Out at the golf hut, girded against the frigid winds blowing in from Minnesota, we practice with the concentration of meditating monks, one swing of the club at a time. When he’s done, I invite him to watch me for a while. Usually after a few minutes, he’ll go back to swinging and I’ll sit and watch him. We speak few words. Both of us share an enjoyment of pure ball striking, as well as a healthy loathing for putting.