John Garrity is already established as a celebrated golf writer for Sports Illustrated, Golf Magazine, and Golf.com. In his new book Ancestral Links: A Golf Obsession Spanning Generations, Garrity embarks on a quest through the most remote corners of the island homes of his ancestors tracking down family history and golfing lore all at once.
In the process of gathering information about a famed golf course, located deep in the northwest pocket of Ireland, that no one of reputable opinion can stop talking about, Garrity learns that the small town nearby is the very same where his great-grandfather lived before emigrating to America. His travels there ignite his interest further, and he begins to trace his extended family tree by way of the ancient game. He heads to Scotland, discovering the roots of his maternal ancestors whose tee times pre-date the foundation of the "Thirteen Rules" of golf, made official in 1774. Back in America, he finds himself swinging along the St. Croix River Valley, where his father learned the game as a young boy.
Garrity crosses oceans to land in small towns and villages, all of which have been altered by sprawling golf courses, all of which have been torn up by players who share his bloodline. Piecing together his memoir-travelogue, Garrity constructs an intimate web of family history that will touch any fan of golf, Ireland, or home-spun narrative, sunny and lush like a first tee in the morning.
Read an Excerpt from John Garrity's Ancestral Links:
You don't expect to meet your familiar on the 11th hole at Carne.
It's a stunning hole: a par 4 that plays from a pinnacle tee to a canyon fairway and back up again to a green above a cow pasture that runs down to the beach. Huge terraced dunes line the fairway on either side. If you spray your tee shot you can wind up making an alpine-style ascent to a vertiginous perch to hit your second. There is also an unusual hazard down the left side, about 220 yards out — a grassy crater in a pulpitlike protrusion above the canyon floor.
"Hold on!" I yelled, watching my drive hook around the biggest dune and disappear from sight.
"Don't know about that," Gary said. "Could be all right."
I looked for a signal from the golfers waiting below, where the rough tumbled into a gorge. They had interrupted their search for a lost ball to wave us through, but now they were as still as the grazing ruminants in the meadow beyond.
"If my ball had cleared the crater, they'd be ducking." I slipped the head cover onto my hybrid 2 and returned the club to my bag.
Once we had all hit our tee shots, the players ahead resumed their search in the heights. They were assembled in the grassy crater when we arrived on the scene. One of them, a dark-haired flatbelly, was stoically appraising his options. His ball was buried in thick green grass on the face of the crater — a lie that Tiger Woods might have been able to negotiate, but no one else. The fellow seemed to understand this, because he worked himself into the only stance available to him — left foot on the rim of the crater, left leg bent, right leg straight as a fence post, right shoulder dipped, left ear aimed at the sky. Wasting no time, he took a healthy hack and staggered backward. The ball sailed out in a spray of grass clippings and looped listlessly toward the little gulch, where another uncharitable lie probably awaited him.
"Good out," I said.
Read other books about golf:
Read other books about Ireland:
Read more...
