Pre Order the Digital Book: Resilience By Craig Hocknull, PGA - Released in 2026
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RESILIENCE
A PGA Professional’s Journey Through Adversity, Competition, and Purpose.
From the remote highlands of Papua New Guinea to professional golf, championship competition, entrepreneurship, and leadership—a story decades in the making.
For most people, success looks like a straight line.
My journey was anything but.
I was born in Papua New Guinea, raised in Australia, and eventually found my way to the United States on a Division I golf scholarship. Along the way, I experienced incredible opportunities, painful setbacks, financial struggles, career uncertainty, professional injuries, championship victories, and life-changing relationships.
Golf opened doors I never imagined possible.
It introduced me to mentors, coaches, students, business leaders, and lifelong friends. It taught me lessons about discipline, perseverance, leadership, and service that extended far beyond the golf course.
But the greatest lessons didn’t come from my victories.
They came from the moments when things fell apart.
In Resilience, I share the stories behind the scorecards—the struggles, sacrifices, risks, failures, and second chances that shaped my life as a husband, father, coach, competitor, entrepreneur, and PGA Professional.
This is not simply a golf book.
It is a story about overcoming adversity, pursuing purpose, and continuing to move forward when circumstances suggest you should quit.
Whether you’re a golfer, coach, business leader, student, entrepreneur, or someone navigating your own challenges, I hope these stories encourage you to keep believing, keep learning, and keep moving forward.
Because resilience isn’t something we’re born with.
It’s something we build.
One challenge.
One setback.
One opportunity.
One day at a time.
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Inside the Book
✔ Growing up in Papua New Guinea, Adelaide, and Darwin, Australia
✔ Learning the game of golf and chasing big dreams
✔ Boarding school, scholarship opportunities, and moving halfway around the world
✔ College golf and life at HSBCU Jackson State University.
✔ Marriage, family, and financial struggles
✔ Professional golf, tournament competition, and career setbacks
✔ Injuries, reinvention, and starting over
✔ Building successful coaching programs and businesses
✔ Leadership lessons from decades in the golf industry
✔ The power of perseverance, faith, family, and purpose
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About Craig Hocknull
Craig Hocknull is a PGA Professional, coach, entrepreneur, inventor, speaker, and lifelong student of the game.
A member of the PGA of America, PGA of Australia, PGA of Canada, and PGA of New Zealand, Craig has spent more than three decades competing, coaching, mentoring, and leading within the golf industry.
His career has included professional tournament golf, national championships, award-winning instruction, business ownership, product development, and helping thousands of golfers improve both their games and their lives.
Today, Craig continues to teach, compete, mentor young PGA Professionals, and inspire others through the lessons he has learned along the way.
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“Success is not defined by avoiding adversity. It is defined by how you respond when adversity arrives.”
— Craig Hocknull, PGA
Resilience
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the next generation of PGA Professionals.
To the young men and women entering this incredible profession with big dreams, endless energy, and a desire to make a difference through the game of golf, this book is for you.
I especially dedicate these pages to my sons—JC, Hugh, and Gregor. While each of them has chosen his own unique path, they have all inspired me in different ways throughout my journey. JC, as a fellow PGA Professional beginning his own career in the golf industry, represents the very audience I hope this book will serve.
To every young PGA Professional starting out, know that the road ahead will not always be easy. There will be long days, early mornings, financial challenges, difficult decisions, setbacks, disappointments, and moments when you wonder if all the hard work is worth it. There will also be incredible friendships, unforgettable experiences, opportunities to change lives, and rewards that extend far beyond a paycheck.
My hope is that this book reminds you that success is rarely a straight line. Careers are built one lesson, one relationship, one challenge, and one opportunity at a time. The journey may take you places you never expected, but if you remain committed to learning, serving others, and pursuing excellence, the rewards can be extraordinary.
Whether your dream is to become a great teacher, a successful club professional, a respected leader, an entrepreneur, a tournament player, or all of the above, I hope the stories within these pages encourage you to persevere when things get difficult and remain grateful when things go well.
The game of golf has given me a life filled with adventure, opportunity, friendship, and purpose. It is my sincere hope that it does the same for you.
Dream big. Work hard. Stay humble. Serve others. Keep learning.
And remember: your current circumstances do not determine your future. Keep showing up, keep improving, and keep believing that your best chapter is still ahead.
— Craig Hocknull
A Note from the Author
As I reflect on the journey that has brought me to this point, I am filled with gratitude for the countless people who have shaped my life, my career, and my character.
First and foremost, I want to thank my wife, Laura. Through every triumph, setback, risk, and opportunity, she has been my partner, my supporter, and my greatest source of strength. The life we have built together is my proudest accomplishment. To my sons, JC, Hugh, and Gregor, thank you for bringing purpose, joy, laughter, and perspective to my life. Watching each of you grow into your own unique path has been one of life’s greatest gifts. No trophy, title, or professional accomplishment could ever compare to the pride I feel as your father.
To my parents, John and Morag Hocknull, thank you for your sacrifices, your guidance, and your unwavering belief in me. From Papua New Guinea to Australia and beyond, you provided opportunities that shaped the course of my life and taught me the values of hard work, resilience, and perseverance. To my brother Scott, and to my extended family, grandparents, relatives, and friends, thank you for the love and support that helped carry me through every stage of life.
I am deeply grateful to the many coaches, teachers, mentors, PGA Professionals, club leaders, teammates, sponsors, students, and supporters who invested their time and knowledge in me over the years. Whether you helped me as a young golfer, guided me as a coach, challenged me as a competitor, or trusted me as an instructor, you played a role in my journey. The lessons you shared extended far beyond golf and helped shape the person I am today.
To the thousands of students, members, players, and families I have had the privilege of teaching, thank you for allowing me to be part of your golfing journey. Many of the lessons in this book were learned while helping others pursue their own dreams. I have often believed that the teacher learns as much as the student, and I am grateful for every person who entrusted me with a small part of their development.
