Sometime in that Golden Age of the Clinton Era, when all anyone worried about was whether to cash their stock options immediately or sooner, I decided that rather than become rich I needed to learn more about this planet I had clearly been stranded on by some mistake of celestial navigation. Foolishly thinking that sticking up liquor stores wasn’t a good option, I returned to a job I’d done as a child and still thought of as childish: caddie, a job that provided enough of the cabbage for a year of wandering through academic pastures on Chicago’s South Side—near, oddly enough, the site where golf was introduced to the city a century before. The following summer I was back on the golf course while wondering what to do with my life, and at the end of that season I got a call from Augusta National.
They were looking for bagmen..
I haven’t seen the inside of a classroom since. .
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