Brian Manzella
Administrator
The Illusions of “standard” address and impact. “Mind in your hands,” eyes on the inside-aft quadrant. Let your pivot do all the work. This is the essence of what Ben Doyle teaches. If you are ever lucky enough to take a lesson from Ben, this is what you’ll get, over and over. And you’ll have a video of it to take home and watch, over and over.
One of those golfers lucky enough to work with Ben and take their video home to watch over and over was “Lee” Bartlett, 70 years-old at the time, and a member of two Ladies Golf Clubs in New Orleans, Louisiana, for decades.
It was one of those trips that Ben still makes, and I started doing myself a couple of years ago. Usually a pro that follows your work has you in to teach for a couple of days to all sorts of golfers. Members, friends, family, and business associates. I love doing these and Ben does too.
“Miss Lee” finally got to work with Ben in 1996, after years and years, and countless hours, of listening to Ben’s voice coming from her sunroom. It should have been called “Son” room, because that’s where you could find her son Tom Bartlett, at the controls of the VCR, and one of her “adopted” sons like me, or Mike Finney, or Chris Hamburger, or Brent White. Endlessly watching golf videos, and lots of Bentley J. Doyle.
I never thought twice about it—Miss Lee’s lessons—because I was off to Louisville, Kentucky for my second stint of teaching in the “Falls City,” in early 1997.
I thought about it twice when Leona Bauer Bartlett—age 70—won both the Ladies St. John’s and Bayou Shores Club Championships, that summer.
“What?” I asked Tom on the phone. “Yeah, she won ‘em both.” Tom replied. “How?” I begged, “Did she start a workout program or something? I mean, she won the whole thing, not some Senior’s division? She beat all those young ladies? How???
“She just watched her tapes with Ben all the time, and they finally clicked for her.” Tom explained.
They sure did. Ben Doyle still talks about it, as proud of that student and her two unlikely victories—something that in the decades that the Clubs both existed had only happened twice before, and never with someone near her age—as he was with any Tour winner.
It really didn’t surprise me that much, to be honest. Miss Lee could flat play golf, and that was the least of it. Not yet 50 years old when her husband passed away suddenly, see saw to it that the three older boys all became engineers with stellar education achievements and her youngest son Tom, played plenty of the sport she and her husband loved—golf.
She could fix anything, twice as handy as the normal handyman. She taught Tom to do it all as well. Sharper than any tack, Miss Lee was a world-class puzzle solver. Golf Digest once published a puzzle as a gag that was un-solvable. The prize was a lifetime subscription to the magazine. About a dozen people solved it anyway and Golf Digest was sending magazines to retirement homes all over the world. One of those went to Mandeville, Louisiana, to Leona Bartlett, at her condo on a golf course.
She was, what they call "a pepper." She was witty and wise, and she had nerve. She met her husband after going along for a ride in the back seat as a "third wheel" with a friend of hers and Jack Bartlett. When her pal seemed more interested in the senery than the guy driving, Miss Lee saw her chance and hopped over in between them. Moxie. I never met anyone with more.
Leona Bartlett passed away Monday morning, at 3 am due to complications from pneumonia. She was 79.
She was loved by all that knew her, something they always say when someone passes, but trust me on this one.
I saw her last week at the Hospital. I was happy to see her looking so good, and hearing that she was going to go home soon because she was doing so well. Miss Lee, was just as I always knew her, the smartest person in the room, keeping a close eye on everything going on in the hospital.
Miss Lee saved me from despair from many a failed relationship, and the last thing she said to me when I left the hospital last week—lifting herself up in bed and taking her breathing mask off to make sure I could hear her—“Tell (my wife) Lisa I said hello.” It was her way of saying, I got you this far, you can take it from here.
Thanks, Miss Lee.
One of those golfers lucky enough to work with Ben and take their video home to watch over and over was “Lee” Bartlett, 70 years-old at the time, and a member of two Ladies Golf Clubs in New Orleans, Louisiana, for decades.
It was one of those trips that Ben still makes, and I started doing myself a couple of years ago. Usually a pro that follows your work has you in to teach for a couple of days to all sorts of golfers. Members, friends, family, and business associates. I love doing these and Ben does too.
“Miss Lee” finally got to work with Ben in 1996, after years and years, and countless hours, of listening to Ben’s voice coming from her sunroom. It should have been called “Son” room, because that’s where you could find her son Tom Bartlett, at the controls of the VCR, and one of her “adopted” sons like me, or Mike Finney, or Chris Hamburger, or Brent White. Endlessly watching golf videos, and lots of Bentley J. Doyle.
I never thought twice about it—Miss Lee’s lessons—because I was off to Louisville, Kentucky for my second stint of teaching in the “Falls City,” in early 1997.
I thought about it twice when Leona Bauer Bartlett—age 70—won both the Ladies St. John’s and Bayou Shores Club Championships, that summer.
“What?” I asked Tom on the phone. “Yeah, she won ‘em both.” Tom replied. “How?” I begged, “Did she start a workout program or something? I mean, she won the whole thing, not some Senior’s division? She beat all those young ladies? How???
“She just watched her tapes with Ben all the time, and they finally clicked for her.” Tom explained.
They sure did. Ben Doyle still talks about it, as proud of that student and her two unlikely victories—something that in the decades that the Clubs both existed had only happened twice before, and never with someone near her age—as he was with any Tour winner.
It really didn’t surprise me that much, to be honest. Miss Lee could flat play golf, and that was the least of it. Not yet 50 years old when her husband passed away suddenly, see saw to it that the three older boys all became engineers with stellar education achievements and her youngest son Tom, played plenty of the sport she and her husband loved—golf.
She could fix anything, twice as handy as the normal handyman. She taught Tom to do it all as well. Sharper than any tack, Miss Lee was a world-class puzzle solver. Golf Digest once published a puzzle as a gag that was un-solvable. The prize was a lifetime subscription to the magazine. About a dozen people solved it anyway and Golf Digest was sending magazines to retirement homes all over the world. One of those went to Mandeville, Louisiana, to Leona Bartlett, at her condo on a golf course.
She was, what they call "a pepper." She was witty and wise, and she had nerve. She met her husband after going along for a ride in the back seat as a "third wheel" with a friend of hers and Jack Bartlett. When her pal seemed more interested in the senery than the guy driving, Miss Lee saw her chance and hopped over in between them. Moxie. I never met anyone with more.
Leona Bartlett passed away Monday morning, at 3 am due to complications from pneumonia. She was 79.
She was loved by all that knew her, something they always say when someone passes, but trust me on this one.
I saw her last week at the Hospital. I was happy to see her looking so good, and hearing that she was going to go home soon because she was doing so well. Miss Lee, was just as I always knew her, the smartest person in the room, keeping a close eye on everything going on in the hospital.
Miss Lee saved me from despair from many a failed relationship, and the last thing she said to me when I left the hospital last week—lifting herself up in bed and taking her breathing mask off to make sure I could hear her—“Tell (my wife) Lisa I said hello.” It was her way of saying, I got you this far, you can take it from here.
Thanks, Miss Lee.