Finally, I want to thank God for the blessings, opportunities, challenges, and relationships that have defined my life. The path has rarely been straight, and it has certainly not always been easy, but every step has helped shape a story worth telling. Looking back, I can see His hand in both the victories and the setbacks, often guiding me toward opportunities I could not yet see for myself.
This book is not simply my story. It is the story of everyone who believed in me, encouraged me, challenged me, and walked beside me along the way. Whatever wisdom, success, or impact I have been fortunate enough to achieve is the result of countless people who helped me along the journey.
Thank you for being part of it.
— Craig Hocknull
© Craig Hocknull
Craig Hocknull, PGA
PO Box 897
Queen Creek, AZ 85142
Prologue
Waiting on the First Tee
The funny thing about life is that you rarely realize you’re living an important moment while it’s happening.
Most of the defining moments of my life didn’t arrive with an announcement.
There was no dramatic music.
No spotlight.
No sign pointing toward destiny.
Most of the time, I was simply trying to take the next step.
Looking back now, at more than fifty years of age, I can see how those steps connected.
But when you’re standing on the first tee, you rarely see the entire golf course.
You only see the first shot.
As I sit and reflect on the journey that brought me here, I often find myself thinking about all the different versions of myself that have existed along the way.
The young boy born in Papua New Guinea.
The kid fishing in Darwin.
The boarding school student in Adelaide.
The teenager chasing golf dreams at Kooralbyn.
The college golfer arriving in America with an Australian accent and a scholarship.
The young husband trying to build a future.
The father delivering newspapers to support his family.
The teaching professional cleaning clubs at Superstition Mountain.
The touring professional chasing a dream.
The coach helping students pursue theirs.
The club professional.
The entrepreneur.
The inventor.
The mentor.
The competitor.
Each version of me believed he understood where life was headed.
Most of them were wrong.
And thank goodness for that.
If life had unfolded exactly according to my plans, I would have missed many of the greatest blessings along the way.
Some of the most important opportunities in my life arrived disguised as setbacks.
Some of the greatest lessons came from failures.
Some of the most rewarding chapters began with uncertainty.
Golf taught me that.
Life reinforced it.
One of the reasons I wanted to write this book is because people often see the highlights without seeing the journey.
They see tournament victories.
Awards.
Successful students.
Professional accomplishments.
What they don’t always see are the years behind those moments.
The early mornings.
The sacrifices.
The disappointments.
The missed cuts.
The financial struggles.
The doubts.
The countless ordinary days that eventually created extraordinary opportunities.
Success leaves clues.
One of the biggest clues is that success is rarely as glamorous as people imagine.
Most success is built quietly.
One lesson.
One conversation.
One relationship.
One decision at a time.
When people ask me about my career, they often assume this is a golf story.
And in many ways, it is.
Golf has been the constant thread connecting nearly every chapter of my life.
Golf carried me from Australia to America.
Golf introduced me to lifelong friends.
Golf provided a career.
Golf created opportunities.
Golf taught lessons that extended far beyond the golf course.
But at its core, this book is not really about golf.
It is about resilience.
It is about adaptation.
It is about perseverance.
It is about finding purpose through service.
It is about continuing to move forward when circumstances suggest otherwise.
Most importantly, it is about people.
Because when I reflect on my life, the memories that matter most are not scores.
They are people.
My parents.
My family.
My coaches.
My mentors.
My students.
My friends.
The countless individuals who invested in me, encouraged me, challenged me, and helped shape the person I became.
This book is my attempt to honor those people while sharing the lessons I learned along the way.
Some lessons came easily.
Most did not.
Golf has a way of teaching humility.
Life does too.
If there is one message I hope readers take from these pages, it is this:
You do not need a perfect beginning to build a meaningful life.
You do not need perfect circumstances.
You do not need a perfect plan.
You simply need the willingness to keep moving forward.
One shot.
One day.
One opportunity at a time.
As I look back across the first fifty years of my life, I feel tremendous gratitude.
Gratitude for the successes.
Gratitude for the failures.
Gratitude for the lessons.
Gratitude for the journey itself.
Because every chapter—whether joyful or difficult—played a role in shaping the story you are about to read.
And like every round of golf, it all began with a single shot.
So before we begin, imagine standing on the first tee.
The fairway stretches out before you.
The future remains unknown.
The possibilities seem endless.
That is where every great journey starts.
Mine just happened to begin in a place called Papua New Guinea.
Chapter 0
My Parents, Papua New Guinea, and the Roots of Service
People often ask me where my sense of adventure comes from.
The truth is, I probably inherited it.
My parents have lived a remarkable life, and when I look back on their story, it becomes pretty obvious where a lot of my curiosity, resilience, and desire to help people originated.
My mother, Morag, was born in Perth, Scotland. She was the youngest of seven children and the only girl among six older brothers. Her father was a highly respected journalist who worked tirelessly throughout his career. Unfortunately, he passed away at a relatively young age, leaving my grandmother to continue raising the family.
As the youngest child and only daughter, Mum had a very different upbringing from her brothers. She was bright, organized, and exceptionally talented with language. After school, she moved into secretarial and administrative work. She could type at incredible speed, understood shorthand, and had a natural gift for English, grammar, and communication. It was clear that her career would likely follow that path.
My father, John, came from a very different background.
His father, my grandfather—known to me as Pop—served in the British Army during World War II. He joined the famed Black Watch Regiment as a boy soldier and spent most of his life in military service. Eventually he became a paratrooper and was dropped behind enemy lines during the war.
Pop’s wartime experiences were extraordinary. He was captured, escaped, recaptured, and ultimately survived until the war ended. Like many veterans of that generation, he rarely spoke about those experiences when he was younger, but later in life he recorded many of his stories, preserving an incredible piece of family history.
