Dennis Sullivan was my first teacher. He was the pro at Karori Golf Club, and later at the Hutt – the place you now know as Boulcott Farm.
He was the first person, outside my family, to see something in my swing. He didn't just teach me how to hold a club; he taught me that a golf shot starts in the mind, not just in the hands.
He told me things that stuck. He gave me permission to be a rebel on the course, as long as I respected the game itself. He didn't try to cage my natural swing; he tried to give it a foundation so it wouldn't fall apart under pressure.
He was the kind of coach who could spot a player's talent from across a practice green, and he took pride in helping raw ability find its direction.
I remember a story about him from a newspaper, back in 1972. He was the professional at Karori, and he held a golf clinic for Air New Zealand in Fiji. While he was there, he met a young Fijian golfer named E. "Boz" Lutunatabu. Dennis arranged for him to come all the way to New Zealand, live with his family, work as a greenkeeper at the club, and receive professional coaching.
He didn't just give a lesson and walk away. He changed a young man's life.
That was Dennis. He didn't just teach golf; he opened doors. That's why, when he moved to Auckland, I knew I had to follow him.
Dad said: "Go up to Dennis and Sheila. Play golf." So I went.
Here's what I learned from him: trust the people who see you. Dennis saw me before I saw myself. That's not something you find every day.
A teacher can be a door. He didn't just give me a swing. He gave me a direction. Your first teacher stays with you. Even when you move on to other coaches, other methods, other tours – what they gave you is still there.