The ecstasy of long drives

And the agony of a persistent hook. The highs and lows of Jocelyne Bourassa, hot golfer

JACK BATTEN July 1 1973

The ecstasy of long drives

And the agony of a persistent hook. The highs and lows of Jocelyne Bourassa, hot golfer

JACK BATTEN July 1 1973

The ecstasy of long drives

And the agony of a persistent hook. The highs and lows of Jocelyne Bourassa, hot golfer

JACK BATTEN

Jocelyne Bourassa was having duck hook troubles. She stood on the practice tee at the St.

Lucie Hilton Country Club in Port St. Lucie, Florida, and hit ball after ball with her driver.

There seemed to be nothing wrong with her swing — it was fluid, wide-arced, strong and rather elegant — but too many of the tee shots, at least half, developed a bend about 150 yards down the fairway and disappeared to the left in a sudden, ugly, discouraging curve. Duck hooks, as the professional golfers call them, miserable duck hooks.

Jocelyne clenched her hands into fists, muttered something harsh and unintelligible and, head down, stalked in small circles around her golf bag.

Then she looked up and said,

“It’s my knee, you know, my damn knee. It isn’t so strong yet.” Her face frowned in a moment of analytic concentration. “It has to do with fear, I think. I am afraid for my knee. I am afraid for the shot. And so what happens is that I rush myself on my swing, just to get it over with, and I twist my upper body around ahead of the rest of me. Then I hook my shot.” She paused for a moment. “I am disgusted.”

She was right about the knee, her left. She'd had an operation on January 9 of this year to correct some cartilage problems, a scary experience for any athlete, especially for one, like Jocelyne, as young as 26. And later a blood vessel had ruptured in the same knee. It had to be drained three times. The accumulated trouble kept her at home in South Shawinigan, Quebec, and away from golf for a couple of months, and the tournament in early spring at Port St. Lucie, the $100,000 Sears Women’s Classic, represented her first crack at the 1973 Ladies Professional Golf Association tour. No wonder she was disgusted — she’d won $16,098 the year before, nineteenth best on the ’72 tour in her first pro season.

She hit another couple of dozen practice shots, some straight and honest, some duck hooks. Then it was time for her to play a round. This day wasn’t reserved for tournament competition - that began the next day - but for pro-am matches, when the 64 pros entered in the Classic played 18 holes, each with a different team of three women amateurs. There were modest cash prizes for the winning pros of the day, and for the amateurs, who ranged in talents from scratch-handicap to never-break-100, there was the

chance to tell the gang back at their home clubs about the time they went 18 with one of the top 64 professional women golfers in the whole world.

Jocelyne strode through the crowds who had gathered on the soft, sunny morning in March to watch the golf, and headed for the first tee.

“Hey, Frenchy,” a middleaged man in a screaming Harry Truman sports shirt called to her, “y’all gonna win this heah tourn’ment?”

“You better believe I’m going to try very, very hard,” Jocelyne answered him in a loud voice filled with a kind of dancing Gallic music. She walked on a little farther: “They all call me Frenchy on the tour. The American galleries, you know, they seem to think I’m a special case or something.”

On the first tee, she greeted her three amateur partners. One was a bulky woman in her late forties named Bobbie. The other two were older, on the frail side; they seemed nervous and didn’t give off many sparks. “Let’s go team,” Jocelyne cheered entirely unselfconsciously, trying to whip up enthusiasm. “Let’s show them who the winners are.”

A lady announcer stepped to a microphone and introduced the team to the gallery standing around the tee: “Jocelyne Bourassa of Quebec in Canada. Voted Rookie of the Year in 1972 on the LPGA tour. Woman Athlete of the Year in Canada for 1972. Golfer of the Year in Canada . . .”

As the introduction rolled on, Jocelyne mugged for the crowd, mixing embarrassment and pride into a collection of funny facial expressions. In fact, Jocelyne cuts a vaguely comic figure even when she isn’t trying. She’s a husky woman, a little broad in the beam, and her face seems slightly smallish for the torso. Her face can’t make up its mind whether it belongs to the cute kid next door or to a determined pug, someone with a tough style. It lets you know, anyway, that it is the face of someone independent, aggressive, a woman who can - what the hell - play touch football or baseball with the men. When she plays golf, the tail of her blouse tends to come out of her skirt, and the elastic bandage she wears on her bad knee stretches loose and droops around her ankle without her caring or even noticing.

