LETTERS FROM HOME: WHERE LOVE-STRUCK GOLFERS CAN GO BACK TO SCHOOL

April 6, 2000

Dear Ken,

I must have fallen in love with golf that day my grade school friend Danny Davidson and I were hitting balls with his father's clubs in his backyard. I didn't know how to hold the club or anything about weight shift and timing and swing plane. Most every ball I hit returned to earth a few yards from my feet. But then came a swing that through luck and persistence happened to coincide with the laws of physics. This ball took flight and rode the air, higher and higher, further and further, as if propelled by some force known only to wizards, until finally disappearing with a crash through a neighbor's window.

Danny and I stood there wondering how that could have happened. It was a big yard. We were so far away. He grabbed the clubs and ran inside. I waited to see if someone came out of the neighbor's house. Later, walking home, I'm sure I was smiling.

That I didn't begin learning to play golf until 30 years later is one of my great regrets. To make up for that lapse, I take lessons, practice most days and play twice a week even in bad weather.

But lately I had felt stymied. I'd stopped improving. So there was I was in Naples, Fla., a few weeks ago, enrolled in the Dennis Meyer School of Golf. The hope was that practicing and playing golf from morning until night under the eye of a pro might eliminate some of the uncertainties in my game. Even if that didn't happen, what splendor to spend three days doing nothing but play golf.

At 9 a.m. that Monday morning, I met my teacher, Mike McGee. He is a former Ohio State golfer who was on the PGA tour for a year in the late 1980s. He's the real golf thing: Ohio state high school champion, member of college teams with John Cook and Joey Sindelar. They became good professional golfers. Mike made only a little over $3,000 during his year on the tour and lost his card, never to get it back though he keeps trying. Meanwhile, he teaches.

To begin, he videotaped me hitting balls on the range and predicted useful things would be revealed in the video room.

As notoriously humbling as golf is, seeing your swing on videotape goes beyond humbling to embarrassing. We think we look heroic and powerful like Tiger Woods when in fact most of us look more like Barney Fife scything dandelions.

Mike and I spent the first day rerouting my swing through repetition. After five hours my hands were swollen. That night I collapsed into sleep, in heaven.

Day two: More rerouting practice, more videotaping.

Over lunch Mike talked about that year on tour. It sounded like being a rock star pretty women wanting to get to know you before you leave for the next tournament, people giving you equipment and wanting your autograph.

At 41, he isn't likely to get another chance, but he is in the Guinness Book of World Records. He co-holds the record for fewest putts in a sanctioned round: 18.

In the afternoon we went to the dreaded practice bunker. Mike demonstrated the classic shot, the blast that sprays sand all over the green. I couldn't do it. He showed me another approach. The ball stayed in the bunker.

Mike, the ball and I were still there after 15 minutes. Two of us were getting exasperated. Finally he had me try one more technique. Eureka.

"There are 20 different ways to get out of a bunker," Mike said. "I've never been through all 20 with anyone before." It's good to know you've impressed your teacher.

Day three: The new swing started to feel more natural. More and more often the ball flew higher and higher, further and further. May the force be with you.

Love, Sam