By Michael Konik
"Few authors write as passionately concerning the video game of golfing as Michael Konik. looking for Burningbush communicates why the best recreation on the planet has touched such a lot of lives so deeply, together with mine." --Jack Nicklaus "Golf is a online game of Spirit and spirits. This actual tale, which reads like strong fiction, describes a trip into golf's magical realms."--Michael Murphy, writer of golfing within the nation and chairman & cofounder of Esalen Institute "I completely loved examining Michael Konik's looking for Burningbush. because the tale of 1 man's quest to adventure the last word in golfing in Scotland regardless of all odds, it truly is an inspirational must-read for golfing fanatics." --Ty M. Votaw, LPGA Commissioner
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Additional resources for In Search of Burningbush: A Story of Golf, Friendship and the Meaning of Irons
It’s the real thing,” he tells me. And I think I know what he means. No pewter bag tags, no freshly scrubbed bag boys scurrying to unload and polish your clubs, no fetching “cart girls” to sell you $4 sodas—just a good, honest place to hit some golf shots. Papago is the kind of place where the local chops wear jeans and play shirtless and hit the beer cooler more frequently than the fairway. ” Don says, beaming. He’s referring to the fictional Ponkaquogue Municipal, generally acknowledged as the single worst golf course in America, from Rick Reilly’s Missing Links, probably the greatest golf book ever written.
Oh, nice shot, Michael,” Don says, appreciatively. He chuckles and shakes his head. ” Then he makes one of his inscrutable “practice” swings and drives his ball about five yards past mine. “Shot,” I say, trying valiantly to hide my perturbation. “Yeah, thanks. You know, I’m working on . ” He tells me something or other about some sort of swing arcana involving elbow position or something, but I’m not listening. I’m seeing into the future, about four hours from now. And I’m seeing myself saying something gracious when I lose this golf match to Gimpy Don, a guy who shouldn’t even be on a golf course in the first place—a guy who has no business whatsoever hitting a golf ball as far as I do (and in such an aesthetically pleasing fashion) and accomplishing it all with such good humor and grace.
And there was golf. Well, sort of. Mr. Vreeland, the Hanson family’s neighbor, a gray and foreboding man, typically came home in the late afternoons, shortly before dinnertime. And as the sun started to set on our little patch of Wisconsin, Mr. Vreeland would chip golf balls in the Court. One after another, he hit his bag of balls to the same spot on the Court, in the same low parabola. Wiggle-click-watch. And do it again. When Dave and I and the other neighborhood rascals were using the thirty yards of turf between the semicircle of asphalt as our playing field, he never told us to move.