The introductions over, Jocelyne cracked a smart tee shot 220 yards down

continued on page 44

BOURASSA from page 35

the fairway. She followed it with another crisp, straight three-wood. On the second hole, a 340-yarder, she needed only two snappy wood shots to put her ball 10 feet from the cup. She executed a happy little soft shoe on the green.

Off the third tee, the duck hook miseries struck again. Jocelyne splashed her drive into a pond on the left. It was a bunker on the fourth hole; her drive hooked deep into its sand. She went briefly into her fist-clenching, sotto-voce muttering act, but most of the time she maintained an enthusiastic, super-kinetic front. While her own game sputtered, she performed as cheerleader, teacher and big sister to the three amateurs.

Jocelyne’s sharp play around the greens kept her score fairly respectable, and at the seventeenth her wood shots at last straightened out. She hit two good woods on 17, a long par five, and at 18, for her second shot, she socked a threewood from the fairway that zipped 210 yards on a line toward the hole and dropped neatly on the edge of the green. It was Jocelyne’s best shot of the day, and she showed off to the large gallery around the green with a jig and a big laugh. The gallery laughed back.

As soon as the round was over, Jocelyne slipped quickly away from her three amateurs. “It’s part of the business,” she said, explaining her relentless good humor on the course that day. “Before all our tournaments we have a day or two of pro-ams, and some pros are a little rude, a little impatient with the amateurs. Not me. You have to think of the public relations.”

On the subject of her troubles with her knee and with her tee shots, her face took on its heavy, serious look: “My good game comes and then it goes. I get impatient — that’s always my big fault — but I think that if I don’t force myself, I’ll be okay.” Then she smiled and shrugged: “Well, you know that I’m a professional now. I have to act like one no matter what happens.”

There are 35 major tournaments on the LPGA tour this year worth $1.4 millions in prize money, which is $400,000 more than the cash put up in 1972. That year Kathy Whitworth from New Mexico was the leading winner with $65,063. More statistics: four of the ’73 LPGA tournaments will be televised nationally by ABC or by the Hughes Sport Network. And Hughes launched a Sunday afternoon TV series this spring, shown on 150 U.S. stations, that pits 32 women pros in a 16-team match-play event, $25,000 to the winners. The top pros, like Miss Whitworth, have also moved lucratively into the endorsement business. The breakthrough came at the Dinah Shore-Colgate Winners Circle tournament in April 1972 when Colgate spent well over five million dollars in

promotion of the tournament as a device to reach female shoppers. A dozen pros made at least $10,000 each taping commercials that showed them registering ecstasy over toothpaste and other Colgate-Palmolive products. Miss Whitworth figured she’d reached a nadir of recognition when Colgate called on her for a TV spot praising yet another non-golf product. The product this time? Ajax Cleanser.

The LPGA tour has, in short, become big business. And the women pros who are getting in on the business are, if not exactly colorful, then at least an interesting lot. There’s one regular black competitor, Renee Powell ($6,111 in prize money in ’72). There’s one woman more than six feet tall, Carol Mann (’72 total: $36,452) who’s six-feet-three, very blond and has the zany good looks of Sally Kellerman. There are four pros from Japan who bounce on and off the tour bringing along their lurching, unorthodox but effective swings. There are a few graceful beauties, most notably Sharron Moran who makes more money out of her dark stunning loveliness and the public appearances it brings than out of her golf ($1,859 in ’72). There’s a radical maverick, Janie Blalock ($57,323 in ’72) who has the peace symbol printed on her personal cheques and who used to carry a sign on her golf bag that read “POWs never have a nice day.” There are many more conservative-minded women, unofficially led by Marilynn Smith (in ’72, $29,910) whose coiffure and general style seem to have been inspired by Pat Nixon and who was voted by her fellow pros as 1972’s Most Congenial Golfer. And there are dozens of women who look just the way you’d expect LPGA pros to look: tousle-haired, sunshiny, more muscular and perhaps more “masculine” than most women, like a gang of phys-ed teachers, but fresh and appeal-

continued on page 46

ing in an Anne Murray kind of way.

There’s also one man, Bud Erickson, on the tour. Erickson is the LPGA’s executive director, a $50,000-a-year job, but he does little real directing because the women pros, unlike their male counterparts, prefer to run the tour themselves. Erickson’s primary duties are to develop new business, a task at which he is succeeding sensationally, while the LPGA executive board, made up of five touring pros elected by their peers, lays down the law about most substantive matters. The board puts tough restrictions on LPGA membership (no one gets on the tour unless she first passes a playing test at an LPGA school, then finishes in the top 80% of the field in three of four tournaments) and imposes stiff rules of conduct (for instance, no pro must pass up too many pro-am cocktail parties, on pain of a possible fine at season’s end). And occasionally the executive board also manages to smudge the LPGA’s clean, efficient image with a nasty, messy crisis.

