Coffee Reads


Apple Tree Gang

Hailed as the commencement of American Golf, the story of “The
Gang” takes us to New York pastures in 1887. Robert Lockhart, a Scottish
immigrant and linen merchant in NY, received a large package shipped directly
from the Old Course at St Andrews. Lockhart had recently journeyed back to Scotland
for a visit, and while in country had met with Old Tom Morris at the Old Course
for what I can only surmise to be on of the initial golf club fittings in
history.

The clubs and balls were chosen for Lockhart and shipped across
the pond to New York. Now with the cherished tools in hand on American soil, Lockhart
and his sons took to the West side of the city to an open field to launch some
gutta percha balls.

As the story goes, a policeman who was watching the trio,
removed himself from his horse to have a swing. With his first rip, he launched
one farther than the Lockhart clan. He followed that triumph with multiple cuts
into the thin air, missing the ball entirely. He walked away displeased, and I too
know that feeling in my bones almost 150 years later.

After breaking in the clubs, they were gifted to Lockhart’s
friend John Reid, an exec at JL Mott Iron Works. Scouting out pastureland near
his Yonkers residence, Reid gathered 5 cronies and began to lay out 3 “holes” in
the open pastureland. Although crude, the framework for American golf now lay
in an open Yonkers field, and 6 men dreaming of more.

Over the next year, Reid and his gang moved on to larger
pastures, designing golf holes with nothing but a few clubs, creative minds,
and brothers to share it with. One pasture contained vast orchards of apple
trees, and all of a sudden our wayward band of nomads had a moniker – The Apple
Tree Gang.

Over the years the Gang would grow, innovate, and form the
St. Andrew’s (mind the apostrophe) Golf Club. They would soon become a nine
hole course, a clubhouse, and a bustling membership of New York’s finest,
including Andrew Carnegie.

All thanks to the Gang wandering pastures and dreaming,
alongside their brothers.

Ballstriker Soul

In a new golf apparel landscape, the noticeable artistic lean is streetwear collaborations meshing the laid back nature of modern
apparel with the stiffer aesthetic of golf. Nostalgia and historical styling has been lost, even though some of the more influential designs hail from decades prior. Lost in this push for modern fabrics and edgier outfits, is the rural aesthetic of the sport. The true backbone of golf’s historical appeal.

I personally grew up hitting golf balls on my grandparents’
property to the row of corrugated steel boat sheds about 150 yards away. In the path from my strike to the dilapidated destination were tall pines, stubby magnolias and other foliage that made a straight shot irrelevant. From my newfound love for the sport, and at the mercy of some Georgia crabgrass, I
started to weave a fabric of shotmaking skills that carried my game for years to come. I would roll the forearms for a low bullet hook that wormed below the oak branches and smoked shed #4 with a resounding bellow. I would hike the left shoulder like Mickelson and rip a high cutter over the tallest pine, waiting
for the sound of success on the old tin roof. Line the feet at shed #9 and hit a slinger into #2 with a force that signaled simple compression on the firing end. It was decades ago but I can still smell the dogwoods and feel the weathered cords as I launch another one into the Lincoln County sky.

Welcome to a wandering mind, and a ballstriker soul.

Calloused Hands

After the heat of the evening subsides and the
toolbox locks, he puts the Ford on the path both have been longing for. The two-lane Georgia asphalt that lays between the job and the driving range.

His leathered mitts pull away the tanned UGA headcover and toss it on the sun-bleached turf. The head cock before he pulls the trigger is a nod to Jack, his strong left hand is a Penick lesson, and the slight wrist turn on the way back has Hogan smiling from the skies. A flick of the Marlboro from the ungloved left hand, his go to shot is the one that beckons when he’s dormie on 18. Calloused hands wrap around the coffee mug the way they wrap the old Lamkins. Both worn at the fingertips, for a feel that's earned not given.

He travels light with a vintage one-strap Ping and his quick wit keeps you thinking while he rolls in another grainy 15-footer. His calloused hands are well versed in digging the dirt to climb the ladder. The summer sun has tanned his hide on the back of the range since dreams were just dreams. Now his daytime hours belong to a salary. But his heart belongs to the dirt. The crabgrass patch where a golfer became much more.

Here's to those that found it, and to those that
never stopped searching. Long live calloused hands.

Another Mizuno Spring

Cold Georgia mornings have a way of making the Monday mind wander to the rejuvenation of spring, of better days around the corner. Down here shaking the frost is
not a welcomed, but more of a dreary chore, and we yearn for the sun to come around the bend. When the thermometer finally rises, spirits ride the tide and the world around us explodes with renewed life. Grays give way to greens, and the turbine of our solstice starts to turn once again. The coming season breathes into the air an energy that can be felt as the days get longer and nights get more laughter.

Grill smoke, baseball softly playing in the background, and orchestras of
birds signal that the time has come for renewal. Spring is here. I peek into my shop at my trusty blades, my putter I snagged on a deal back in the fall,
and the driver that begs for another bump on the cart path as we careen towards the back tees. I toss the weathered strap over my shoulder, feeling the deep cold of my Mizunos as they get ready for another season by my side.
Right behind my wife and children are these forged faithful beauties, I bought ‘em when I was caddying at the National right after college for a steal at Bonaventure.

They were in my hand for a hole in one back in ‘14, they hit knockdowns in Colorado, and my 8 has hit the green on 12 at Augusta. They were there when the cold beers stopped showing up in the cart, and they've rattled around a truck bed a time or two. They were in my bag when I played golf
before my wedding, and just the other day my son hit one in the back yard.

A few yards and a jumpier face isn’t going to replace the feeling I get when I hit a trap draw that
snuggles against the stick.

When I pinch one just right on a summer day I just look down at that hunk of metal and think, thank god for clubs with a soul