My grandmother, Jan, also served during the war as an ambulance driver. They were part of a generation that endured hardship most of us can scarcely imagine.
My father was born in 1948, just after the war ended. He grew up around military bases and barracks, surrounded by discipline, structure, and service. Rather than follow his father into the military, Dad developed an interest in aircraft engineering and began an apprenticeship with British Airways, specializing in electrical systems.
As fate would have it, that’s where he met my mother.
Mum was working in administrative roles with British Airways, and the two of them crossed paths, fell in love, and married while still quite young.
After spending some time in England and Scotland, another opportunity appeared.
My grandparents had emigrated to Australia. My grandmother’s brother, Uncle Steve Holmes, had also made the move. Soon my grandparents settled in Adelaide, South Australia, and before long my parents decided to follow them.
Rather than flying, they traveled to Australia aboard a small passenger ship carrying roughly fifty people. It was quite an adventure and marked the beginning of a completely new chapter in their lives.
Once in Australia, Mum continued with administrative work while Dad found employment with the Australian government. Life was progressing normally until one particular newspaper advertisement changed everything.
The advertisement was recruiting Australians to serve in Papua New Guinea as Patrol Officers.
At the time, Papua New Guinea was transitioning toward self-government. Australia was heavily involved in administration and development throughout the territory, particularly in remote regions where tribal systems and traditional village life still dominated daily affairs.
The advertisement promised adventure, responsibility, and the chance to make a difference.
For my father, it was irresistible.
He applied and was accepted as a Patrol Officer, known locally as a “Kiap.”
The Kiaps served as administrators, police officers, magistrates, census workers, diplomats, and problem-solvers all rolled into one. They often worked in isolated areas with little infrastructure, helping establish government services, education, healthcare, and legal systems in regions that were incredibly remote.
Dad embraced the challenge.
My parents moved to Papua New Guinea in 1969 and spent the next seven years there.
Much of their time was spent in the Highlands region around Mendi, where rugged mountains, tribal traditions, and breathtaking scenery created a world completely different from anything they had known before.
I was born in Mendi in January 1975.
Because I left Papua New Guinea when I was only two years old, I don’t have any real memories of my time there. My understanding of those years comes almost entirely from my parents’ stories, photographs, films, and recordings.
Thankfully, they documented everything.
They took thousands of photographs, shot reels of film, recorded interviews, and preserved countless memories from their years in the Highlands.
Today, much of their retirement is devoted to sharing those experiences.
They regularly travel on cruise ships throughout the South Pacific, giving presentations about Papua New Guinea, its history, culture, and people. Their talks are incredibly popular because they don’t simply present facts—they tell stories from firsthand experience.
They lived there.
They spoke Tok Pisin.
They built friendships.
They immersed themselves in the culture.
Even now, Papua New Guinea remains a huge part of their lives.
Dad continues to support numerous charitable projects throughout the country. He helps schools obtain books, computers, educational materials, and other resources. In fact, as I write this, he is helping me organize a donation of junior golf clubs and Saber Golf training aids to support young golfers in Port Moresby.
Their commitment to helping others didn’t end when they left Papua New Guinea.
Throughout their careers, they became deeply involved in fundraising, education, and philanthropic work. They developed systems to help schools and charitable organizations raise money more effectively. They even wrote a book and created software designed to help organizations manage donor relationships and fundraising efforts.
They became experts at helping good people tell their stories and connect with others who wanted to make a difference.
Looking back, I can see how much of their influence shaped me.
Their sense of adventure encouraged me to explore opportunities around the world.
Their willingness to take risks gave me confidence to pursue golf across multiple countries and continents.
Most importantly, their commitment to helping people taught me that success is about far more than personal achievement.
It’s about service.
It’s about caring.
It’s about doing the right thing when nobody is watching.
If I have any strength as a teacher, mentor, coach, husband, father, or friend, a large part of it comes from watching my parents live those values every day.
Before I ever learned how to swing a golf club, I learned those lessons from them.
Chapter 1
Born in Papua New Guinea
People often ask where I’m from, and the answer usually surprises them.
I was born on January 14, 1975, in Mendi, Papua New Guinea.
Most people assume I was born somewhere in Australia because that’s where I grew up, but my story actually begins high in the Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea, one of the most remote and fascinating places on earth.
The truth is, I don’t have many personal memories from Papua New Guinea. My family left when I was only two years old. Most of what I know comes from stories told by my parents over the years. Like many family stories, they became a little richer every time they were told, but the underlying message always remained the same: life in Papua New Guinea was an adventure.
My father, John Hocknull, and my mother, Morag Hocknull, were young, resourceful, and willing to embrace opportunities that took them far from the familiar comforts of home. Papua New Guinea in the mid-1970s was not a place for people seeking predictability. It was rugged, beautiful, culturally diverse, and often challenging.
The country itself had only recently gained independence from Australia in 1975. Many regions remained isolated. Tribal traditions were still deeply woven into everyday life, and modern conveniences that many people take for granted were often unavailable. For expatriate families, daily life required flexibility, resilience, and a willingness to adapt.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate how much courage it must have taken for my parents to build a life in such an environment while raising a young family.
At the time, of course, I had no idea.
I was simply a toddler exploring the world around me.
When I think about Papua New Guinea now, I often find it fitting that my journey started somewhere so unconventional.
My life would rarely follow a traditional path.
I would grow up in multiple locations.
I would leave home at a young age.
I would attend boarding school.
I would chase golf dreams across continents.
I would earn a scholarship to the United States.
I would become a PGA Professional, a coach, an entrepreneur, a husband, a father, and eventually a grandfather.
None of that was visible from the beginning.
Like every golfer standing on the first tee, I could only see the shot directly in front of me.
The rest of the course remained hidden.
One of the lessons golf has taught me over the years is that you don’t need to see the entire journey before taking the first step. You simply need enough courage to move forward.
