In the end, Harvey, you left us your Little Red Book—a lifetime of lessons condensed into something small enough to fit in a pocket, yet broad enough to guide generations. That act itself feels like a fractal. Decades of experience folded into patterns others can explore and expand. These letters are my attempt, in a much humbler way, to do the same—to gather what the game has taught me so far, and to keep discovering what lies at the edges.
Dear Harvey: I’ve drafted a series of letters called ‘Staying in the Game (Fractals)’. I want to share four fractals with you, beginning with summaries in this post. Later, I will send individual letters expanding on each of the fractals. When will I drop these in Royal Mail? I’m not
So I write to you, Harvey, from the practice tee and from this quieter house. Both ask me to trust that openness—whether in a hip, a swing, or a life—can be the very place where possibility begins again.
I’ve been pondering competition across different generations. Your advice to “Take Dead Aim” now reads differently. As a younger man, I heard it as a command to be bold. Today, it feels like a call to clarity—cut through the clutter, stay steady, and keep competing against the only opponent who never leaves: me.
In this letter, I meditate on the paradox of striving—the gift of never being fully satisfied, whether in a golf swing or in life’s larger pursuits. Here, I introduce two guiding phrases that capture the spirit of this restlessness: to live consciously optimistic and blissfully dissatisfied, grateful for today yet always reaching for what could be.
Cathy and I have recently started a modern golf coaching programme that reminded me of your old truths. Nick Lloyd calls it his “Coaching Development Program,” but what struck me was how much of it would sound familiar to you.
I began this series on the practice ground — a quiet bench, scuffed turf, the same wind that never quite settles. It feels right to finish it here as well. The surroundings haven’t changed much. Only the seeing has.
