“When I came home from college on visits, my father and I would spend Sunday afternoons watching the PGA on television. Dad had always asserted that Sam Snead was the greatest player of all time, but he was gradually coming around to the possibility that Jack Nicklaus was something special. Then, in February 1976, my father died suddenly at the outrageously unfair age of fifty, a tragedy that extinguished any lingering whim I might have had to tackle golf again with serious intent. Apparently I ...played a round later that year with a friend, although my memory of it is fogged. Possibly I’ve blocked out other rounds, too. My brother, Rob, says that he and I golfed together one time not long after Dad passed away. “It wasn’t good,” he tells me. The next time I recall swinging a club wasn’t in any conventional, or socially acceptable, format. It occurred one night that same year, when my best friend and fishing companion, Bob Branham, called to report a disturbing infestation. The culprit was Bufo marinus, a large and brazen type of toad that had invaded South Florida from Central America and proliferated rapidly, all but exterminating the more docile native species.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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