Looking back, that lesson may have begun before I ever picked up a golf club.
It may have started with my parents.
Long before I learned about commitment, perseverance, or resilience, they were already living those principles.
The older I get, the more I appreciate the sacrifices they made.
As children, we rarely recognize the risks our parents take on our behalf. We assume life simply happens. We don’t see the difficult decisions, the uncertainty, or the responsibility they carry.
Only later do we understand.
My story may have begun in Papua New Guinea, but the foundation of that story was built by two people willing to venture into the unknown.
That willingness to embrace uncertainty would become a recurring theme throughout my own life.
Whether it was leaving Australia to attend college in America, stepping backward professionally to create future opportunities, chasing a career in professional golf, starting a business, or moving halfway around the world for a new challenge, many of the biggest opportunities in my life came disguised as uncertainty.
Perhaps that should not have been surprising.
After all, uncertainty was part of my story from the very beginning.
Although I have only fragments of connection to Papua New Guinea itself, I am proud that my journey started there.
It is a unique beginning.
A conversation starter.
A reminder that there is no single path to success.
Every life story starts somewhere.
Mine simply started in a place that few people expect.
And while I may not remember those first two years, they remain the opening chapter of a journey that would eventually take me around the world through the game of golf.
Chapter 6
College Golf In America
In 1993, I boarded an airplane and left Australia for the United States.
At eighteen years old, I was carrying a golf scholarship, a dream, and just enough confidence to believe I could succeed.
What I didn’t have was any real understanding of how dramatically my life was about to change.
Looking back now, that flight may have been one of the most important journeys of my life.
It wasn’t simply a trip to college.
It was the beginning of an entirely new chapter.
For most of my life, America had existed primarily through television, movies, and stories. Like many Australians, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what to expect.
I was wrong.
America was bigger.
Everything seemed bigger.
The cities.
The roads.
The food portions.
The college campuses.
Even the accents seemed larger than life.
The cultural differences weren’t bad. They were simply different.
For a young man who had spent most of his life in Australia, there was a constant process of observation and adjustment.
Some things made perfect sense.
Some things made no sense at all.
Over time, however, America began to feel less like a foreign country and more like an opportunity.
Jackson State University became my home.
Located in Jackson, Mississippi, the university introduced me to a completely different environment than anything I had experienced in Australia.
It was diverse.
It was energetic.
It was challenging.
And it was exactly what I needed.
One of the most important people I met during those years was Coach Eddie Payton.
Most people know the Payton name because of Eddie’s younger brother, NFL legend Walter Payton.
To us, however, Coach Payton wasn’t a famous last name.
He was our coach.
He cared about his players.
He believed in discipline.
He expected accountability.
Most importantly, he treated us like young men preparing for life rather than simply golfers preparing for tournaments.
Looking back, many of the lessons I learned from Coach Payton extended far beyond golf.
Good coaches do that.
The best coaches are never simply teaching skills.
They are teaching habits.
They are teaching standards.
They are teaching character.
During my years at Jackson State, I worked hard both academically and athletically.
My parents had always emphasized education, and I took that responsibility seriously.
I wasn’t interested in merely surviving college.
I wanted to maximize the opportunity.
The result was one of the accomplishments I remain most proud of today.
I graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree in Health, Physical Education, and Recreation, specializing in Therapeutic Recreation.
Academically, I achieved a 3.9 overall GPA and a 4.0 GPA in my major.
I was named to the President’s List four times.
The Dean’s List four times.
And I earned recognition as a USAA All-American Scholar-Athlete throughout my college career.
Those achievements mattered because they reflected something deeper than grades.
They reflected commitment.
Golf was important.
Education was equally important.
Throughout my life, I’ve always believed that success leaves clues.
One of those clues is consistency.
Show up.
Do the work.
Repeat.
The formula worked in the classroom just as it worked on the golf course.
Athletically, my game continued to develop.
College golf exposed me to stronger competition and higher expectations.
Every tournament felt important.
Every round mattered.
The margin between success and failure became smaller.
For the first time, I was competing against players who shared many of the same aspirations.
Everyone wanted to improve.
Everyone wanted to win.
Everyone wanted to advance.
That environment pushed me.
And growth often happens when you’re pushed.
One of the highlights of my college career came when our team qualified for the NCAA Regionals in 1996.
Reaching that level represented validation.
Not only for me, but for all the years of work that had led to that moment.
From Darwin to Adelaide.
From Prince Alfred College to Kooralbyn.
From Australia to Mississippi.
The journey was beginning to produce results.
Of course, life wasn’t always easy.
There were moments of homesickness.
Moments when Australia felt very far away.
Moments when I missed family, friends, familiar food, familiar accents, and familiar surroundings.
Anyone who has lived abroad understands that feeling.
You can be grateful for where you are while simultaneously missing where you came from.
Both emotions can exist at the same time.
Fortunately, college also provided something else.
Friendships.
Relationships.
Experiences.
Memories.
The kind of memories that stay with you forever.
Looking back now, I realize that Jackson State gave me far more than a degree and a golf education.
It gave me perspective.
It taught me independence.
It expanded my understanding of people and cultures.
It forced me to adapt.
It challenged me to grow.
Most importantly, it introduced me to a future that I never could have imagined as a young boy growing up in Darwin.
Because somewhere during those college years, another life-changing event occurred.
I met a young woman named Laura.
At the time, I had no way of knowing that meeting Laura would become one of the most important moments of my entire life.
Golf had brought me to America.
But America was about to give me something far more valuable than a golf scholarship.
It was about to give me my future wife.
And with her, an entirely new chapter of the story was about to begin.
My First 72 Hours in America
When I committed to Jackson State University, both Coach Eddie Payton and I were taking a leap of faith.
He had to figure out whether a kid from Australia could help his golf program.
I had to figure out where Jackson, Mississippi actually was.
