinctive, extraordinary occurrence.

My passage into the sport of Golf was foreordained and determined from an early age.

My emersion and foray into the lifestyle of a Professional Golfer and its associated pursuits combine two separate yet collaborative historical accounts, the Mormon pioneer saga and Golf’s early history in the Western United States.

Both narratives embark during the middle of the eighteenth century on the eve of Golf’s first significant expansion into America’s consciousness and the Mormons’ enforced displacement into Utah Territory, which unfolds with this venerated account and portrayal.

Three days before Brigham Young led the Mormon migration into the Great Salt Lake Basin on July 24, 1847, Erastus Snow and Orson Pratt entered the Valley on an advanced reconnaissance exploration.

They entered the basin at the mouth of the Emigration Canyon and turned left, following the route Interstate 215 now occupies on the Valley’s eastern side.

After circumventing and exploring the valley floor, those adventuring explorers returned to their entry point, below the opening of Emigration Canyon, high on the rocky foothills of the east bench, then trekked further south, setting their base camp at the mouth of Obit-ko-ke-che, ean’ka-so-kuup, the Goshute Indian Tribes’ name for Big Canyon, from which flowed a crystal clear creek, later giving the region its anglicized name and identity.

The area and stream of their discovery were renamed for Parley P. Pratt, who settled the area and built the first road navigating the passage through the canyon.

This road evolved as the pioneers’ primary entry into the Salt Lake Valley and later developed as a major east-west freeway across Middle America.

Those men realized then, and what history has since acknowledged to many people that select this Valley as their home, the beauty, accessibility, and setting of the Parley’s Creek Corridor make this one of the most choice and inhabitable avenues in the Salt Lake Valley.

The abundance of arable land, vegetation, wildlife, vistas, and the essential element in a high mountain desert, an abundant water source, impressed those early Mormon scouts.

When he arrived two days later, the advance party encouraged the Mormon leader to settle in this part of the Valley; nevertheless, when Brigham Young emerged from the canyon, he turned right and set up the main encampment for his intrepid band of pioneers farther north on the flatter land and banks of the more dependable-flowing stream of City Creek.

Whether owing to divine inspiration or the genius of a master colonizer, President Young saw, on that hot, steamy July day, the main encampment for those hardy trailblazers, now Utah’s capital city, lay on the northward end of the Salt Lake Valley, not the south.

Despite this, that is not how this story concludes nor the ending of those early pioneers’ encounters with the Salt Lake Valley’s distinctive topography.

Little did those early pioneers realize the ribbon of water flowing from the yawning portals of Parleys Canyon would provide a natural corridor that coursed through the heart of the Salt Lake Valley, used not only for traversing the wetlands and boggy marshes that carpeted the Valley’s expansive countryside, but expanding the riparian interface, creating natural sandbars, ledges, fertile plains, and flatlands while depositing its rich loamy topsoil forming the landscape for the numerous settlements, farms, orchards, cities, and towns that would later be developed and scattered across in the Salt Lake Valley while framing the streams pathway on its inevitable advance towards the Great Salt Lake.

When Mormon pioneers fleeing religious persecution first entered the Salt Lake Valley, it was a vast, desolate, high-mountain desert with few natural stream beds and flowing waterways; Parley’s Creek was one of those and bisected the middle of the Valley bring life to an unhospitable and deserted wilderness.

Indigenous tribes of Native Americans had long since left the area, leaving the hardscrabble newcomers to fend for themselves with little more than what they could carry on their backs; these early pilgrims arrived in the Great Salt Lake Basin, scrapping for food, shelter, and the necessities of life.

That soon changed.

Six months after Brigham Young led the historic Mormon exodus into the greater Salt Lake Valley and the winter snows had cleared, he sent his envoys throughout the region to explore and colonize potential settlements, with the directive “Go forth and prosper.”

When settlers got established and put down their roots, those hardy pioneers first built a church to worship, a cemetery to mourn, honor, and bury their dead, and a community park where the public could recreate and gather socially.

When Golf was introduced to America in the early part of the 19th century, just fifty years after the imposed Mormon relocation, it began to gain popularity nationally with the likes of Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen, and Walter Hagan and locally with Salt Lake native George Von Elm, bringing exposure to the sport, it was only natural for those early Mormon communities to add a golf course to their recreational and outdoor areas.

Those first courses were crude, elementary designs, hand-built, supported, financed, and operated by the local population, which in some measure explains all the quirky, idiosyncratic, modest nine-hole golf courses found throughout the State and why Utah has the highest percentage, of public golf courses, per capita, anywhere in America.

In 1894, the sport of Golf took on a national identity when the United States Golf Association, formed with five original members, was organized to promote the game, develop rules, and foster competitions on a national scale.

With newfound stability and structure, the game of Golf continued to grow, expand, and flourish.

By 1910, there were 267 golf clubs in America, including Utah’s first golf course, The Salt Lake Country Club, located right smack dab on the banks of Parley’s Creek, and the golf course I grew up next to and learned to play upon.

A neighborhood and surrounding environment that allowed me to submerge myself in the game of Golf, a sport that launched me on the road to a life and career in an occupation that flowed throughout my personality and ingrained itself in my presence from the beginning of my first exposure to the ancient Scottish pastime.

Chapter Two

As an active, curious child, I was blessed to be born and come of age in a middle-class environment with loving parents and a family with few structural or economic disadvantages.

My family was neither well-off nor privileged, but I cannot remember wanting or needing much while growing up.

I was a happy, complacent child with boundless optimism and countless opportunities for enjoyment and diversion owing to my large family unit and our extended community.

My family were sixth-generation Mormons and direct descendants of pioneers who emigrated to Utah in 1847.

We lived in the Sugarhouse suburbs of Salt Lake City with all the related cultural and social benefits and communal advantages of a built-in convergence of similar and like-minded cohorts, friends, and neighbors.

Households and neighborhoods connected and intertwined with the ever-present and ubiquitous LDS meetinghouses, which populated all Utah communities and, in my immediate area, was situated directly across the street from where I was raised.

Places of worship with an attached culture hall and full-sized gymnasiums were always open, offering cost-free services while supplying year-round recreation possibilities, spiritual guidance, surrogate fostering, and an incomparable environment to grow, learn, play, and develop.

This wholesome, safe, and moral environment where I was raised was one city block, just three football fields away from what was once the private Salt Lake Country Club, now renamed and maintained for public use as Forest Dale Golf Course with its historic clubhouse left behind from its Country Club days, where I was raised, hung out, and came of age.

This oversized and sprawling property contained a golf course, and a sizeable inner-city park nourished by the ever-present Parley’s Creek.

It had ponds, creeks, fields, and meadows for exploration and adventure, an attendant swimming pool, tennis courts, ball fields, and picnic areas adjacent to a Boys and Girls Club, maintained by the YMCA, which offered unlimited amusement, hobbies, leisure, and social activities.

It was a magical place to grow up, a recreational wonderland that satisfied my every wish, need, whim, and desire.

In my Pollyannaish nativity, I believed every kid in the world grew up and got to experience the same idyllic upbringing and environments I took for granted every day of my youth.

Little did I realize that my background, childhood, and growing-up years were gilded and fortuitous.

Like most kids raised in Middle America during the post-war era of the 1950s and ’60s, the outdoors was the place to be and all it entailed.

Long before the electronic revolution deadened the senses of following generations, baby boomers, born mid-century as my age group was collectively called, had to create our playfields, and make up our games.

Cops and Robbers, Cowboys and Indians, Pirates and Buccaneers.

Nightly raids on the neighbor’s gardens and orchards.

We were wading and swimming in the ponds and streams of the crystal clear and chilly Parley’s Creek waters, which occupied our immediate play areas with no health concerns whatsoever.

Climbing trees and playing in the woods and fields, we engaged in get-up-and-go like there was no tomorrow.

We had fun and enjoyed life, scrapping, tussling, roaming in the streets, growing up, hunting, fishing, and playing sports on the backlots, alleys, fields, and open spaces wherever the need or inclination arose.

We did it all with unrestricted playtime without parent intervention and then did it all again, and why not?

We were invincible, strong, and never got tired or bored.

It was an era of boundless joy and harmony.

No one in my community locked the doors to their houses, nor were parents concerned about where or what you did if you were home before dark.

The neighborhood policed itself, including other kids on the block, if they warranted or deserved it.

Ours was the first group of American youth to survive a worldwide apocalypse, and as an entire generation, we had no clue how blessed and lucky we were.

Nor did we care or ponder the reasons why.

We lived for the moment, whether morning, noon, or night; tomorrow was another day with more fun and adventure.

Rough and tumble was the game’s name, and we were free-range children without overbearing and unnecessary supervision.

Those who had survived the forgoing battles, our parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and all those who had done the heavy lifting, performed the heroic deeds, made the sacrifices, they knew how blessed and lucky our generation was to now live in a new age of peace, prosperity, and tranquility.

The older generation and those who had prevailed and survived the days of reckoning understood on a profoundly personal level how self-sacrificing, just, and admirable the world was to have escaped the worst aspects of human nature and behavior that could have affected the entire global population with catastrophic and disastrous results.

