Quitting

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book

BY: John Hawkins

Golf is full of reward but seemingly incapable of forgiveness, which makes it an ideal endeavor for those whose lives need a bit of reshaping. When I quit drinking in 1990, I had no idea golf would become my personal salvation. A chopper who had taken up the game six months earlier probably has no business leaning on it so heavily. Maybe the calling was subliminal. Eighteen years later, I still haven't devoted much mental energy to wondering why.

As a sportswriter with too much idle time, no wife or kids and not a lot of money, I found my roots in the rubber mats at the driving range. There came evenings when I was striping 2-irons like a real player, those cruddy balls soaring wonderfully into the night, but without a mentor -- someone to show me how to play and play with me -- I might not have stuck with the game.

So if I never see Michael Keating again, I am indebted to him beyond my last breath. A former sports editor at the Washington Times, Keating was shot in the head execution-style during a robbery in 1986. He hired me two months later, an occasion made memorable by his showing up for my interview in a jacket and tie instead of a wheelchair.

The guy was bulletproof. Keating returned to the golf course within six weeks after the incident, and if that bullet hadn't crashed into his skull in December, the end of the golf season in the mid-Atlantic, he might have come back sooner. Acknowledging Keating's toughness made my nine-beer nights easier to avoid. His intelligence and patience had me breaking 90 less than a year into my sobriety.

On what seemed like hundreds of mornings, we had the 7:03 A.M. tee time at Lake Arbor Golf Club, a semi-private mousetrap that runs through a nice neighborhood of a Maryland suburb. A 3-handicap who couldn't make a four-footer unless his life depended on it, Keating taught me the swing, the rules, strategy and etiquette. When I overslept one morning and missed our scheduled appointment, he made it very clear that if I stood him up again, the previous round we'd played together would be our last.

I'm sure he has gone through a few dozen belly putters by now, but the guy could sure hit a golf ball. Keating's old school, one-piece takeaway served as my swing template, and by the time I left town in 1995, I could consistently shape an iron shot and score in the mid 70s. For all the ten-second parcels of advice he gave me, there was never a formal lesson. You can talk and demonstrate all you want, but five minutes of instruction won't get you anywhere. Five hours of practice will.

When Keating thought I was ready for it, he took me to southern Virginia to play in my first tournament. I remember holing a few putts and realizing that competitive golf is a different game than the one we'd been playing at Lake Arbor. There have been a lot of good days since, certainly plenty of lousy ones, but not drinking hasn't been a problem for me. My wife keeps beer in the refrigerator. My friends have a glass of wine or three at dinner. The demons of temptation haven't come knocking.

I look at my drinking days as a phase of my life that has come and gone. The only Alcoholics Anonymous meetings I've ever attended were by a court order twenty years ago. But I know the AA route has worked for a lot of people, so I don't knock any method. When a struggling drinker asks for advice, I keep it short and simple. You won't quit until your heart tells you to, and if you do, quitting isn't going to solve the rest of your problems.

Quitting will, however, make them easier to deal with, although a snap hook or a chunked bunker shot are sure to test your resolve.

In September of 1995, I took a job with Golf World magazine, which meant moving out of the Baltimore-Washington area for the first time. Five years of clean living made the transition to Connecticut easier, but after covering mainstream sports my entire career, the game that had saved my life was quickly becoming my life, which isn't to say a man can't suffer worse fates.

I eagled marriage, joined a club, got a little better each year. By then Keating had launched his own magazine, Washington Golf Monthly, and we hooked up six or seven times between New York and D.C. for a series of best-ball matches with our editors. The north duo lost just once. My editor-in-chief, Geoff Russell, and I collected several hundred dollars in wagers. This is funny, because I do remember Keating telling me years earlier that he'd give me $100 if I ever beat him straight up.

Maybe the check's in the mail, or maybe I'll see him again someday, although it's fair to say Michael Keating is the reason this game has given me more than I ever could have imagined. The guy was bulletproof. I have a strong sense of gratitude. We'll call it even.

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