In 1993, researching a university wasn’t as simple as opening a laptop and searching the internet.
There was no Google.
There were no virtual tours.
There were no social media accounts showing student life.
The best resource I had was an Encyclopedia Britannica.
I remember looking up Mississippi and reading about the state’s geography, population, government, and a few historical landmarks. But there was very little information about Jackson State University itself, and almost nothing that could prepare me for what life there would actually be like.
Growing up in Australia, I knew very little about the American South.
I certainly knew nothing about the history of racial tensions in Mississippi or the unique culture surrounding historically Black colleges and universities.
All I knew was that Coach Payton believed in me.
That was enough.
Once I made my decision, my parents helped me pack for what would become one of the biggest adventures of my life.
My golf travel case was absolutely stuffed.
Inside was my King Cobra staff bag, my Greg Norman irons, and a brand-new steel-headed King Cobra driver with an Aldila graphite shaft. It was the same model that a young Tiger Woods was using around that time.
The travel case probably weighed somewhere between seventy and one hundred pounds.
Everything I owned seemed to be crammed into it.
Alongside that was one giant suitcase.
That was it.
No car.
No furniture.
No comforter.
No bedding.
No towels.
No kitchen supplies.
No moving truck.
Just one golf travel case and one suitcase.
I would soon learn that this was very different from how most American students arrived at college.
Many drove their own vehicles to campus. Others made multiple trips with parents hauling boxes and furniture.
I arrived with two bags and a lot of optimism.
The trip itself felt endless.
I flew from Australia through multiple cities before eventually arriving in Jackson, Mississippi.
One thing I distinctly remember was that I left on Friday the 13th and somehow crossed enough time zones that I experienced Friday the 13th twice.
I’m not superstitious, but it seemed like an interesting way to begin the journey.
After what felt like an eternity in airplanes and airports, I finally landed in Jackson.
Standing there waiting for me was Coach Eddie Payton.
Coach greeted me warmly and explained that we were waiting for a couple of other incoming freshmen.
One was Keion Witherspoon from Compton, California.
The other was Hugh Smith from Seaside, California.
At the time, those locations meant absolutely nothing to me.
I didn’t know where Compton was.
I didn’t know where Seaside was.
I barely knew where Mississippi was.
But before long, the three of us were loaded into Coach’s vehicle and heading toward what would become known as the Golf House.
The Golf House was a duplex located on the corner of Prentiss and Banks Street.
On paper, it sounded great.
A house for the golf team.
In reality, it sat on the edge of one of the roughest neighborhoods I had ever seen.
Some of the houses nearby were boarded up.
Others looked abandoned.
As I would later learn, some were likely drug houses.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand where I was.
I was simply excited to be a college golfer.
Coach dropped us off and told us he’d see us the next day.
The problem was that we had nothing.
No food.
No drinks.
Nothing in the refrigerator.
Nothing in the cupboards.
And after a full day of travel, we were starving.
One of the guys remembered seeing a Church’s Chicken somewhere near campus during a recruiting visit.
So at around ten o’clock that night, the three of us decided to go exploring.
There we were.
Keon from Compton.
Hugh from Seaside.
And one very confused Australian.
Walking through the streets of Jackson looking for fried chicken.
The walk seemed to take forever.
Everywhere we went there were giant cockroaches.
Not normal cockroaches.
These things looked like they had survived multiple wars.
I remember feeling like every step I took was going to land on one.
Eventually we found the restaurant.
Closed.
Not open.
The entire mission had been a complete failure.
So we turned around and walked all the way back.
Hungry.
Tired.
And laughing about how ridiculous the whole situation was.
Oddly enough, that walk probably helped form our first bond as teammates.
We spent the entire time asking questions about each other’s backgrounds.
They wanted to know about Australia.
I wanted to know about California.
Nobody knew much about anyone else.
But we were all trying to figure out this new chapter together.
That night I discovered another problem.
I didn’t have any bedding.
One of my teammates gave me an extra sheet.
That was it.
No blanket.
No proper pillowcase.
No comforter.
Just a sheet.
As I lay there trying to sleep, I couldn’t help thinking how different this was from home.
And yet, somehow, it felt exciting.
The next day Coach showed us around campus and introduced us to some of the facilities.
That evening there was a pep rally on the Quad.
At least, that’s what everyone called it.
I had no idea what either of those words meant.
A pep rally?
A Quad?
These were entirely new concepts to me.
But my teammates assured me there would be music, people, and plenty of girls.
That sounded good enough for me.
So off we went.
When we arrived, there were hundreds of students gathered in the middle of campus.
Music was blasting.
People were dancing.
Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were doing except me.
As I looked around, I realized something.
I was probably the only white student in sight.
It wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable.
It was just different.
Very different.
Eventually I saw a couple of girls dancing nearby and decided to introduce myself.
Things seemed to be going reasonably well.
Then one of the football players walked over, inserted himself into the conversation, and effectively escorted my dance partner away.
Just like that.
There I was.
Standing by myself in the middle of the Quad.
A long way from Australia.
A long way from home.
Wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into.
The next day brought another memorable experience.
I needed a haircut.
That seemed simple enough.
I found a barbershop in the middle of campus and walked in.
The barber asked me what I wanted.
I explained that I liked it shorter on the back and sides but with a little length left on top.
Back home in Australia, that was a pretty standard haircut.
Apparently, we had very different definitions of “short.”
About halfway through the haircut, I realized I was in trouble.
The barber was giving me what I would later learn was called a high-and-tight fade.
The sides were disappearing.
The top was getting shorter by the minute.
I was rapidly becoming a very pale version of a military recruit.
When it was finished, I barely recognized myself.
Having almost no hair while being one of the few white students on campus was not exactly helping me blend in.
Still, that visit produced one of the funniest conversations of my first week.
While I was there, I met a university administrator who introduced himself and welcomed me to campus.