The current crisis, one that makes the pros look like matrons at a bridge club wrangling over the points on the last rubber, revolves around Janie Blalock whom not everybody cares for anyway because of her independent ways. (“I’m not much of a mixer,” she admits.) The question is, did Miss Blalock cheat at tournaments last year by surreptitiously moving her ball out of bad lies on the green? Yes, says the executive board, claiming in support an affidavit from pro Penny Zavichas ($1,045 for ’72) who watched Blalock through binoculars from a TV tower at the Bluegrass Invitational in May 1972. No, says a Blalock supporter, Sandra Palmer ($36,715 for ’72) who is certain that at least one of Blalock’s accusers is lying. The executive board reprimanded Palmer, and it suspended Blalock from the tour for one whole year. In retaliation, Blalock went to court, launching a five-million-dollar antitrust suit against the LPGA and obtaining an injunction permitting her to remain on the tour pending the suit’s outcome.

“If I have ever come close to losing my mind,” Blalock says, “it’s been during this thing. They’ve been playing games with a person’s life.”

And so it goes, caution and red faces all round, but, as Jocelyne points out too, there are other things for the pros to think about as the Blalock lawsuit winds its interminable way through lawyers’ offices and judges’ chambers. Other things?

“Out there,” Jocelyne says, “we have a million dollars to play for.”

By five o’clock on the afternoon of the pro-am at Port St. Lucie, Jocelyne was hurrying down the golf course’s eleventh fairway, headed for the house where she was staying during the tournament.

Compact, tidy bungalows in bright but tasteful colors ringed the course, retirement havens for upper-middle-class businessmen who’d pensioned and invested themselves and their wives out of the rat race up north. General Development Corporation, a company that’s growing rapidly rich by peddling patches of Florida property to Canadians and Americans looking ahead to their golden years, is in the process of turning 40,000 acres of prime Port St. Lucie land into a manicured community of small homes and large play areas. The atmosphere of the community is genteel and conservative: the groceteria in the tiny shopping plaza is called The Country Store, and the local radio station goes in for easy listenin’ music and editorials that come down hard on long hair and permissiveness.

Jocelyne was talking about her early days on the tour, back in January and

February of 1972: “It was hard at first because the tour is a very closed world. The other girls make you prove yourself. I don’t say that they are mean to you or anything, just that they don’t pay any attention to you until you show that you deserve to be on the tour with them. Then they accept you. But that doesn’t mean that everything immediately becomes wonderful, you know, because all the traveling can be very lonely. You have only yourself to talk to and motel walls to look at. Unless you are like me and find girls on the tour to team up with and people at tournaments who ask you to visit them. The girls that don’t have those things — I think some of them get desperate on the tour.”

The Tom Chapmans, sixtyish, friendly and retired from Connecticut, had taken Jocelyne into their General Development Corporation home during the Port St. Lucie tournament. “Jocelyne’s a peach to have around the house,” Tom Chapman, a beaming, ruddy-faced man, said while Jocelyne changed into something fancy for the pro-am awards banquet. Then he added wistfully, “That’s one thing you miss down here, the sound of young people.” At the pro-am dinner, the huge convention hall of the St. Lucie Hilton Hotel complex was packed with deeply

tanned older men in white dinner jackets and with young women (the pros) and older women (the amateurs) in tight pantsuits and flowing patio gowns. Jocelyne wore a billowing, multicolored one-piece pant outfit. She didn’t look entirely at home in the frilly clothes, not quite comfortable away from her golf skirts and blouses, but she still radiated an approachable tomboy charm. She ordered a Tom Collins, drank it, ate the fruit trimmings and chewed the ice cubes. And she chatted easily with the strangers who surrounded her. She took all opportunities to talk up Canada.

“This gold pin I’m wearing,” she told everyone who asked and many who didn’t, “it’s for the 1976 Olympics. We’ve got them, we in Montreal.”

For dinner, Jocelyne sat at a table with a group of amateurs and with her best friend on the tour, Shelley Hamlin ($12,845 in ’72 and runner-up to Jocelyne as LPGA Rookie of the Year). Shelley is very pretty, 23 years old, from Fresno, California, a girl with a slightly off-centre, Woody Allen way of looking at her life. Shelley and Jocelyne and their friend DeDe Owens of South Carolina ($6,406 in ’72) are regarded by the others as the madcap cut-ups of the tour.