Our parents and their parents had endured two world wars and the most significant depression humans have ever seen, and why our parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles became contemporary history’s most accommodating, lenient, and tolerant mentors and guardians the world has ever known.

My generation grew up around this mindset, and our parents’ reluctance to impose limits on their offspring prompted baby boomers to become the most permissive, selfish, indulgent, and entitled age bracket humanity has ever seen.

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll became our mantra and were a universal anthem amongst our peer group.

Our entire age bracket identified with the movement’s philosophy even if you did not join in physically.

You were part of it and wistfully embraced it, if only in your most secret dreams and fantasies.

Who did not wish they had attended Woodstock?

Grow their hair out, surf the beach, fall in love, and dance the night away without a care in the world?

We partook of all the forbidden fruits and selfish pleasures that society offered, as did most of the kids I grew up with, associated with, and knew socially.

We all participated in some form or another.

It was a lifestyle we thought would never end, and we all grievously lamented when it did.

An existence and mentality that persisted throughout my and others of my age group’s lives that inflicted profound consequences and outcomes that endured into parenthood and middle age, influencing, and changing how we all, as an entire generation, perceived the world, raised our children, and interacted with society.

Chapter Three

Amidst this awakening and social reckoning, I grew up marching to a slightly different tune and circumstances.

I was a nerdy, curious jock and not much for television, work, or girls as I matured and started to develop physically and emotionally.

Books, sports, and the outdoors were not just pastimes for me.

They were my callings, filling every waking hour with purpose and joy.

Football, baseball, and basketball, each in their season, with a bit of golf thrown in to fill the gaps; if I was not playing or practicing sports, I was reading, which became a lifelong pursuit.

My circle of friends was also diverse, reflecting my interests and passions, loosely separated into Jocks and Nerds, and sometimes both.

In my neighborhood, everyone played sports;

it was a given and a daily pursuit.

The ballfields were down the street, the church gym was always open for a game, and the nearby park had a football field.

Most of the guys I knew played on organized teams for school or church leagues, and there was always someone available for pick-up games, regardless of the sport.

I also spent a lot of time with people who did not indulge in athletics and did not like to get sweaty or work out.

Those guys were more inclined to academic or intellectual affairs, including reading, writing, and creating.

Book clubs, science projects, electronics, and, at a defining moment in my early development and future, writing, producing, creating, and crafting narratives.

We were the Lake Street Gang of the Briscoe Brothers, David and Roscoe, Kent Price, and me.

Our diverse interests and talents complemented each other, fostering a rich and stimulating personal and professional growth environment.

My friends and I shared a deep love for literature, eagerly devouring the latest books, magazines, and periodicals that crossed our paths.

We fancied ourselves as serious writers and dabbled in many forms of composition, including poetry, short stories, and essays, which we shared, critiqued, and submitted to various publications.

Best of all, David had a reel-to-reel tape recorder, on which we wrote, produced, and recorded radio shows often.

We each played a role.

I was the announcer and sports guy, David was the lead anchor, and Roscoe and Kent were newscasters who provided content and human interest stories.

These were the years when public radio filled the airways, an era where every home had a console radio and during the heyday of public radio long before network television took over the living rooms of suburbia.

Everyone carried a transistor radio, and the airways’ superstars were Walter Cronkite, Edward R. Murrow, Erik Severide, Howard K. Smith, Harry Reasoner, and John Chancellor.

We imitated and tried to mimic them as best we could, programming and carefully scripting each newscast.

This early exposure to radio broadcasting sparked a lifelong passion for storytelling and communication, which would later shape my career in journalism.

We all continued with those early journalistic aspirations for the rest of our lives.

David would become a correspondent and editor for the Associated Press and travel the globe, reporting the news.

Kent would go on to a long, distinguished career as an educator and Public High School teacher.

Roscoe became a published author.

I spent forty years on the radio as a Broadcast Journalist on numerous radio stations, embarking on a lifetime enterprise of announcing and broadcasting sporting events worldwide.

If I had free time, I spent it reading, and my favorite day of the week was always Mondays when the bookmobile from the public library stopped on my block across from the house.

This mobile library was a treasure trove of new stories, and the convenience of having it right outside my door significantly contributed to my voracious reading habits.

I devoured the latest volumes cover-to-cover during those quiet, peaceful, undisturbed waking hours when I was not involved in some form of outdoor amusement or competitive sports.

I continued this pattern throughout my public school education, a ritualistic exercise of stopping at the library each morning, selecting a new book, reading it throughout the day, and returning it after school.

Reading a book a day was a practice I carried out throughout my entire Middle and High School years.

I was a bright and quick student, and school came easy except for math, which came back to haunt me when I entered graduate school and had to take remedial algebra to complete my statistics and marketing courses.

I read fast, retained comprehension, recalled obscure facts, figures, and took a good test, which served me well in High School and College

I also had the awful habit of marking my place in each volume by bending the top right corner of the last page I had finished at a forty-five-degree angle to remind me of my spot and if I had read the book by checking the pages for creases.

By graduation, I had perused and marked most books in my school’s libraries.

My interests run the gamut of popular fiction, human interest stories, biographies, and history; curiously, I needed more inclination when pursuing romantic, science fiction, or fantasy literature.

At an early age, however, I became enthralled with “New Journalism” and writers who diligently researched their subjects, intensely scripted their dialogue, and immersed themselves in it.

My reading involvement began with young adult works on adventure, sports, and history but soon progressed into the contemporary classics, including Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, Earnest Hemmingway, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jack London, John Marquand, James Michener, John Steinbeck, Virginal Woolf, Leon Uris, Herman Wouk, Joseph Conrad, and Scott Fitzgerald.

I tried to read them all.

As my tastes evolved, I turned to Gonzo, Tom Wolfe, Joan Didion, Hunter Thompson, P.J. O’Rorke, Gay Talese, and others.

Naturally, being a sports and golf guy, I was enthralled and soon immersed myself in the commentaries and prose of Benard Darwin, Grantland Rice, Jim Murray, Furman Bisher, Dick Taylor, Dan Jenkins, Henry Longhurst, and Herbert Warren Wind, all preeminent sports journalists, and except for Darwin and Rice, I was fortunate to know, and later work with each of these esteemed writers in pressrooms, golf tournaments, and sporting events worldwide.

I learned from each of those authors’ examples that they used the playing fields of sports as metaphors for life’s lessons while emphasizing and characterizing the absolute absurdity of the games and the athletes who played them.

These stories were mingled with the participants’ oversized privilege and excess ego, who collectively shared a bursting confidence in their talent and abilities born of inherited genetics, while combined with the out-and-out humor and amusement that flowed through every moment of the narrative.

I enjoyed literature that allowed the writer to enter the story with their opinions, ideas, and personal involvement and allowed me to go along for the ride.

It was a thrilling atmosphere to roam about, and I frequented it often as I entered the golf business, traveling and competing, and then on the radio, producing my own literature, newscasts, and stories.

Chapter Four

It was worse than anything I had ever seen, could make up, or been part of, and without question, it was awful.

The cacophony of noise from the constant blaring and honking of horns, the grumbling clamor of internal combustion engines, and the reek of fumes from the exhausts of hundreds of motor vehicles was foul and unpleasant as the roadway before me collapsed into a single lane squeezed together, bordered by a phalanx of orange cones.

I was struck in stop-and-go traffic, with no way out and nowhere to go but forward.

It called to mind a colony of ants, returning to their nest, queued up, end-to-end with faceless, nameless creatures crawling before me as shimmering reflections, glaring hot off the windshields that encircle me, draw attention to the piles of rubbish, not unlike scat churned out from a procession of mechanical beetles, scattered indiscriminately alongside the cracked and uneven pavement below.

The congestion was massive, as cars and trucks of every shape and size kept coming and coming, seemingly from every direction, entrance, and on-ramp, adding to the pent-up bottleneck without pausing in their efforts to enter the impasse and onslaught of uninterrupted traffic.

It was September 1999, and I had just arrived at Logan International Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, had picked up my rental car, and was on my way to the 33rd Ryder Cup Matches when I got trapped in traffic.

I was traveling on assignment for The Rocky Mountain Golf Radio Network, covering the biannual competitions held on the storied links of the Country Club in Brookline, Massachusetts, a tony, fashionable, and well-heeled suburb southwest of Boston.

The “Battle of Brookline” would be contested at the Country Club of Brookline between Team Europe, captained by Mark James, and Team United States, captained by Ben Crenshaw.

The Country Club, one of the oldest private clubs in the United States and a founding member of the United States Golf Association in 1894, is steeped in old-school rituals and tradition and would prove a worthy test for the best international players in the world.

Getting there, however, was proving problematic.

The streets of Boston and the jumble of roads connecting Boston Harbor, the Shipyards, the Waterfront, and the City of Boston, one of the most populous capitals in New England, were pieced together long before automobiles were conceived and built.

The City itself was one of the first colonies in New England, founded in 1620 by English Puritans seeking religious freedom.

Boston is also considered the birthplace of the American Revolution and National Experience.

Nevertheless, as the town grew and expanded outward from the coast, harbor area, and marketplaces, migrating towards the city center, road traffic became extremely congested with wagons, horses, handcarts, and later motor vehicles as the Industrial Revolution commenced.

