William Barry Furlong

Ju 'ust before eight o'clock in the evening, the long black limousine swings off the boulevard, down a side street, and into an alley near Chicago's Loop. It glides to a stop at a shadowed back door to a seventy-year-old building. The man who emerges moves a trifle awkwardly. He has a neck...

I The JViaddening Tirst Hole THERE was a sharp bite and sparkle in the mountain air. The Rockies loomed clearly in the distance—immense, clean, barren. I remember on the first hole at Denver, the sun was so bright that it hurt your eyes to look down the fairway. Standing on the tee, it was...