Admittedly, I wasn’t always a fan of golf. I still don’t watch much of it on a regular basis. I grew up a three-sport athlete — baseball, football and basketball — from a young age. Golf to me had always been too slow, too old, dare I say it, too boring. Besides, if I could hit a baseball well over 300 feet, hitting a golf ball would be far easier, right?
That perception changed the first time my late grandfather took me on a course. He encouraged my overconfident self to hack away. After all, I knew everything. Nine holes later at Christopher Morley Park on Long Island, all I knew was I embarrassed the hell out of myself.
My grandfather smirked, chuckled or quipped some sarcastic remark each swing I took. Whether it was a drive that sliced into the woods or a downright whiff, I gave him plenty of justification.
If I planned on improving, I’d obviously have to practice more, but I’d also have to watch more golf. There was no better display than the 2019 Masters.