Central Artery Ring Road was conceived and constructed in 1951 before strict federal highway regulations were developed and implemented during the Eisenhower Administration.

The road would connect the coastal areas, the expanding and increasingly engaged Logan Airport, and downtown Boston proper.

However, from the start, the Ring Road was besieged with problems.

The roadway was a disaster, with tight curves, excessive entries, and exits, narrow access ramps without acceleration lanes, and ever-increasing automobile traffic.

When it opened in 1959, the road carried 75,000 vehicles a day; in the early 1990s, more than 200,000 traveled it regularly, making it among the most congested highways in North America.

Traffic crawled back and forth for more than ten hours daily, and the accident rate was horrendous.

Wasted fuel, time constraints, altercations, and late deliveries all compounded the problem.

The Massachusetts Turnpike Authority proposed new construction on a reworked Central Artery/Tunnel Project to relieve the congestion.

The Central Artery design, AKA, (The Big Dig) became one the biggest, most challenging highway projects in the history of the United States, comparable to the grand projects of the last century, not unlike The Panama Canal, the English Channel Tunnel, and the Trans-Alaska Pipeline.

The design took thirty-five years to complete but reduced traffic and improved mobility in one of America’s oldest, most congested major cities.

It also contributed to Massachusetts and New England’s economic growth while improving the environment for the entire region.

Unfortunately for me, the construction was ongoing and in progress, while I was stuck in the middle of it all, with my timeline for the day rapidly fading.

I planned to check in to the media Hotel, pick up my press credentials and parking pass, sightsee around Boston for a while, and then hit the road for the second segment of my visit.

I had purposely arrived in town a few days before the tournament to visit the New England coast, delve into my personal history, and explore the celebrated City that had contributed so much to our nation’s storyline.

My schedule was shot to pieces, so after checking in to the media hotel, dropping off my broadcasting gear, and unpacking, I quickly reclaimed my rental car and headed back out on the road, traveling south on I-495, away from the City, hoping to uncover my past.

****

I was born to goodly parents on Saturday, September 8, 1945, at 11:45 a.m. in Morton Hospital on Lakeview Avenue in Taunton, Massachusetts.

Taunton, one of the oldest and most time-worn communities in the United States, is usually a sleepy little hamlet located in the southeast part of the State, adjacent to the town of Plymouth, neighboring Cape Cod, and the iconic and scenic Martha’s Vineyard.

One of the oddities that have occurred throughout my life is I have had to answer the question of why I was born on the East Coast of America curiously so, when you consider the fact, I am the descendant of Mormon pioneers and have lived, except for university and military service, the entirety of my life in Utah.

Massachusetts, to most Westerners, seems like a foreign country.

I do not know why this subject has come up as much as it has during my life, and maybe, expecting the reaction, I have been a little too sensitive and defensive about always having to explain the reason.

The question concerns the fact that many people have open-ended conversations with others.

“Where are you from?”

“Where were you born”

I would always engage in an extended dialogue about the why and the how.

 Anticipating the question, I often hesitated and said I was born in Utah, which avoided the inquiry.

The answer, on reflection, is quite simple and interesting when considering the times.

I was born a classic baby boomer, grew up a child of the fifties and sixties, and am the offspring of parents and grandparents who, as members of the Greatest Generation, endured world wars, depressions, difficult times, and the worst of the human experience the modern world had ever seen, including my parents and the world they thrust me into.

It was during this chaotic period of world history that my father, Morice Ned Waters, was a soldier in the United States Army awaiting overseas shipment to the European Theater during the last days of World War II and assigned to Camp Myles Standish, named after the first military Commander of the Continental Army and one of the original immigrants to America who arrived on the Mayflower in 1620.

Established in 1942, the War Department created the military installation in Taunton, Massachusetts, on the eastern seaboard of the United States, as a staging area for overseas replacements and as a prisoner-of-war facility for German soldiers captured during the war.

When German forces surrendered to the Allies in May 1945, effectively ending the war in Europe, my mother, Katherine Goodliffe Waters, pregnant with me and nursing my older brother Jerry, relocated from Utah to Oakridge, Tennessee, to be with her mother, Leah Goodliffe, her stepfather Weldon Peterson, along with her younger sisters, Glenna, Iris, Shirley, and Marilyn, and to be somewhat closer to my father, then stationed in Taunton, awaiting orders.

My grandfather, a structural engineer, was assigned to the Clinton Engineering Works, a sub-division of the Manhattan Project, the ultra-secret atom bomb project.

American scientists were frantically trying to complete the project before opposing forces could build their atomic bomb.

With this in mind and anticipating the war’s end, my mother, with unstoppable independence and self-determination, just twenty-three years old and five months pregnant, packed up my brother Jerry and left Tennessee.

She took the train to Taunton, unaccompanied in wartime, traveling alone, leaving behind her mother, sisters, and support group.

When I arrived in this uncertain and tumultuous world, she reunited with my father, and we were together as a family.

With the fighting in Europe over, coupled with the unconditional surrender of German forces, President Harry Truman turned his attention to the Pacific and, in August 1945, dropped the atomic bombs on Japan, which effectively ended American involvement in World War II.

Thirty days later, I was born, and Taunton, Massachusetts, became my birth city and the everlasting notation on all my official records.

Two months later, and with a stoutness derived from their pioneer heritage, my parents loaded my brother Jerry and me, bundled up against the harsh winter cold, into a 1938 Chevy held together with baling wire and tape.

In the deepest winter months of 1946, with prayers to the heavens above, set forth across the United States on two-lane, snow-covered roads bound for Utah.

With little or no lament, our family left Massachusetts and the East Coat of the Continental United States behind, bound for my grandparents’ home in Mount Aire, Utah, a housing suburb in Millcreek, Salt Lake County, where we could stay and live out the remainder of the war.

 As the three of us settled in with my grandparents, my father left us behind once again.

He continued his journey alone to Fort Lewis, Washington, to be released from serving the remainder of his tour of duty while we patiently awaited his return.

Meanwhile, the circumstances surrounding my birth and my brief sojourn to Massachusetts had profound and lasting effects on my psyche, which would linger with waning recollections for the remainder of my life, the whereabouts I would often revisit emotionally, mentally, and subconsciously.

However, the opportunity to visit those recollections physically would have to wait for another fifty years.

****

 It was dark when the divided freeway, US 44 from the North, narrowed to a two-lane State highway.

A sign on the unlighted MA 40 abruptly illuminated, revealing the exit to Taunton.

Startled, I quickly hit the brakes to disengage the cruise control and took the exit way too fast.

As I applied the brakes, the crossroad’s modest interchange surprised me with its small scale and absence of buildings.

The north side of the intersection contained a Howard Johnson’s motel with an attached bar and grill, while a combination convenience store and gas station filled the other side.

A darkened, fairly narrow two-lane road bisected the middle of the intersection, offering a tree-lined passageway heading south into the countryside’s blackness.

Confused and wondering if I missed the main exit, I stopped at the gas pumps, hit the dome lights, and checked my map.

Thinking I had better ask directions, I unbuckled my seat belt, got out, and stretched my legs before entering the store.

The 7-11 clone’s cookie-cutter layout in the backwoods countryside of Southeast Massachusetts unnerved me with its sameness and uniformity, with even the beverage cooler positioned in the exact spot as every other location in America.

I could be anywhere in the country, except for the unexpected welcoming from the solitary attendant, who smiled and said,” Can I help you?” in the broadest, deepest Bostonian accent I have ever heard or could fathom.

Taken back, I reacted, “I’m looking for Taunton,”

“This is Taunton,” she answered, still in that very discernable and heavy regional dialect.

That led to a further inquiry, “Then where is the town?”  I questioned.

“It is down the road about a mile,” she replied,” still in character and pointing South.

Unnerved, I countered with, “I was born there.”

“So was I,” she rejoined, breaking the awkwardness of the exchange, and opening up a more cordial dialogue about how and why I was here, what I was doing in the middle of nowhere looking for the Hospital where I was born, all while conversing with a distinctly Utah twang.

As we wrapped up the chit-chat, seemingly in different languages, I asked, “If there were any hotels close by,” and with typical New England bogusness, she pointed across the street while suggesting, “Anything in town would probably be closed.”

I thanked her for the information and courtesy, ventured across the street, checked in to the nearly vacant motel, and promptly retired to the bar for something to eat and drink.

At the same time, I contemplated the next step in my journey, wondering once again whether going home would be a disappointment, a blessing, or a liberating experience.

I would soon find out.

Morning came early with it, a bottled-up eagerness to begin the day.

With practiced movements, after many years of golf tournaments and broadcast assignments worldwide, I quickly showered, dressed, and left my key on the nightstand.

Retrieving my car and following the helpful clerk’s instructions, I took the unmarked road to Taunton with thoughtful anticipation, under the early glow of a brilliant New England fall day, in search of the Hospital where I was born, which had endowed me the gift of life and the story of my beginnings.

Chapter Five

As I delved into the historical narrative of Taunton, Massachusetts, founded in 1637, I could not help but feel a deep sense of belonging to one of the oldest towns in the United States.