He asked where I was from.
“Australia,” I said.
His face lit up.
“Oh, I love Australia.”
“Really?” I asked.
“You’ve been there?”
“Yes.”
Then he added, “Isn’t that near France?”
I paused.
At first I thought he was joking.
Then I realized he was thinking of Austria.
I explained the difference and mentioned kangaroos.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I saw kangaroos when I was there.”
To this day, I have absolutely no idea whether he had visited Austria, Australia, or neither.
The entire conversation left me completely confused.
But it also made me laugh.
Looking back now, those first seventy-two hours at Jackson State were a perfect introduction to what my college experience would become.
Exciting.
Confusing.
Challenging.
Humbling.
Sometimes funny.
Sometimes uncomfortable.
Almost always unpredictable.
And somehow, despite all of that, I knew I had made the right decision.
I was a long way from home.
But the adventure had officially begun.
The Day I Knew I Belonged
My first college golf tournament was one of the most memorable experiences of my entire playing career.
Up until that point, golf had always been largely an individual sport for me. At Kooralbyn International School, we traveled together as a team and represented our school, but college golf in America felt completely different.
At Jackson State University, we practiced together.
We lifted weights together.
We ran sprints together.
We traveled together.
Everything was done as a team.
For the first time in my life, I truly felt like part of something bigger than myself.
I was no longer just playing for Craig Hocknull.
I was playing for Jackson State University.
I was playing for my teammates.
I was playing for Coach Eddie Payton.
And I loved it.
Our first tournament of the year was the Black College Hall of Fame Coca-Cola Intercollegiate at Brown’s Mill Golf Course in Atlanta, Georgia.
I remember the trip vividly.
We loaded into the van and drove from Jackson through Alabama and into Atlanta. Somewhere along my travels I had picked up an Oakland Athletics baseball cap. It was green and gold with a big letter “A” on the front.
To me, that “A” stood for Australia.
I wore it proudly.
I was an Australian kid representing Jackson State University in America, and I loved every minute of it.
Brown’s Mill wasn’t a country club.
It was Atlanta’s municipal golf course.
The course sat in a rough part of town and looked nothing like the private clubs many people associate with college golf. But that didn’t bother me one bit.
I wasn’t a country club kid.
I grew up playing wherever I could play.
A golf course was a golf course.
The tournament itself was a major event.
There was a Hall of Fame banquet, a football game associated with the festivities, and a tremendous amount of pride surrounding the competition. Coach Payton was heavily involved with the Black College Hall of Fame, and the entire week felt special.
After qualifying for the team, I entered the tournament playing near the bottom of our lineup.
Our team consisted of senior captain Sam Norwood, Brian Burt, A.J. Montecinos, Hugh Smith, and myself.
Tim O’Neill traveled with us as well, competing as an individual.
The first round went well.
Brian Burt shot 74 and led the tournament.
I shot 75 and found myself tied for second.
Not bad for my first college tournament.
That night I felt good about my game, but I had no idea what was coming the next day.
The second round was one of those rare experiences golfers spend their entire lives chasing.
I was completely in the zone.
Everything felt effortless.
I actually started the round by missing a short birdie putt on the opening hole. If I remember correctly, I may have even three-putted for par after reaching the green in two.
Normally that would have irritated me.
Instead, it barely registered.
Something felt different.
The swing felt free.
The putter felt hot.
My confidence kept growing.
Birdies started falling.
Then more birdies.
Then even more.
I wasn’t forcing anything.
I wasn’t trying to shoot a score.
I was simply playing.
The game felt easy.
By the time I reached the closing stretch, I knew I had something special going.
On the par-five seventeenth hole, word had apparently reached Coach Payton that I was playing well.
As usual, he came flying across the golf course in his cart at about thirty miles an hour.
“Where you at, Craig?” he asked.
I told him I was playing well, but I didn’t tell him my score.
I had a decision to make.
My drive had leaked slightly to the right, leaving me a long second shot over water and over a small group of trees.
I was planning to hit a three-iron directly at the green.
Coach wasn’t a fan of that idea.
“Too risky,” he said. “Lay it up. Hit a wedge in there and make your birdie.”
He drove away.
I stood there for a few seconds.
Then I looked at the shot again.
And I thought, Nah. I’m going for it.
I pulled the three-iron.
The shot came off perfectly.
The ball sailed over the trees, carried the water, and finished safely on the green.
I two-putted for birdie and headed to the final hole.
At that point, I knew one thing.
The only way I was going to ruin this round was with a big mistake.
Back then, my miss was usually a hook.
So instead of hitting driver, I pulled out my three-wood.
I aimed down the right side of the fairway and let my natural draw bring it back.
Perfect.
The ball split the fairway.
From there I had about an eight-iron into the uphill finishing hole.
Again, I played conservatively.
Middle-right side of the green.
Twenty feet away.
Two putts and I’d finish with one of the best rounds of my life.
The putt was a sweeping right-to-left breaker.
I wasn’t trying to make it.
I simply wanted to lag it close.
I rolled it out to the right side and watched.
And watched.
And watched.
The ball kept turning.
It reached the top edge of the cup.
For a moment it looked like it might stay out.
Then it toppled in.
Birdie.
Sixty-four.
Eight under par.
I can still remember standing there in disbelief.
I knew I had just played the best round of golf of my life.
What I didn’t know was that I had also won the tournament.
I turned in my scorecard and wandered back toward the eighteenth green.
As a freshman, I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do after finishing.
A couple of teammates and friends were standing nearby. We were laughing, talking about the round, and reliving a few of the shots.
That’s when Coach Payton came storming over.
He wasn’t happy.
At Jackson State, there was a tradition.
When you finished your round, you stayed behind the eighteenth green and waited for your teammates to finish. As each player completed the tournament, you applauded them and welcomed them in.
Every player.
Every round.
No exceptions.
I didn’t know that.