“Remember our dance contest at the tournament in Connecticut?” Shelley said to Jocelyne at the banquet table. She explained to the others: “The two of us were all alone on the floor at this tournament party, jumping around to a guy playing a drum solo on Joy To The World — y’know, the Three Dog Night song? — and we were trying to outlast him. Jocelyne didn’t. I did. The others thought we were nuts.”

The atmosphere at the banquet spoke of big money, all of it spread around by the tournament’s cosponsors, Sears Roebuck (selling women’s wear through LPGA golf) and General Development Corporation (selling land the same way). The meal was lavish — steak, lobster, rum sundaes — and so were the prizes — trophies as big as Etruscan urns for the winning amateurs. Jocelyne’s team finished in tenth place. No prizes.

The banquet chairman introduced a flock of Sears and GDC executives and a few stray celebrities (Joe DiMaggio topped the list) and then brought on the entertainment. It was geared more for the old folks than the young golfers. It featured a quartet of male singers who revived hit numbers by the Mills Brothers and the Ink Spots.

“It’s my duty to be here,” Jocelyne whispered, “my duty to the people putting up all the money for us. But enough is enough.”

She left the banquet and got down to the business on her mind. First she changed her clothes and rode a bicycle for 30 minutes through Port St. Lucie’s

continued on page 48

still, dark streets, an exercise to strengthen the weak knee. Then she sat down at the telephone in the Tom Chapmans’ living room, placed a call to South Shawinigan, Quebec, and spoke in rapid French to her first and most indispensable golf instructor, her brother Gilles. “It’s my swing,” she began, and she talked and listened, her face stern with concentration, for 10 minutes.

“Gilles knows my game so well,” she said after she’d hung up, “that he can even fix me by long distance.”

Gilles Bourassa is short, portly and powerful, built along the lines of a sawed-off Hoss Cartwright. He projects enormous energy and enthusiasm — “I work, I would say, 17 or 18 hours every day” — and he keeps two jobs on the go, as a teacher of high-school math and English and as the pro at the Shawinigan golf course. He is 35, a bachelor, and lives with his parents in a two-story house in South Shawinigan, a raw and homely suburb of Shawinigan proper, which sits on the edge of rural Quebec, 20 miles north of Three Rivers. Outside the house a lighted sign reads LA BOUTIQUE DE GOLF. GILLES BOURASSA, PROFESSIONAL, and in the basement, guarded by a German shepherd, there is a fully equipped pro shop.

One day this spring, Gilles sat in the parlor upstairs, a room kept immaculate, with cellophane covers on the lamps and a wood carving of Jocelyne in action on the wall, and he reminisced about his sister’s golf beginnings:

“I was already a pro when I was only 20, and I used to have Jocelyne caddy for me. But she never paid any attention, she was too busy swinging the clubs herself. So I let her learn the game. Now there is one point to understand about Jocelyne — once she takes up something, she has to be the best or she won’t bother with it. In school, if she got 85% it was no good, should be 95. In golf, I see her go out in 90-degree sun and hit 400 balls for practice. That’s Jocelyne. So she was very good at golf very fast.

“Too fast. When she was only 13, she could beat all the older women at the Shawinigan club and they got jealous. They wouldn’t let her play in their tournaments. It was bad, you know, because I was the pro at the club. Embarrassing. Okay, the Ki-8-Eb Golf Club in Three Rivers heard about it and took her in. My father has never been a rich guy — he’s an electrician, retired now — but he drove her down to Three Rivers every day in the summer when she was a kid and picked her up again at night. And two ladies at the club there, they took her under their wing and started to drive her to tournaments.”

From age 13 and for the next eleven years, Jocelyne won almost every championship open to her. Three Quebec

junior titles. Four Quebec Ladies Championships. One Ontario Open. A New Zealand Amateur. Two Canadian Amateurs including the ’71 title by one stroke over Marlene Streit. More than 100 tournaments won as an amateur, all of them celebrated by a trophy or a plaque that now hangs on Jocelyne’s bedroom wall or is stacked in her closet.

“My father and I spent the money to send Jocelyne to the tournaments,” Gilles says, taking on the same intense look his sister shows in her earnest moments, “and I told her, ‘Hey, if you do something wrong out there, misbehave, you know, then it comes back on me because it’s my money.’ No worries. Jocelyne is always a good girl. And she never wasted money. She never spent it on caddies for practice rounds.”