The settlement, established and developed by members of the Plymouth Colony, is positioned on the confluence of the Taunton and Mill Rivers, which wind their way through the area on their southern journey to Mount Hope Bay and the Atlantic Ocean.

Those early colonizers retained the name of Taunton to honor their ancestral home in Taunton, Somerset, England.

Like most early colonial outposts on the East Coast of America, Taunton was a village square whose built-up walls encompassed the colonists’ modest dwellings.

The settlers fortified the rectangular square to protect the colonists from Indian attacks and keep their livestock in check.

As the town grew and prospered, the village square soon developed as a communal area jointly held by the village and its inhabitants collectively to gather socially, engage in outdoor activities, and barter goods and services while reflecting on current and national affairs.

The village commons, now officially recognized as The Taunton Green, soon expanded as the town’s commercial, business, and industrial center.

Sawmills and gristmills populated the region, using nearby rivers for transporting goods and merchandise, and Taunton soon became a central shipping point for the inland rural parts of the territory.

The Green also served as a gathering place and training center for military maneuvers during the Revolutionary War.

A large monument now graces the center on The Green, honoring and commemorating American soldiers who lost their lives in service of their country.

Thanks to directions from my new friend at the convenience store, that monument and The Green encircling it became my destination, along with the many business-related buildings surrounding the town center, including the Hospital of journey’s end.

****

Like many motivated and inquisitive youngsters with a family background of means and manor taught, Marcus Morton, born in 1784, left Taunton at fourteen, seeking his education, fame, and fortune.

He found all three, receiving his degree from Brown University.

There, he was a classmate of John C. Calhoun, who would remain a lifelong friend, mentor, and future Vice President of the United States.

Morton continued his education, earning law degrees from Brown University and Harvard.

Returning to Taunton, he was admitted to the bar and opened his law practice in 1807.

Achieving success, he soon married and raised twelve children.

As was customary in that era of American history, Morton constructed a sizeable antebellum mansion to house his growing family, where he lived out the remainder of his life.

Overseeing a bourgeoning and successful law practice, he entered politics, serving as a Delegate to the Continental Congress, a stint in the United States House of Representatives, a Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, and two separate terms as Governor of Massachusetts.

Morton passed away in 1864 as one of the most celebrated and respected residents in the history of Taunton.

He died in the house he built, lived in, and raised his family in, fronting the historic Taunton Green, a setting he passionately helped develop, expand, and represented in the uppermost halls of public service.

Upon his death, Morton’s family generously donated his sizeable and beloved home to the City of Taunton.

Where that large, stately mansion, which pre-dated the Civil War, with its massive columns supporting an elegant wrap-around front porch, façade, and portico, looking out towards the imposing monument honoring Taunton’s contribution to America’s military history, became the original building of Morton Hospital and Medical Center and was an easy place to find.

Stepping into the remolded manor of a grandee of American Revolutionary history, I was overwhelmed with a mix of emotions.

I had finally uncovered the whereabouts of my beginnings and the place where my Mother brought me into this world.

My lifelong search was drawing to a close.

As I climbed the steps of the covered veranda and pushed my way through the imposing front entrance, I was instantly met with the heady scent familiar to all hospitals.

Almost immediately, a nurse confronted me, seemingly straight out of central casting, dressed in a formal, white starched uniform, including the traditional nurse’s cap and polished white leather shoes.

With a forceful and taciturn authority, she solicited, “May I help you?”

Anticipating the exchange, I had rehearsed my reply over and over in my head ever since that day in Salt Lake months ago when I was visiting my Mother and informing her of my mission to research the background of my birth and find out the history of the Hospital where I was born.

 I also expressed quite strongly to my Mom the extraordinary meaning and importance that pilgrimage would have for my personal identity and peace of mind.

The nurse’s reaction to my rushed and nervous response to the sequence of events leading me to this moment in time and all the drama it entailed was staggering in its compassion and thoughtful empathy.

Her demeanor changed immediately as she smiled, warmly embraced me, and instantly acknowledged and accepted me as a native and fellow Tauntonian.

She graciously took me on a tour of the Hospital, introducing me to administrators, nurses, doctors, technicians, and even the custodians.

She escorted me into the maternity ward where I was born fifty years before in a crowning and highly emotional moment of a perfect reunion.

It was everything I could have dreamt a homecoming might be, and the entire ordeal was warm and welcoming.

It was a moment of profound closure, a resolution to the questions that had shadowed and beguiled me since childhood.

This discovery of my birthplace and its backstory was immensely satisfying.

Discovering my place of birth and the backstory of the events and circumstances that contributed to that corroboration will always remain a cherished highlight of my return to New England.

After saying goodbye and expressing my heartfelt thanks to the hospital staff for their politeness and thoughtful consideration, I stopped at the gift store looking for memorabilia on sale.

I purchased postcards of the Hospital and a quartz glass replica of Marcus Morton’s ancestral home to remind me of the journey to my birthplace.

With my most important task fulfilled, I took a leisurely tour around The Taunton Green and marveled at its fountains, monuments, and the slice of Americana they represented.

Their long, unique history contributed so much to the story of our nation’s past, which I now share with all of Tauntonian, past and present, and in a modest and valued way, will stay with me for the rest of my life.

This episode reaffirmed my affinity for the East Coast of America, particularly Massachusetts, even though my sole exposure to the region was my birth.

When I tell people I was born on the East Coast, in a small, unassuming village, they look aghast and imagine a distant wilderness somewhere far away, a perception I have lived with my whole life.

As far-fetched as it sounds, I now consider myself a native a symbolic New Englander.

Chapter Six

Famished and contented with the outcome of my quest to this point, I left Taunton behind and headed East to the Coast, looking for nourishment and the Ferry to Martha’s Vineyard.

The Vineyard, informal slang for Martha’s Vineyard, had always fascinated me with its avant-garde charm, allure, and sophistication.

The East Coast’s version, reminiscent of the vibrant arts colony in Malibu, California, attracts artists, artisans, and celebrities.

The movie Jaws was filmed on the Island, which is well known for its public attractions, beaches, lighthouses, and laidback community culture.

 It is also a place I have always wanted to visit with its celebrated proximity to my birthplace.

While I pondered my next move, waiting for the Ferry and its half-hour ride to the Island, nursing a glass of Samuel Adams and wolfing down a bowl of clam chowder, I thought back to a vow I had made to myself long ago, the first time I returned to the East Coast of America as a grown man.

The occasion occurred during the 1986 United States Open Championship, contested at Shinnecock Hills in South Hampton, New York when I first began broadcasting radio on a national basis.

As an accredited media member of the Golf Writers Association of America, I covered the Major Golf Championships on the PGA Tour and traveled to cities that were hosting those tournaments.

As a Utah greenhorn visiting the Big Apple for the first time, I was excited to see and explore a city that never sleeps.

The train to Penn Station and downtown New York City stopped at the Golf Course on its way to the City.

To my everlasting regret, while captivated with announcing my second Major Championship on the PGA Tour, and first outside the Mountain West, I neglected to take the short trip into the City, a mistake I would not make again.

Waiting for the Ferry, I revisited my promise never again to abandon my pledge to visit, sightsee, and explore the incredible diversity, historical landmarks, and well-known sights and scenes scattered throughout this great country.

I will use the privilege bestowed on me to travel and visit this nation’s great cities and localities as part

I finished my beer, boarded the Ferry, and devised my strategy.

I was not due to return to the Country Club and Media Center in Brookline for my on-air responsibilities until tomorrow night’s Opening Ceremonies, so I had an extra day to explore the shoreline.

I would follow the venerable Kings Highway up the East Coast.

 This well-traveled thoroughfare, also known as the Old Post Road, has connected central New England’s commercial regions of farms, orchards, workshops, factories, and warehouses to Boston Harbor since colonial times and is packed with all kinds of remarkable places and interesting things to do.

If I saw something I liked, I would stop.

If I got tired, I would rest.

 If I got hungry, I would eat.

I called on most of the small towns on the Atlantic Seaboard, including Sandwich, Plymouth, Kingston, Revere, Quency, Gloucester, Salam, Manchester-By-Sea, and Essex, all historical sites that contributed to our colonial past.

I visited boutiques, lighthouses, antique stores, book shops, Plymouth Rock, The Mayflower, and other tourist attractions; I saw them all, and, on an interesting side note.

At every pause, there was the obligatory gift shop and concession stand, which served soft drinks, confections, trinkets, and other items, including clam chowder in little cups with plastic spoons.

Sampling this regional staple’s distinctive flavors, textures, and seasonings at each stop became a rite of passage.

In an act of contrition, I blew right past Boston and just kept going to see how far up the coast I could make it, only stopping if I saw something interesting.

When I finally did call it quits and pulled off the highway to park and find a place to stay, I found myself caught in the glare of the revolving beacon light, signaling out from the celebrated lighthouse safeguarding the rock-strewn beaches in the age-old seaport of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Tired, worn out, and feet hurting, I checked into the Inn perched on the harbor’s embankment, where I relaxed in the connected café.

Happy to be out of the car and weary of clam chowder, I wolfed down a cheeseburger and French fries while relishing a cold beer and then stumbled to my room.