Coach let me know immediately.
One minute I was celebrating the best round of my life.
The next minute I was getting chewed out.
Welcome to college golf.
Looking back, I understand what he was trying to teach us.
The team came first.
Always.
That lesson stayed with me long after the golf shots were forgotten.
The week ended with another unforgettable experience.
We attended the Black College Hall of Fame football game at the Georgia Dome.
For a kid from Australia, it was incredible.
We were down on the field, standing on the sidelines with the players.
Golf legend Calvin Peete presented awards and spent time with the participants.
When our team was recognized, the stadium cameras zoomed in and our picture appeared on the giant screen.
We had won the team championship.
I had won the individual championship.
I had shot a course-record 64.
And I had set a Jackson State single-round scoring record.
It was almost too much to process.
What made the experience even sweeter was what happened later that semester.
I continued playing well throughout the fall, recording several strong finishes and helping our team compete at a high level.
Academically, things were going just as well.
I finished the semester with a 4.0 GPA.
Toward the end of the term, Coach Payton called me into his office.
He handed me a printout from Golfstat.
Back then, Golfstat reports came on old dot-matrix printer paper with perforated edges and tractor-feed holes running down both sides.
Coach slid the paper across the desk.
I looked down.
There it was.
Division I Men’s Golf.
National Stroke Average Rankings.
Number One.
Craig Hocknull.
Jackson State University.
For one semester, I had the lowest scoring average in all of Division I college golf.
I don’t remember the exact number. I believe it was somewhere in the 67 range, and I still have the printout today.
But I remember exactly how it felt.
A year earlier, I had been a teenager from Australia wondering whether I could compete in American college golf.
Now I was sitting in Coach Payton’s office with a 4.0 GPA and the lowest scoring average in Division I golf.
That first semester taught me something important.
I belonged.
Not because someone told me I did.
Not because I had a scholarship.
Not because I wore a Jackson State logo.
I belonged because I had earned it.
And that realization changed everything
Chapter 10
Taking a Step Back to Move Forward
One of the most important decisions of my career looked like a mistake on paper.
If someone had reviewed my résumé at the time, they might have questioned my judgment.
I had invested years developing my skills as a golf professional and instructor. I had worked hard to build experience. I had ambitions to continue climbing the professional ladder.
Then I took what appeared to be a step backward.
The opportunity was at Superstition Mountain Golf and Country Club in Arizona.
Today, when people hear the name Superstition Mountain, they think of one of the premier private clubs in the Southwest. Beautiful facilities. Outstanding membership. Exceptional golf courses. A first-class operation.
What many people don’t know is that my journey there didn’t begin in a glamorous role.
It began in outside services.
I was cleaning clubs.
Moving carts.
Handling bags.
Performing many of the jobs that young professionals often hope they have already moved beyond.
From the outside, it probably didn’t make much sense.
From the inside, however, I saw something different.
I saw opportunity.
One of the lessons I’ve learned repeatedly throughout my life is that titles can be misleading.
Many people become obsessed with position.
They focus on what a job is called instead of what a job can become.
I wasn’t interested in protecting my ego.
I was interested in building a future.
Superstition Mountain offered access to exceptional people, exceptional members, and exceptional opportunities.
I believed that if I got my foot in the door, I could create something meaningful.
That belief turned out to be correct.
The golf industry is surprisingly small.
People notice effort.
People notice attitude.
People notice professionalism.
When you consistently show up, work hard, and contribute positively, opportunities often follow.
Not immediately.
But eventually.
Before long, I transitioned from outside services into the golf shop.
That move provided exposure to a different side of the operation.
Member service.
Retail.
Tournament administration.
Golf operations.
Relationship building.
Every role taught something valuable.
Looking back now, one of the greatest advantages of my career is that I have worked in so many different aspects of the business.
Those experiences help you understand how everything fits together.
Great golf operations don’t happen by accident.
They happen because dozens of small details are managed consistently and professionally.
Superstition Mountain gave me an opportunity to learn those details.
At the same time, my teaching career continued growing.
Members began seeking instruction.
Students began improving.
Word began spreading.
Gradually, my role shifted more and more toward coaching.
Teaching has always fascinated me because every student presents a unique challenge.
No two golfers are identical.
No two swings are identical.
No two personalities are identical.
The best coaches don’t force every player into the same mold.
They help each individual become the best version of themselves.
That philosophy was beginning to take shape during my years at Superstition Mountain.
One of the most influential figures during this period was Mike Malaska.
Mike would later become one of the most respected instructors in golf and eventually earn National Teacher of the Year honors.
Working alongside someone of Mike’s caliber provided tremendous learning opportunities.
What impressed me most wasn’t simply his knowledge.
It was his commitment to helping golfers improve.
Great coaches are lifelong students.
The best teachers never stop learning.
That lesson stayed with me.
Even today, after thousands of lessons and decades in the business, I remain a student of the game.
There is always something new to learn.
Always something new to understand.
Always another way to help a player improve.
As my teaching reputation grew, so did my confidence.
Not arrogance.
Confidence.
There is a difference.
Confidence comes from preparation.
Confidence comes from experience.
Confidence comes from seeing students succeed because of work you’ve done together.
For the first time, I began to believe that teaching could become much more than a portion of my job.
It could become the foundation of my career.
Looking back now, that realization changed everything.
The future opportunities that followed—academies, awards, successful students, leadership roles, and teaching positions at elite clubs—can all be traced back to this period.
The seeds were planted at Superstition Mountain.
What appeared to be a step backward professionally turned out to be one of the smartest investments I ever made.
Life has a way of rewarding humility.
Not immediately.
Not always obviously.
But eventually.
By setting aside my ego and focusing on growth rather than titles, I positioned myself for opportunities that would never have existed otherwise.
It’s a lesson I often share with young PGA Professionals.
Don’t become so focused on your current title that you miss a better long-term opportunity.
