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summer and where the young boys working there taught him the game of golf. It was a Pro V1, Jack’s ball of choice, with the Algonquin logo on it. Jack had posted the second-lowest round in the state the week before for the qualifying match, but then his game fell apart in the State Championship. At the end of that day he gave me the ball back. I put it on the mantel above our fireplace in the living room, where it stayed. But as I was packing my golf bag for Scotland,I put it in the side pocket with the idea that once we were in Carnoustie, I would tee it up for him to drive into the North Sea, putting his lost high school championship behind him once and for all.
    Now the pocket was empty. First I just felt around with my hand, but then I looked into the black lining with disbelief. It was one of those moments when you think maybe you’re slipping. I knew I had put the ball in this pocket. I checked again, and then the other pockets, from which I took out sixteen balls and held each of them to the light, hoping to see the Algonquin name. Nothing. I sat on the floor of our room with the entire contents of my golf bag spread out before me. How could I have screwed this up? In the hysterics of our round today, deprived of sleep and food and water and dazed by the weather, I must have simply reached into the pocket by accident and lost Jack’s ball.
    I looked over at him, oblivious to all this. I won’t tell him, I said to myself. He’ll never know the difference. I lay down in bed, listening to the wind. The smell of the coal fire burning downstairs carried me back twenty years to Ireland, to the whitewashed cottage off the gravel road in Rathdrum, county Wicklow. It was there where I learned how to build a proper coal fire in the hearth that would keep the babies warm through the night. If I did it right, there would still be enough coals left when I got up at 4:00 in the morning to get the fire roaring again. I think for the rest of my life I will remember the satisfaction I felt standing on the stairs as the heated air rushed past me, up to the bedroom, where we all slept together, knowing that I had created the heat that kept my family warm. We had no car then, and every two days I walked five miles into town with the babies’ dirty laundry in a pack on my back, and then back from town with their laundry clean and neatly folded. Even in the rain I loved this journey. All our needs then were elemental, and I could meet them. Our life was thoughtful, unhurried. We had no car, no car insurance, no health insurance, no cell phones or credit cards, no telephones of any kind, no computers, no lawn mower or dishwasher or television or video recorder, no coffeemaker or gas grill or microwave, no houseor homeowners’ insurance. Our life was no more complicated than keeping the fire going. I remember dropping down on my knees at the hearth each morning in the darkness and blowing on the coals until they burst into flames. Now I feel like I am doing the same thing with my son, trying to ignite the old closeness that he and I had shared.

      JANUARY 17, 2007     
    Out in front of me, a gold morning light poured over the golf course. It looked as if it was going to be a good winter day for golf. I began to breathe easier, standing there. What appeals to me most about these Scottish golf courses by the sea is that you cannot see the impression of man upon them. They look as if they have been created by nature and time. I love how you can see the whole course in a single glance. There are no trees to seclude one hole from another, and so the solitary sport seems less solitary. You can look out in any direction and see other golfers, comrades-in-arms, fighting the same battle. And there are the colors. The impossible green of the fairways set against the golden-brown fescue of the rough and the darker green gorse bushes until they burst into a riotous yellow, and all of that set against the blue sea at the border. I