Jocelyne played golf and she went to school, taking a BA in physical education at the University of Montreal and

putting in one year toward a master’s at the University of Wisconsin. By 1971, she was 24 and had nowhere further to go in Canadian golf. She and Gilles opted for the LPGA tour. A sportswriter for La Presse, André Trudel, interested the Quebec millionaire-sportsman, J. Louis Lévesque, in the Bourassa case, and Lévesque put up $10,000, a nostrings gift, and tossed in a plane ticket to Miami to launch Jocelyne’s new career. She missed the prize list by only one stroke in her first tournament, won money in her second and went on to finish in the top 10 in 10 of the 23 tournaments she entered.

Only Jocelyne’s knee trouble kept 1972 from total perfection: “The injury came from her personality,” Gilles explains, “from being so lively. She hurt the knee two years ago when she jumped off the roof of our cottage into a snow bank and hit a rock in there. And she hurt it again last year when she fell playing basketball with some girls on the tour. The doctor said, out come the cartilages. So they came out, an operation just like Bobby Orr’s.”

The knee injuries make Jocelyne’s instant success all the more surprising to Gilles. “So fast,” he says. But one other matter about the tour came as more of a surprise to him — the warm way the

tournament galleries took to Jocelyne.

“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Gilles said sitting in the Bourassa parlor and wearing a look that spoke of the wonder and gratitude of a modest guy permitted to drop in on a privileged world. “Imagine those Americans taking so much to a young girl from a place in Quebec they never heard of.”

The morning of the first day of pro competition in the Sears Classic came up windy. That presented a complication. The Port St. Lucie course is flat and not especially long, but the wind, gusty and eccentric, guaranteed to make it play tougher. Another complication grew out of the nature of the tournament. Instead of the usual three or four rounds of medal play common to all other LPGA tournaments, the Sears brought 64 pros into head-to-head match play for the first two days; then the 16 survivors played a final day of medal play over 18 holes to decide the winner. The pros weren’t entirely delighted with the Sears variation since it meant that, with one loss in match play, they could be knocked out of a chance at the first-place money.

Jocelyne’s first-day match was scheduled to tee off at 11.58 a.m. and she put in the morning bicycling around the course and hitting balls on the practice range. She arrived at the first tee at the same time as her opponent, Barbara Romack ($2,687 in ’72), a tiny, slender, stylish woman in her forties who had been a star on the tour through the 1960s. Miss Romack wore tailored white slacks and blouse with an elegant red sweater and red shoes. Her outfit, it was obvious, hadn’t come from a Sears bargain catalogue. Jocelyne’s might have. She wore a plain blue skirt and white blouse, and the knee bandage was already flapping around her ankle.

The medium-sized gallery that had collected for the Bourassa-Romack match was made up mostly of citizens on the far side of 60. It’s always that way at the LPGA’s winter tournaments. Elderly vacationers and couples retired to communities like Port St. Lucie come out for the sun and the golf, bringing with them a slow-paced feel to the days on the course. Perhaps the nature of the golf that the women play has something to do with its appeal for the geriatric set. Women’s pro golf is on a more human scale than the brand the men play, more life-sized and accessible. The women don’t hammer the ball out of sight off the tees the way the men do, and they don’t send approach shots hurtling into greens like spinning missiles. Instead they play a more subtle and intellectual and careful style of golf, a style, you might almost conclude, that the inventors of golf back there at the Royal and Ancient in Scotland had in mind when

continued on page 50

they tinkered the game into existence. At least, it’s a style that attracts golfs most elderly fans.

So the gallery was older and it was just as plainly pro-Bourassa. The fans chatted and called to Jocelyne — “Hey Frenchy” — and she chatted and called back. A big smile for everyone. It was easy to understand why Jocelyne was named by the other pros as 1972’s Most Colorful Golfer.

Bobbie, the bulky woman from Jocelyne’s pro-am team, was a member of the gallery. “She was so nice to us old bags yesterday,” Bobbie explained, “that I couldn’t go home without coming out to cheer for the gal.”

The cheers, as it turned out, were wasted. It wasn’t Jocelyne’s day, a fact that became clear with a suddenness that was almost shocking. Her game was scrambly through the first four holes — she continually found herself in the nervous position of rescuing unsteady wood shots with accurate work around the greens — but she managed to stay even with Romack. On the fifth, a 380yarder with a deep dip in front of the green, Romack gave Jocelyne a chance to pull ahead. Normally a tidy and consistent player, Romack scuffed a weak second shot 30 yards short of the green. The door was open. Jocelyne slammed it shut in her own face. Her second shot dug into a bunker to the green’s right, she chipped out badly and needed two putts to get down the hole. Romack stroked a picture chip shot and knocked in her putt. One up for Romack — and Jocelyne, though she couldn’t guess it at that moment on the fifth, was done for the day. The duck hook returned to plague her, and she lost the sixth, seventh and eighth holes.

