Golf doesn’t exactly run in my family, but that didn’t stop me.
I WILL NEVER forget the look of utter sadness on my big brother’s face.
It was fall 2001. I had just opened the trunk of my car. You should never open the trunk of your car with witnesses standing nearby. There could be just about anything in there. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing an accusing finger.
“They’re golf clubs,” I said in shame.
This story is from the March 2018 edition of Southern Living.
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This story is from the March 2018 edition of Southern Living.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 8,500+ magazines and newspapers.
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