From the Editor

The diary arrived in a plain manila envelope addressed to me but with no return address. Inside and attached to the front cover of the worn leather-bound book was this simple note: “Dear Editor: I’ve been keeping this diary about golf for over 50 years. Please read it at your leisure. I would welcome your advice on locating a publisher for it. I see so many golf books being published these days. Very few are as good as my diary. I’ll be happy to contact you shortly. Sincerely, S.F.”

Well, I opened that envelope more than five months ago and as of yet have not heard a word from the mysterious S.F. So, in the interest of contacting S.F., I decided to publish parts of his diary in the hope that he’ll again contact me-a benign reverse Unabomber technique if you will. Or maybe one of our readers will pick up something in the vocabulary or syntax that might lend a clue to the identity of the author. Anyway, here are exclusive excerpts from “The Secret Golf Diary of S.F.”

• June 1951—I ran into Ben Hogan today at a coffee shop on Telegraph Road near Oakland Hills CC. As Hogan was leaving, he accidentally stepped on my shoe yet never said a word. He was smoking a cigarette. There’s a certain mystique about this guy.

• August 1953—Watched Lew Worsham make an eagle two by holing his wedge approach shot on the last hole of the World Championship at Tam O’Shanter (in Chicago). Lew beat Chandler Harper by one shot and won 25 grand. I saw this all on my neighbor’s new TV set. Needed a magnifying glass, it was so small. Afterwards we had a few beers and went bowling. No, afterwards, we went bowling and then had a few beers.

• April 1960—I bought some new clubs today. Sam Snead Blue Ridge irons and woods. Asked the pro if he could check the lofts and lie but he didn’t know what I was talking about. He said: “Son, go hit it, find it, and hit it again.” He threw in a sleeve of Sweet Shots.

• August 1972—I met a guy today whose brother-in-law is the neighbor to a guy who says he saw Gary Player make that great birdie at the 16th hole at the PGA Championship last weekend at Oakland Hills. That same guy swears he saw Player’s caddie-’Rabbit’ Something-later that night at Hazel Park racetrack winning a trifecta.

• May 1979—Went to a driving range this afternoon looking for a swing thought. Retired pro came over after seeing me struggle and whispered, “Keep your head down and stick out your butt.” I got kinda nervous and decided to leave.

• June 1985—With a couple of buddies, I went up to northern Michigan for a golf trip. Played 36 holes a day for six days straight. Driving home, I hit a deer just outside of Grayling. We gutted it and had venison for Father’s Day. Gave the rack to Pop.

• July 1989—Judy (my wife) says her co-worker at the credit union insists she saw Betsy King at the Cinemaplex last Saturday night. Says she saw King buy a big box of buttered popcorn before the movie. Next day King won the U.S.Open at Indianwood. Go figure.

• July 1992—Was dropping off my wife’s sister at Detroit Metro Airport on Sunday when I saw J. C. Snead talking to a skycap. I went over to introduce myself and told him about that set of Sam Snead Blue Ridge golf clubs I still have in the basement. He really didn’t seem interested and quickly walked away. The next day I read in the paper that J.C. had train wrecked the last hole of the Ford Senior Players event to lose to Dave Stockton. That explains his bad mood at the airport. What’s that Indian saying? “You must walk a mile in someone’s moccasins before getting really sore feet.”

• July 1999—Played golf today. Was in the slot all day. Caught the ball flush in the middle of the clubface on every shot. Hit the flag three times. Never had such a feeling on sureness and certainty with the swing. Shot my age for the first time: 69. Saw a hummingbird on the third hole darting around a lilac bush.

I could go on but space doesn’t permit. The diary entries—more than a thousand or more in all—continue right up to December 1999. Who is S.F. and why did he keep such a diary all these years? What happened to those Blue Ridges? Why was the retired pro so misunderstood? Is this diary a joke, a charade? Could be. Might be. Even so, I’m pursuing the movie rights.

Terry Moore