Summer of 1992. My college sweetheart broke my heart at a mid-summer meet-up outside South Bend, Indiana.
I'd driven two hours to get there and had, ahem, planned to bunk there for the night.
If 'd driven straight home, I'd have had some explaining to do to my landlor...er, Mom. (She thought I was on a getaway with Da Boys.)
All I had, aside from my shattered dreams, was an '83 Civic, a basketball, and a set of sticks.
Through the night, I took roads less traveled at every turn, and stopped to shoot some hoops at any square backboard I spotted. Then, at sunrise, I pulled into a truckstop, ordered some "chopped steak" and eggs and commenced to scanning an atlas - hoping I was somewhere near one of those light-green boxes on the otherwise pale yellow page that -might- signal a field of play.
What luck - I was. On the outskirts of Brazil, Indiana. (Which is, in fairness, probably too small to actually have skirts, much less outskirts.) The green box read "Forest Park Golf Course".
I went, and I played. I'd like to have said I loved it, but that would be a lie. Frankly I don't even remember it. But what I only learned recently that I wish I'd known then: It was one of Pete Dye's first designs - built in the years prior to his rise to prominence.
I ought to get back there; it's not that far a drive.
And I probably won't even think of Jill. At least not very much.