CHAPTER FIVE.
Fitzgerald and I were staying at a rented unit in Addison Street, not far from his favourite golf club in Shellharbour. The pro there, with the improbable name of Shaun O’Toole, became friends after a Saturday morning round of golf, when Fitzgerald had hit a satisfactory 94.
For him, it was like winning the open at Saint Andrews. Anything under a hundred was good, anything in the low nineties, was flair… or at least that’s what he told me.
The only thing to mar his delight, were the crows stealing golf balls on the 15th fairway. If he’d had a shotgun in the bag, I’m sure he would have used it, right then and there. It would have been his only birdie all day… Continue reading Chapter Five