I collapsed into bed, exhausted and done by the day’s activities but enthralled with the consequences of what I had seen and experienced on a day of unbridled satisfaction and fulfillment.

 I had visited much of the fabric of America’s colonial foundation, caught glimpses of our nation’s past, viewed long-ago images, connected my roots to my birthplace, and suffered sufficient history for one day.

The following morning, sitting in the comfort of the Inn’s coffee shop, overlooking the matchless panorama of the wave-swept waterfront in Portsmouth, feasting on homemade buckwheat hotcakes with real maple syrup almost made up for the strenuous outing I endured yesterday.

Still, I was not finished with my journey.

One of the motives for my extended excursion up the East Coast of New England was arriving at this final setting.

I was shooting for Kennebunkport, Maine, farther up the coast, but tired of driving, I settled on Portsmouth, which was fine as my concluding destination.

I visited all the shops and tourist attractions I wanted to see yesterday.

 I was sick of clam chowder and eager to visit the heartland of rural, present-day, old-fashioned New England, with no shopping or sideshows to distract me.

Just a leisurely drive down the scenic byways and country roads while eschewing the freeway, on a straight shot across Vermont, heading for Concord and the images of Norman Rockwell sights and scenes along the way.

 I was hunting for rustic, unspoiled farms, picture-perfect small towns, old-fashioned watermills, covered footbridges, and finally, a restful drive through enchanted, overlooked villages of the golden days of New England’s colonial past.

Most of all, I wanted to witness the breathtaking splendor of autumn leaves draped across the canvas of a perfect New England fall day in all its pastoral glory.

I could not wait, so after breakfast, I loaded up and headed out, impatient to wrap up the campaign I started yesterday but immensely pleased with my efforts.

I had discovered my roots, visited most of the eastern seaboard’s historical landmarks and attractions, and visited the lion’s share of the original thirteen colonies.

I was now on my way to behold one of nature’s genuinely scenic, most picturesque wonders of creation.

It called to mind that old refrain and limerick, “Paris in the Springtime, New England in the Fall, and I’ll take New York City anytime at all.”

My desire to see, experience, and finally celebrate all three of those spectacular marvels of geography was about to come to fruition.

I caught the US Highway 4 out of Portsmouth to Northwood and the junction of old Turnpike Road connecting the Coast, where it forked off to Concord, now US State Road 202.

The long, gentle, meandering two-lane road winding through the fall landscape was picture-perfect and a microcosm of everything I came to New England to discover and celebrate.

More than uncovering my history and back story, the regal countryside of Central New England fulfilled the promise of my coming home.

In a textbook case of reality exceeding expectations, the majesty and spectacle of colors emanating throughout nature’s untouched and spectacular landscape put the finishing touches on a perfect getaway amidst New England’s stunning scenery.

Satisfied and pleased with my encounter but tired and eager to return to work, I rejoined the freeway at Concord, merging onto I-93, a direct route back to Boston and the Ryder Cup I had come to report on.

Chapter Seven

I began my journey considering the possibilities of a future in the golf business when I returned home to Utah following an overseas deployment in the United States Army.

My path in life before my epiphany of pursuing a golf lifestyle was a caricature of conflicts: physical, intellectual, moral, and emotional.

In my quarter of a century of existence, after a succession of varied and diverse involvements and experiences, I had yet to understand where I was going or how to get there; my life was a muddle of desires, wants, and aspirations.

I was still determining what I wanted to do or what I wanted to be.

I needed direction, vision, and forethought to prepare for the rest of my life’s ups and downs, which, in my youthful exuberance, I thought I had acquired.

I realized that all past experiences and encounters needed to be more robust in substance, and it took a while to cultivate and understand.

Life was carefree and straightforward when I graduated high school, and the direction was specific.

I would be attending Utah State University in Logan, Utah.

I was on a scholarship and wanted to see if I could play football at the next level.

The University allowed me that opportunity and the bonus of leaving home and venturing independently.

Both experiences were dreadful mistakes and hugely unsuccessful.

Football was fun for a while, but I quickly realized that with my lack of talent and lingering injuries from high school, I would never play in the NFL, and the exercise soon became tedious and just another chore.

Living away from home in the dorms is mandatory for incoming first-year students with its attendant rules, procedures, and protocols.

It was too much work and confining for my disposition and temperament.

Coupled with the casual indifference of so many students from differing cultures, backgrounds, and ethnicities to abide by and adhere to communal norms, conduct, and polite and mindful manners, the environment required restraint and self-discipline, which was difficult.

I am not racist, a prude, or homophobic, but there was so much noise, clamor, turmoil, and far too many people all living in the same place, creating a harshness of annoyance and commotion.

So, I pledged to a fraternity to escape the forced residency constraints of living with other students.

 I then moved into the chapter house on fraternity row, satisfying the University’s requirement to live on campus.

This only marginally raised the quantity and quality of my new housemates’ life experiences, behaviors, and imaginary level of sophistication, with the presumed privilege each claimed as their right.

This was combined with the endless parties and mindless chatter that surrounded the diminished size of the populace I was now compelled to live and socialize with.

So, after two years I quit, dropped out of school before I got kicked out, went back home with my tail between my legs, explained and apologized to my disappointed parents that I was not cut out for college life or living with other people, and got a job, which seemed the next step in the evolutionary process.

Growing up, I had many assorted and odd jobs, including working part-time as a paper carrier, dishwasher, server assistant, and baker’s assistant in the service industry.

Nothing serious piqued my interest or career expectations.

My first real job out of high school, when I was expecting to play football in college, was working in manufacturing and construction, and I loathed everything about it.

From the early morning wakeups, the grime and drudgery, the sheer labor-intensive physicality, and packing a lunch bucket every day.

Most of all, I saw and felt my fellow workers’ discontent and unhappiness about their predicament and lack of a foreseeable future.

I vowed then that was not the life I would choose, nor the profession I would pursue.

 I needed to be happy; most of all, life had to be enjoyable and fun.

Chapter Eight

After my brief foray into college and my return to the safety and privacy of my parents’ home and my old, comfortable bedroom, I went to work in retail sales, peddling women’s shoes in downtown Salt Lake City, Utah, and discovered I enjoyed it immensely.

I embraced the lifestyle, standard of living, and the hustle and bustle of big-city employment, as well as the everyday delight of meeting and interacting with new, different, and exciting people, using my wits, wearing nice clothes, and working a flexible schedule with time off for lunch and late-night dinners.

Plus, I was making good money, learning a craft, enjoying living, and having fun.

The city center business culture of the mid-sixties has heady stuff for a wannabe man-about-the-town putting on airs and spreading his nascent wings trying to soar above the day-to-day and crowded playing fields of unadventurous and indifferent, staid, predictable, baby boomer adolescents pushing, and shoving their way to sameness below.

However, this serendipitous and satisfactory lifestyle I was enjoying, moving smoothly forward amidst the flowers, love, and sexual freedom of the Beat Generation in undisturbed and peaceful contentment, could not last and, regrettably, did not.

The world, as I and the rest of those living in those giddy and intoxicating times soon realized, the proverbial rug could be pulled out from beneath us at any moment, and the sparkle of this beguiling existence could shift in a heartbeat.

And it did.

The realization of impending reckoning was first unmasked when the United States, to its everlasting folly and regret, waged battle, and destruction against a small, impoverished Indo-China nation for dubious reasons, altering the trajectory, hopes, dreams, and aspirations of an entire generation of young men entering the best part of their lives.

America was now in a State of War, and being of prime age, the United States Government requested my service, and I responded.

A product and offspring of the Greatest Generation and the ingrained pride of country and flag that cohort instilled in their progeny, I replied to my Nation’s call of duty by joining the Utah National Guard and enlisting in the United States Army’s 19th Special Forces Group.

I was justifiably proud of my military service, including the rigorous and specialized training I endured during those turbulent years of the Vietnam conflict.

 I took pride in serving, becoming a celebrated Special Forces member, achieving Airborne Qualification, and wearing the coveted Green Beret.

For the next five years, during those turbulent and malevolent times, I juggled my job responsibilities, full and part-time military service, career moves, and the ups and downs of conventional life as I sought higher and meaningful purpose amongst the rapid social upheavals of a polarized and conflicted world that was rapidly transforming and revolutionizing the very fabric of its and my existence.

The entire era of the sixties was a strange and chaotic time.

Civil Rights, Voting Rights, Gay Rights, Women’s Rights, the Counterculture Movement, The Sexual Revolution, and a noted uptick in environmental concerns.

I tried to live and function in an expected, conventional, mainstream reality.

I climbed the corporate ladder, succeeded, was promoted to management, and transferred to Denver, Colorado, in 1967.

Seeking some decorum and responsibility, I settled into a mundane, unremarkable, everyday life and envisioned establishing deeper roots, getting married, and investing in a home and business.

Fortune and my home-schooled values now influenced and governed my every practice, and I was caught up in the ethos of the time, where my future was predictably ordained, defined, and established.

After years of contradiction, I was settling down and following the blueprint my parents had installed in my character.

Then, in 1968, the world I knew and was beginning to enjoy and appreciate was turned upside down.

