Tourney stirs memories of old friend

I thought a lot about an old friend on Monday. I guess it’s easy to have somebody on your mind when you’re playing in a golf tournament named after him.

Of course, I think a lot about the late Harley Bowers anyway. He was my mentor at The Telegraph for more than 18 years. He was like a second father to me. There is not a day of my professional life that I don’t remember a lesson he taught me. Or I’ll be traveling out on a backroad somewhere, and my mind will drift back to a time Harley and I were on that same road together years ago.

Harley died on Christmas Eve in 2002. He had not been sick. He was doing something he loved. He was watching a football game in his easy chair before supper. He just closed his eyes, went to sleep and never woke up. We should all be so lucky.

He may have been the most prolific writer in Telegraph history. Between 1959 and 1996, he wrote more than 11,000 sport columns for this newspaper. He was a legend, and I was proud to know him.

In 1991, Harley developed cancer and had to have his right arm amputated. The surgery came during the World Series. Of course, Harley hated that he could not be there to cover the worst-to-first Atlanta Braves in one of the biggest sports stories in Atlanta history.

I’ll never forget Bobby Cox asking me after Game 7: “How’s Harley?” The Braves manager had just come within one run of winning one of the greatest World Series ever played and he was asking me about Harley. That says a lot about Harley. And Bobby Cox, too.

Harley’s battle with cancer was the inspiration behind the Harley Bowers Golf Classic to benefit the American Cancer Society. It is now known as the 17th annual Harley Bowers Memorial Golf Classic and was played Monday at Healy Point Country Club.

Every hole at that course, which was formerly known as River North, stirred a memory of the many times I played there with Harley. I told my playing partners – Ryan Gilchrest, Rick Nolte and Mike Brown – a few of those stories Monday morning. But I knew they didn’t want to hear them all. So I kept most of them to myself.

I like to think Harley was looking down on us from that big press box in the sky. I like to think he was the one who gave us that nice breeze on a hot summer day at the top of No. 6. Or helped us guide in that putt for a birdie on No. 14.

After Harley had his arm amputated, he still kept playing golf and could still chip and putt with the best of them. It was something he loved, and he refused to quit.

There are times when I catch myself turning around, expecting to find him there. I still can’t believe he is gone. I miss him.

His spirit is still with me, though. It certainly was Monday morning.