The match ended abruptly at the fifteenth hole, a 5-and-3 win for Romack. Jocelyne smiled her congratulations, shook Romack’s hand and started back to the clubhouse. She looked very young, vulnerable and unhappy.

The Sears Classic was a disaster for the tour’s madcap cutups. Jocelyne lost. Shelley Hamlin was eliminated on the first day, too, upset by small, frecklefaced Mary Horner, who joined the tour in ’71. And DeDe Owens lost in her first match, knocked off by Miss Most Congenial Golfer, Marilynn Smith.

The eventual champion after the three days was Carol Mann, the tall, zany blond, winner of $15,000 and a 1973 Dodge Charger SE. Her play on the final round, shooting a five-underpar 68 through the whipping winds, was magnificent, but it didn’t supply the day’s only drama. There was, for instance, the tense twosome that drew the largest gallery—Janie Blalock, the rebel, playing alongside Kathy Whitworth, the establishment member of the

executive board that had suspended Blalock. Whitworth shot a 74 and won $3,150 for sixth place, Blalock shot a 73, good for fifth place and $4,500, and all the way around the course the two women held themselves tight-mouthed and silent.

As for Jocelyne, at the end of her week in Port St. Lucie, fear was once again the subject on her mind: “Right after the operation on my knee,” she said, thinking back a few months, “they started me on physical therapy. I mean immediately, the same day. The nurse said, flex your leg. I couldn’t do it. My leg knew it would hurt. It took me a half hour before my mind could make my leg flex itself. It’s the same thing I have to expect now to get my game back to what it was before. I have to go slowly. I have to get over the fear of the pain. I suppose that that’s one of the things you have to go through if you want to be very good at something in life. You have to get over the fear inside yourself.”

In the week after the Sears Classic, Jocelyne flew home and asked the Quebec doctor who had removed her cartilages to check over his handiwork. A success, the doctor said of the operation. Reassured, Jocelyne and Gilles left for a golf course in Atlanta, Georgia, where a local golf pro had let Jocelyne and DeDe Owens use an apartment in his home as a winter headquarters. (Everybody, you begin to realize, does favors for Jocelyne Bourassa.)

Gilles and Jocelyne put in hours on the golf course. Gilles studied Jocelyne’s game with his eye, then with a camera. He video taped two hours of her swing and, with the helpful kibitzing of the Atlanta pro, he detected two minute flaws. One, Jocelyne was rolling her right foot and thus disturbing her balance. Two, she was bringing her swing down from the top too vertically. Gilles lectured Jocelyne. On the last day in Atlanta, Jocelyne played from the men’s tees, which makes the course much longer than the women’s tees do, and she shot par on the back nine. Gilles was pleased.

Gilles, speaking to Jocelyne: “You always used to say to me, ‘Gilles, you must be positive.’ Now I say the same to you. Be positive about your game.”

Jocelyne: “Well, if I finish in the top 10 in the next tournament, I’ll feel like I’m getting somewhere again.”

Gilles: “Top 10? Top 20 is okay.”

Jocelyne shrugs.

Gilles: “Just play a good round or two, get into the 70s and your confidence will come back.”

Jocelyne: “Last year when I started my first year on the tour, I made myself two ambitions — win $10,000 and get into the first 20 in the money list. I did both. This year my ambition’s easier -do better than last year.”

Gilles: “Oui.”

Gilles flew north to Shawinigan. Jocelyne flew west to Palm Springs, California, for the richest tournament on the tour, the Dinah Shore-Colgate Tournament, worth $135,000. Jocelyne shot 7479-74-75 for a 302 total. She came in twenty-ninth and won $1,025.

“That’s not bad,” Gilles said from the Bourassa parlor in South Shawinigan, “not bad for a young girl still practically on one foot. I think she’s over the big problem now, the confidence problem.” “The best thing,” Jocelyne said from Palm Springs, “is that my wood shots were great. I was placing them where I wanted them. No more duck hooks.” Then she walked back to her room in the Canyon Hotel and packed her suitcases. It was, after all, time to move along, to Birmingham, Alabama, and the Centennial Open, next stop on the LPGA tour. ■