I had achieved some measure of success in the culture and social order during those peaceful, laid-back Summer of Love Days and had settled into a predictable routine that quickly collapsed at the seams.

In a few short months, the brutal murder of progressive icons Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King shook society’s foundation.

On the war front, the Tet Offensive in Vietnam shocked the military-industrial complex, forever changing the American Public’s belief in a conflict being fought at significant personal and economic cost, far from American shores.

Nationally, anti-war riots broke out in Chicago and other large cities, and Middle-Class America was shocked at the violence the Peace and Love Generation perpetrated against established authority and rule.

This forceful and enthusiastic behavior ended the years of possibility, promise, and optimism that began with a man on the moon, ended with days of rage, and abandoned the illusion of the pleasure-seeking, self-absorbed cohort that defined the complexities and lowest point of the sixties.

Finally, the defining action of this era severely tarnished the baby-boomer generation, ending the years of hope for a kinder, gentler America and sealing my fate and that of many of my contemporaries.

North Korea had blatantly seized the American naval vessel US Pueblo, capturing eighty-three crew members aboard, intensifying the disagreement and State of War between The United States and North Korea.

North Korea’s military aggression escalated the ongoing struggle between the two long-time adversaries, altering the national military posture, forgoing all graduate school deferments, and ending college exemptions from the draft, precipitating the calling up of military reserves and extending their terms of military service.

Including me.

Chapter Nine

Three weeks later, after rapidly buttoning up all my pressing commitments and obligations, including saying goodbye to my fiancé and long-time girlfriend whom I would never see again, leaving my promising, middle-class lifestyle, work, and living arrangements, along with everything owned, which I never reclaimed, I reported to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and the overseas replacement station awaiting immediate transport to the Republic of South Korea, and a War Zone I thought I would never see, nor participate in.

Dazed, and shortly after arriving in Pusan on the southern tip of the peninsula, I was headed north, traveling above the 38th parallel towards the Demilitarized Zone separating North and South Korea, where I would spend the next thirteen months, twenty-three days, carrying a loaded weapon, collecting hazardous duty pay, contemplating my future, or lack of, and wondering how in the world my life, lofty expectations, and prospects could be transformed so quickly, with such devasting consequences, and how this could have happened to me?

The only enduring thought about my present dilemma and its long, lonely nights was that I had a year to contemplate my situation with its predictable dreariness and monotony because I had nowhere to go and plenty of time to think about it and plans for my future.

By some perverse logic, as I deliberated my predicament, the recurring thought that ran through my subconscious mind was that, somehow, I had gotten a makeover.

I had been saved from a probable, conventional, and banal life I had been fast-tracked for.

I now had a clean slate that had wiped out all my yesterdays, the history, accounts, and relationships of times gone by, good and bad.

From now on, I could control, shape, and mold my destiny, whatever it might be, as I saw fit.

The only dilemma was I had to get out of Korea sane and in one piece.

****

It was cold, bitter cold, and the biting chill of the frozen night seeped through every layer of my winter gear.

The crunch of trampled snow beneath my boots was the only sound disturbing the stillness of the star-filled night.

The brightness of the searchlights rising above the lookout posts every hundred yards cast eerie halos outside the double rows of concertina wire safeguarding the camp’s perimeter.

They extended their flickering glow beyond the inky blackness that stretched endlessly into the shadows of the barren and battle-scarred countryside.

I was on guard duty, walking the fence line with a half-hearted conscientiousness and bone-chilling weariness.

The task’s uneasiness promoted a menacing tenseness that intensified as the night progressed.

My thoughts ran unchecked and swelled with wakefulness, only dampened by the routine and sameness of each passing hour.

My nose wrinkled and clogged from the stench of the cooking fires, which wafted and hung heavy from the nearby village.

The pall of the smoke they fashioned lent a hazy layer to the night sky.

Despite the frigid temperature, my probing eyes never left the fence line, trusting the tramped and worn pathway through the snow leveled by scores of sentries who trooped this track before me.

Unease was a constant companion as I searched and surveyed the landscape outside the wire, seeking demons and phantoms lying in wait and prowling beyond my night vision.

Worry, dread, and nervousness of the unknown and unseen cripple your soul and constrain your inner self, more profound than the icy blasts ripping through my winter hood and helmet.

They were out there, watching and waiting; you could feel their presence with each step you took, and suspicions grew more prominent with every image imagined lurking in the shadows, summoned in your mind, flashing continually through your consciousness.

With fright and foreboding, those thoughts and fantasies gathered and amplified.

The camp was in the war zone, just a few short miles south of the DMZ, and danger was always present, with North Korean soldiers gathered along the border that separated the two countries.

 Infiltrators, spies, and undercover agents were continually slipping through our forward lines to observe and probe our defenses, watching me as I searched for them.

Apprehension and fear are unnerving motivators when hopelessness and despair plummet into the unashamed depths of melancholy.

A state of mind that can only be changed by thoughts of better days, of hope, belief, and expectations that my future outlook and prospects for a better tomorrow will improve.

Walking the guard line, with its long hours of never-ending contemplation and deliberation, afforded me ample time to think and ponder alternate viewpoints.

This condition amended my outlook and perception of what I needed to do to be happy, optimistic, and successful when I entered civilian life again.

The army will do that to a person.

With its vertical chain of command, differing levels of authority, and strict hierarchal system, the military stifles originality while rewarding a divine sense of entitlement with its rigid system of rank and privilege.

But not just the army, with its entrenched and structured culture, made me think and envision my plight, but my previous life as a civilian well.

Both the military and my earlier life had revealed me to a line of reasoning that would change my mind set and attitude, which had slowly ripened throughout my youthful, unsophisticated years of assorted and diverse encounters, which had lacked organization and development and had, up until now, been easy and carefree.

I had gotten by on good fortune, luck, cleverness, some degree of talent, and a generous measure of pluck, brashness, and bluster.

What I recalled from all my past involvements and the emotional and physical trials and baggage they presented, and the army had reinforced this throughout my year-long tour, is that a good number of people who collect rewards from their professed importance or privilege and when coupled with insufficient training or education, and are thrust into positions of authority and then promoted upward within those structured hierarchical systems, gaining positions of power while collecting measures of accomplishment from that upward mobility, are inclined to overestimate their self-importance and vanity.

This entitlement, when coupled with a stubborn self-denial of the many opportunities, advantages, or support that boosted them to their achievements, habitually empowers them to mistaken claims that, rather than some quirk of fate or happenstance, it is their singular self-fortitude, grit, determination, talent, and the proverbial “pulling themselves up by their bootstraps,” that allowed them to achieve their access to good fortune and special privileges.

This arrogance and self-delusion are what seemingly justifies their narcissism, lack of humility, and empathy towards individuals afforded lesser opportunities.

An attitude and way of behaving, after my year in the army, I now loathed, despised, and vowed never to embrace.

That was the recurring theme as I reflected on my previous experiences and contended with The Good Old Boy Network and the social and community inequality those involvements infiltrated and permeated my past.

 And I promised myself again, with each frozen footstep I took, that if I made it out of Korea alive, my life would change; I would be more tolerant and easy-going, and I would return to college with a renewed commitment, compassion, and consideration for my fellow man, along with a recharged purpose for whatever road lay ahead.

In the present, I soon realized my only recourse and relief from guard duty, the enforced bureaucracy and all the mundane, dreary jobs associated with military life, was to change my Military Occupation Specialty and request a transfer to another job.

 Using my natural intelligence and previous education, I applied for the position of legal clerk for Battalion Headquarters.

I was awarded the position, promoted to NCO, with my own office and staff, and now judicated the legal affairs of the thousand service members of my organization.

 With more free time, and a flexible schedule could now participate in sports, and for the rest of my tour, I did just that.

I played football and baseball on the battalion teams while traveling the length of the country performing and barnstorming on the playing fields and ball diamonds of South Korea while also using and stimulating my mind while retaining my sanity and sense of purpose.

Chapter Ten

The Seattle-Tacoma International Airport was a beehive of bustle and activity, jammed with passengers, visitors, and returning servicemembers arriving home from the Pacific Theater.

The main demarcation and separation depository for all military personnel inward bound from Southeast Asia, Japan, and Korea was teeming with commotion and hubbub, coupled with the unavoidable din and clamor arising from the chorus of demonstrators and protestors amassed outside the central terminal.

The bus from Fort Lewis had dropped me and the other newly discharged GIs off at the main entrance, but we were now alone and on our own as we disembarked and braved the gauntlet of anger, spite, and hatred that accosted our arrival.

We had heard the stories and watched news coverage of the welcoming committees that would greet our appearance and return home from hostilities but were all taken back by the mob’s wrath and scorn as security kept a watchful eye.

Who, after years of war, enduring countless protests, and shepherding thousands of returning soldiers through the doorways of the building, were immune to the shouting, agitation, and discontent of the enraged hordes.

Security officers ignored the picketers, who were sequestered behind barriers preventing physical encroachment with the returnees, as we, with eyes adverted, hastily entered the building and scurried to our boarding locations and the safety of the loading gates.

