He walked inside the ropes as if he’d sneaked in from the gallery, cracking jokes with marshals, needling partners, and disarming tension with a shrug and a smile. Yet behind the easy charm was a spine of steel, the kind that stared down Sunday afternoons and refused to blink. When the stage grew louder, his swing grew freer, as if the moment belonged to him alone.
Beyond the scoreboards, he gave himself away in quieter rooms: a husband who showed up, a father who listened, a friend who remembered small things. Later, designing courses and building businesses, he stayed the same open door he’d always been, waving people closer instead of holding them back. Now the leaderboards look the same, but the walk to the clubhouse feels longer. What endures is his proof that greatness can laugh, love, and still be utterly, unmistakably serious.
