He played baseball in college when he was the only black player in the entire conference. He had been an outstanding athlete himself, and against enormous odds. The father didn’t mind, because he was convinced that his boy was singularly talented, and that he was uniquely equipped to help him. When the boy was four, his father could drop him off at a golf course at nine in the morning and pick him up eight hours later, sometimes with the money he had won from those foolish enough to doubt him.Īt eight, the son beat his father for the first time.
He quizzed the boy, playing the role of reporter, teaching him how to give curt answers, never to offer more than precisely what was asked. He started prepping his three-year-old to handle the inevitable media attention that would come. He knew his son had been chosen for this, and that it was his duty to guide him. By three, the boy was learning how to play out of a sandtrap, and his father was mapping out his destiny. That same year, he entered his first tournament, and won the 10-and-under division. Because the father couldn’t yet talk with his son, he drew pictures to show the boy how to place his hands on the club.Īt two, he went on US television and used a club that was tall enough to reach his shoulder to drive a ball past an admiring Bob Hope. At 10 months, he climbed down from his high chair, trundled over to a golf club that had been cut down to size for him, and imitated the swing he had been watching in the garage. At seven months, he gave his son a putter to fool around with, and the boy dragged it everywhere he went in his little circular baby walker.
This first one, you probably know … The boy’s father could tell something was different. L et’s start with a couple of stories from the world of sports.
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