As my flight finally became airborne, I sat back, took a deep and thankful breath, and watched the teeming Seattle metropolis disappear beneath the aircraft’s wings as the airplane gained altitude, circled out and over a placid and serene Pacific Ocean, banked, turned, and headed for Salt Lake City, and the home I had not seen for almost five long, meaningless, and difficult years.

My psychological and emotional nightmarish ordeal was finally over.

I could now start anew, refreshed, and with a newborn perspective.

I faced an uncertain future and an unaccustomed life, and I had no idea where either one might lead me.

When I called my parents at home from the airport, they did not answer, which was unsurprising for two reasons: first, they did not know when to expect me, and second, it was a long Fourth of July weekend, and I knew they would be busy and out of town.

So, I took a cab.

The house looked the same, with the key in its usual place under the doormat.

I let myself in, went downstairs to my old bedroom, found some old clothes in the closet, and changed out of my uniform, which I hung carefully, ensuring my medals and awards were displayed prominently.

I went back upstairs and laid my dress greens out on the couch where it would be seen the first thing, laid down, and promptly fell asleep.

When I awoke, it was late afternoon, and the house was eerily quiet as I went back to check for changes in the yard and deck.

Waves of nostalgia and memories washed over me as I sat under the patio and reminisced on events and celebrations of the only house I had ever lived and grown up in and, for the second time in my adult life, a home I thought I would never return to.

It was getting dark, and with nothing to do and nowhere to go, I walked to the store, bought a twelve-pack of beer, returned home, and with newfound independence, I drank until I passed out.

Morning came early, and the house was dark and unresponsive as I stumbled groggily to the bathroom in the early daybreak.

I needed nourishment, and as expected, it was readily accessible, plentiful, and more than enough to appease my emptiness and headache.

Back in the family room, I slowly nursed my coffee, munched on a piece of toast, and little by little contemplated my uniform, still displayed neatly on the couch where I had left it on display and just the day before had worn proudly home in great expectancy and anticipation of my homecoming and reuniting with my family.

The more I studied it, the more it came across as vulgar, tasteless, and unbecoming.

I soon grew weary and bored of its grainy coarseness, old-school, and unfashionable attire.

So, I packed it up, carried it back downstairs to my bedroom, stashed it away in my closet, and never took it out nor wore it again.

Realizing my parents were not coming home anytime soon and it was a long holiday weekend, I called some old high school friends and asked if they wanted to party.

As I waited for them to pick me up, I checked the time on my wristwatch with its camouflage band I had purchased from the military commissary in Japan and worn throughout my year-long tour in Korea.

In a concluding act of defiance, closure, and a final symbol of my new freedom, I walked to the garbage cans at the end of the driveway.

I tossed away the watch, never wearing one again, as time now became my most important commodity and mine alone to keep.

I waited for my friends to arrive, and, for the second consecutive night, I partied into the wee hours of the morning, safely ensconced in my parent’s home, comfortably secluded in Utah, and shielded from harm’s way with nothing but time and thoughts of my impending future.

My parents finally arrived Tuesday afternoon, and, as suspected, they had spent the long holiday weekend at the family cabin in the mountains above Park City, Utah.

They gently admonished me for not letting them know when I would be arriving, but I explained that when the army said to go, I did not argue; I went.

We talked long into the night about the past five years, my many experiences, the serendipitous and circular journey I had taken to the present moment, and my plans for the future.

I also presented my proposal and a rough idea of my aspirations, which were both singular and straightforward.

Finishing my education was the key, training was the validation, and everything else was secondary.

With it, self-determination meant freedom to plot my course.

With all my siblings married and gone, the house was conveniently empty.

If they permitted, I would get a job, return to college, and move back home until I could re-adapt to conventional life and begin to attend school regularly.

As a family member staying in their home, I would no longer be on scholarship; I would pay for board and room, help with the house and yard chores, respect their space, and abide by their house rules.

I was extremely blessed and fortunate that my parents were caring, open-minded, and trusting folks whose love was unconditional.

They were never reluctant to send me off on another adventure, and their home was always open and welcoming when I returned, no matter the circumstances.

They agreed with little or no stipulations and conditions other than to work hard at school, honor their house rules, and with a place to live, and hang my hat, I moved back home.

Then in rapid order, four things happened.

First, I applied for the GI Bill to receive tuition compensation and get paid to go to school.

Second, I registered at the Veterans Hospital to be eligible for health care and medications.

Third, I completed the paperwork for admission to the University of Utah, transferred my credits from Utah State, was tested, and enrolled as a non-traditional student in the class of 1975.

Finally, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, and with school still months away, a friend asked me to play Golf, and I soon became a fixture at the golf course.

The Pro, whom I had known for years, suggested, “If I was going to be there every day, I might as well go to work,” which I did.

Those two pursuits, Education and Golf, would govern my existence for the next half-century.

College fulfilled my intellectual curiosity, needs wants, and the wonder and enjoyment of learning.

Golf would provide support and economic advancement while satisfying my physical compulsions, cravings, and competitive desires.

It would also afford me resolve and a reason to get up every morning.

This scenario was exactly what happened for the next fifty years, and my everyday existence became a predictable lifestyle.

I studied and attended school in the winter and played Golf in the summer.

Like clockwork, as the seasons changed, so did I, moving from one lifestyle and character to another, typically coinciding with the advent of Daylight Savings Time.

Along the way, I gained my diplomas, degrees, certificates, and accreditations while teaching, writing, and publishing at every level, including Middle School, High School, Community College, and University.

Active in Golf, I played competitively as an Amateur and Professionally, locally, nationally, and internationally; I joined the PGA of America, earned my Class A and Master Professional Classifications, and became a Head Golf Professional, Administrator, and Small Business Owner while traveling the globe promoting Golf.

I also returned to Broadcast Media by launching a syndicated talk radio show covering golf-related subjects, including attending, and airing the Major Championships on the PGA’s annual schedule.

Meanwhile, fulfilling a long-time desire and compulsion to record my many experiences and encounters in the sport, I started composing and submitting articles, stories, and essays to various magazines, journals, and additional internet platforms, and was accepted into the Golf Writers Association of America.

Now, as an accredited Journalist and Broadcaster, I embarked on an effort of covering and announcing Major Golf Tournaments, while visiting, competing, and reporting from some of the most acclaimed and famous golf courses around the world, including those on every Continent and Country on Earth except Australia, China, Russia, and Antarctica.

Along the way, I got to play most of the Golf Courses on Golf Digest’s Top 100 list, including such iconic courses as Pebble Beach, Augusta National, The Old Course at St. Andrews, Valderrama, Portmarnock, Shinnecock Hills, and many others.

I had found my passion, my purpose, and my life’s calling.

Chapter Eleven

As I settled into my chosen career as a PGA Golf Professional, I worked hard and had fun with it, all while exercising my creativity by writing, announcing, and broadcasting.

I also succumbed to the long-established cultural and societal playbook for aging baby boomers when, in 1977, I got married, bought a house, and started a family while continuing my outside business interests and serving as a Golf Professional in municipal government at Public Golf Courses in Salt Lake City.

I also joined UPEA, the Utah Public Employees Association Union.

I was thankful for the salary and benefits public employment and the Union afforded me compared to working in the uncertain private sector.

The UPEA offered vacations, flexible hours, comp time, sick leave, job security, and, most importantly, comprehensive health insurance.

I was cruising along pretty well in my personal life and outside businesses when my job and personal aspirations hit a brick wall in 1982, when I developed prostate cancer at thirty-eight years old, diagnosed during a routine employee health exam,

In questioning medical professionals, they all agreed that thirty-eight was incredibly young to come down with what is typical of an older man’s disease.

Already registered with the Veterans Administration and as a patient at the VA Hospital, I researched the cause and effects of how this might have happened while contacting the Veterans of Foreign Wars service organization, where I filed a disability claim caused by my long-term exposure to Agent Orange suffered during my year-long tour on or near, the DMZ in South Korea.

I consulted doctors and solicited many options and second opinions for the next three years when finally, in 1993, I underwent brachytherapy, a radical prostate radiation surgery, and have lived with prostate cancer, its consequences, and the associated treatments, scans, tests, and bloodwork, for the last forty years.

With a growing family, a mortgage, and other obligations, I was now stuck in my current employment if I were to retain my existing health insurance coverage and earn benefits through the Public Employees Association, with little opportunity for outside movement or advancement due to my pre-existing conditions.

I had established a reasonably normal lifestyle, assembled a large circle of friends and family, and built a foothold in the community.

I did not want to relocate, even if it were possible.

Meanwhile, I had climbed the pecking order in the golf industry, checking off the boxes I needed to succeed and advance in the business, including Head Professional, Instructor, MBA, and Master Professional status.

I found myself drawn towards senior management.

Already serving as Director of Player Development for Salt Lake County and managing player programs for the six-county golf courses, I had set my sights on becoming Director of Golf for either Salt Lake City or Salt Lake County, the largest and most influential Golf programs in Utah, while retaining my status as a union member and enrolled in the Public Employees Health system.

Both administration jobs came open in the Winter of 1988, as both Salt Lake County and Salt Lake City Corporation solicited Requests for Proposals, seeking to replace their existing managers at the dozen public Golf Courses they operated and managed under their domain.

I applied for both but was not selected, and with my career doors closed, I now had some hard decisions to make.

My workload as Director of Player Development for Salt Lake County needed to be manageable, requiring more effort and time than I no longer had.

These decisions and all my added outside programs became too time-consuming to perform adequately.

Through my present employment in Player Development, I have managed and administered programs such as Clubs or Kids, the Utah State Long Drive Championship, and the Utah State Putting Contest.

I also established the Rocky Mountain Golf Academy, which built a sizable teaching program.

I incorporated it under the umbrella of Rocky Mountain Golf Enterprises, a Utah-registered, licensed, and tax-paying corporation, and filed conflicts of interest statements with the State Government to avoid legal difficulties.

Which required an actual Golf Course and Driving Range to coach my students properly.

With senior management jobs no longer available, I resigned as Director of Player Development for Salt Lake County.

I requested reassignment to a golf course as an assistant golf professional, freeing up my time and resources and allowing me to control my work schedule.

An Assistant position was available at Mick Riley.

I relocated to Murray, Utah, and moved all my programs there, taking advantage of its large Driving Range, Putting Greens, and spacious teaching facilities.

Fortunately, I retained my merit status, seniority, and pay grade with the Utah Public Employees Association, ensuring my continued income, insurance, and providing healthcare for my family.

It was a step back in my career ambitions.

Still, I gained, in return, control of my schedule and the freedom to expand my other programs and outside business interests, including enlarging my radio broadcasting blueprint and creating The Rocky Mountain Golf Radio Network.

As a youngster, my early exposure to radio broadcasting sparked a lifelong passion for storytelling and communication.

With career advancement now unavailable, I decided to pursue radio more aggressively.

I expanded my coverage of the Major Championships on the PGA Tour, grew the network, and solicited sports talk radio stations willing to accept my updates and tournament coverage across the region.

As a working PGA Golf Professional who gravitated towards journalism and broadcasting when my playing days were winding down in the mid-eighties, I began authoring articles and stories for various news outlets and magazines while announcing and commenting on our local golf tournaments, including PGA, Senior, and, at that time, Buy.Com Tour events in the Rocky Mountain region.

I kept up with journalistic aspirations by voicing radio and television commercials and freelance voice work in the Salt Lake market.

I wanted to expand and include golf coverage in the Rocky Mountain region as part of my broadcasting coverage in one of the most crowded and competitive radio markets in the United States.

All the AM and FM channels allocated to this market were occupied, mainly in the largest and most congested population centers.

Other than local newspapers and network television, there were no broadcast media outlets outside those metropolises.

Vast distances from one place to another throughout the region isolate smaller cities and towns.

Radio is often the only source of news and sports, mainly local, regional, and national events, creating a need for more comprehensive and specialized coverage.

The Rocky Mountain Golf market comprises Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Western Colorado, and Northern California.

A geographical area of more than 900,000 square miles and almost 30 million people.

This is the market I wanted to exploit and broadcast my golf programming.

I just needed the proper go-between and platform to realize my dream.

Chapter Twelve

My wishes were answered when KISN 97, locally owned by Utah broadcast legend Frank Carman and the original flagship station of the Utah Jazz, was purchased by Sun Mountain Broadcasting and renamed Utah Sports Radio. The new station owners developed the station’s format as an early pioneer in talk radio positioned around the Utah Jazz professional basketball team, with longtime media executive Randy Rogers as the station Manager.

Chicago-based Trumper Broadcasting acquired Utah Sports Radio and sold it to Clear Channel Broadcasting, which has a sizeable stable of broadcast partners.

The station’s management, now exclusively a Sports Talk Radio format, approached me to develop golf programming and broadcast updates for local and regional golf tournaments.

As I expanded Sports Radio’s Golf coverage with updates and local tournaments, I picked up more sports stations.

I started covering golf tournaments on the PGA’s Tours national schedule and the Major Championships, including the US Open, The PGA, Ryder Cup, and the Masters.

Using credentials from Sports Radio, I aired updates and programming on Clear Channels network of affiliated stations.

At one time, using Clear Channel’s network, I provided tournament updates and championship coverage to more than fifty stations scattered across the Mountain West and California, which kept me busy with time, travel, and attending tournaments.

In 1996, KALL 910, one of the powerhouses in intermountain radio and the flagship broadcast media outlet of University of Utah Athletics, recruited me from Utah Sports Radio to develop, coordinate, and enlarge their golf coverage throughout KALL’s wide-ranging regional blueprint on the Intermountain News and Sports Network.

I moved my syndicated programming to Kall and continued hosting my weekly golf show, which expanded to two hours and was simulcast on Kall’s sister stations throughout the market, using telephone, ISDN lines, and the internet.

Because I had developed an extensive network of radio stations that requested my coverage and content, first on Sports Radio, then Clear Channel, and finally Kall, all of which still depended on me for weekly updates and programming.

 I was already selling advertising for programming on my shows and updates, and the common-sense solution and the most logical outcome was to form my own business.

 In 1996, Rocky Mountain Golf Radio was born as a DBA and folded into the umbrella of Rocky Mountain Golf Enterprises, along with my teaching academy.

The network received accreditation and press credentials from every Major Golf Organization.

Rocky Mountain Golf Radio Network is a registered, licensed, tax-paying DBA that began broadcasting in January 1996.

The network continued its reports and offers analysis of all major golf events, local and regional tournaments, updates, long and short features, and digital content on its blog, website, and syndicated podcast to subscribers, radio stations, and media outlets across Rocky Mountain Golf Network transmitted constituency.

Rocky Mountain Golf Network produced a weekly Golf Show that provided regional exposure for more than three decades of continuous coverage and reporting in the Rocky Mountain West, a legacy of which I am enormously proud. My career in radio has spanned forty years as a Broadcast Journalist. I reported on various stations and markets across the country, embarking on a lifetime enterprise of announcing, broadcasting, and airing sporting events worldwide.

I was extremely fortunate and honored to have had the opportunity to host my programming and gain recognition and appreciation while playing a part in the formative years of Utah’s Sports Talk Radio’s history.

Along the way, I worked alongside outstanding broadcasting legends such as Chris Tunis, Dave Blackwell, Bill Howard, Paul James, Bill Marcroft, Ron Boone, Steve Klauke, and David Locke, among others.

Utah Golf Radio, a show I created, produced, and aired for twenty-five years until I grew tired of getting up at 6:00 am every Saturday, transferred to the First Tee’s program director, Paul Pugmire, who continues to air the show Saturday mornings on ESPN 700.

While I continued working as an Assistant Golf Professional at Mick Riley Golf Course for thirty-five years.

During that period, I served under for six different Head Professionals and three different Golf Directors while managing Mick Riley’s day-to-day operations and overseeing my many assorted businesses with no complaints or issues.

Each of the Golf Professionals and Administrators I worked under, given my training and experience, was more than happy to have me handle the day-to-day operations of the Golf Course, freeing them to play Golf, while I also attended to my other dealings.

I also continued my broadcasting duties, covering and reporting live from over one hundred Major Golf Tournaments sites across the United States and Europe.

I expanded Rocky Mountain Golf Enterprises to include the Network, a Teaching Academy, and a Travel and Production company.

In 2020, at seventy, I retired as a public employee after thirty years of government service to Salt Lake City Corporation and Salt Lake County.

My prostate cancer returned with a vengeance, and in 2023, I was awarded 100% disability rating with full medical assistance from the Veterans Administration for my long-term exposure to Agent Orange.

My travel days were over, and I no longer cover Major Golf Tournaments in person.

Instead, I attend press conferences digitally and record interviews for my podcasts, blog, and website as a member of the Golf Writers Association of America.

I continue to write and record my memories and histories of the glory days of Golf, which I participated in and played a minor role.

The Central Artery/Tunnel Project, aka The Big Dig, the road mess I was stuck in during my visit to the East Coast searching for my roots, was the largest and most challenging highway project ever attempted in United States history.

It brought in over seven billion dollars of private investment and economic development for Massachusetts.

The Big Dig did its job.

Sadly, I have yet to return to Massachusetts.

The ancestral home of Marcus Moton, built in 1826 and donated to the City of Taunton upon his death, served as the only hospital in Southeastern Massachusetts from 1864 until 2006, providing essential health services to the residents of communities for over a hundred and forty years.

The stately and historical mansion shaped history across the critical moments of Central New England’s development and was expanded and remolded in 2006.

The residence and attached medical building caught fire during construction and burnt to the ground.

It was never replaced.

The plot of ground where it stood was razed over, and a new, state-of-the-art facility was erected on the site where I was born.

The hospital’s memory ceases to exist, collapsed in a heap of ashes, and all that is left of that memory is a glass replica of Marcus Morton’s regal and imposing family home.

I still have that piece of memorabilia reminding me of the place of my birth and the beginnings of my journey through life as a PGA Master Professional with all the memories that passage entailed.

As Mark Twain stated so smartly:

“The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”

It has been an amazing lifelong journey exploring, discovering, and finally accepting the psychic energy of an ancient Scottish Pastime and the mystical powers of a simple game that commands such passion from a sport and the courses that flow through it.

Courses which has enriched my attendance in the game of life.