Sometimes the shortest route to success requires temporary sacrifice.
Sometimes the fastest way forward begins by stepping backward.
For me, that lesson became one of the defining themes of my career.
And as my teaching continued to develop, another opportunity began emerging.
An opportunity that would dramatically increase my income, expand my network, and reignite my competitive ambitions.
That opportunity was waiting in northern Idaho.
A place called Black Rock.
And once again, a new chapter was about to begin.
Chapter: Starting Over at Superstition Mountain
By the time I arrived at Superstition Mountain Golf and Country Club, I had already lived several different golf careers.
I had been a Division I golfer.
I had chased professional golf.
I had worked in recreation therapy.
I had been an assistant professional.
I had been an interim head professional.
I had been a director of instruction.
I had taught hundreds of lessons.
I had built golf academies.
I had coached juniors and adults.
And now I was standing in a cart barn cleaning golf clubs.
If you looked at my résumé, it made absolutely no sense.
Most people spend their careers trying to climb the ladder.
I felt like I had fallen off it.
But sometimes pride gets in the way of opportunity.
And fortunately for me, Laura and I had learned enough lessons by that point to know that titles don’t pay the bills.
Opportunities do.
Relationships do.
Growth does.
I had become convinced that if I could somehow get my foot in the door at the right club, everything else would eventually work itself out.
Superstition Mountain was one of the premier private clubs in Arizona.
The facilities were outstanding.
The membership was exceptional.
The golf courses were beautiful.
And most importantly, there were talented people working there.
I wanted to be around excellence.
I wanted to learn.
I wanted to grow.
I wanted access to an environment that would challenge me.
The only problem was that the position available wasn’t exactly glamorous.
The job was outside services.
In plain English, that meant I was cleaning clubs, washing carts, greeting members, loading bags, setting up carts, wiping down equipment, picking the driving range, and doing all the jobs that many young golf professionals spend years trying to escape.
I was thirty years old.
I had a wife.
I had children.
I had already managed golf operations.
And now I was back at the bottom.
At least that’s what it looked like from the outside.
The reality was different.
I wasn’t starting over.
I was repositioning myself.
That distinction became incredibly important.
Every morning I showed up with the same attitude.
Do the job.
Do it well.
Do it better than anyone else.
I wasn’t there to complain.
I wasn’t there to tell people about my résumé.
I wasn’t there to explain why I deserved something more important.
I was there to earn trust.
And trust is built through consistency.
One cart at a time.
One member interaction at a time.
One day at a time.
One of the things that helped me was my upbringing.
Growing up in Australia, hard work wasn’t something you bragged about.
It was just expected.
Whether you were fishing, mowing lawns, cleaning equipment, carrying bags, or helping around the house, you did the work that needed to be done.
So while my ego occasionally reminded me that I had once been a director of instruction, the practical side of me knew that none of that mattered.
What mattered was creating the next opportunity.
The members didn’t care about my résumé.
They cared about how they were treated.
The management team didn’t care what titles I used to have.
They cared about whether I showed up prepared and worked hard.
And so that’s what I did.
The funny thing about private clubs is that members notice everything.
They notice who works hard.
They notice who has a positive attitude.
They notice who remembers names.
They notice who genuinely enjoys being around people.
And before long, members started asking questions.
“Who is that Australian guy?”
“Why is he working outside?”
“Isn’t he a golf professional?”
“Does he teach?”
Those conversations started happening more and more often.
A few members began asking me questions about their golf swings.
Then a few more.
Then a few more.
Before long, I was giving informal advice around the practice facilities.
Nothing official.
Just helping people.
The same thing I’d always done.
Teaching has never felt like work to me.
Helping people improve has always been something I genuinely enjoy.
Whether I was getting paid for it or not, I found myself naturally coaching people.
Eventually management noticed.
The members noticed.
And opportunities started appearing.
Not because I demanded them.
Because I earned them.
After some time, an opportunity opened up inside the golf shop.
It wasn’t a huge promotion, but it was a step forward.
I gladly accepted.
Now I was back behind the counter.
Checking in members.
Running tournaments.
Managing merchandise.
Handling daily operations.
Doing all the traditional assistant golf professional responsibilities.
Again, I treated it the same way.
Learn everything.
Do everything.
Help wherever needed.
Be valuable.
One of the advantages I had was that I genuinely enjoyed every aspect of the golf business.
I enjoyed operations.
I enjoyed merchandising.
I enjoyed tournaments.
I enjoyed teaching.
I enjoyed playing.
I enjoyed the people.
And because of that, I was able to contribute in multiple areas.
The more responsibilities I took on, the more opportunities appeared.
The more opportunities appeared, the more relationships I built.
And then something happened that changed the trajectory of my career once again.
My teaching began taking off.
Members wanted lessons.
Word spread.
Students improved.
Referrals increased.
The lesson book filled up.
Just as it had in Yuma.
Just as it had in Gilbert.
Just as it would continue to do throughout my career.
Eventually I found myself spending more and more time teaching.
The club recognized that value.
The members certainly recognized it.
And before long, I had transitioned into a full-time teaching role.
Looking back, it happened surprisingly quickly.
What felt like years was actually a relatively short period of time.
The lesson for me was powerful.
When you focus on being valuable instead of being important, opportunities tend to find you.
Around this same period, I had the opportunity to work alongside one of the most respected instructors in the country, Mike Malaska.
Mike would eventually become one of the most recognized teachers in golf and later earn PGA National Teacher of the Year honors.
Watching Mike work was incredibly valuable.
He had tremendous communication skills.
He simplified complicated concepts.
He understood people.
Most importantly, he understood how to help golfers improve without overwhelming them.
While Mike held the title of Director of Instruction, I was building my own reputation within the club.
Members trusted me.
Students improved.
The lesson tee stayed busy.
And although titles suggested one organizational chart, the reality was that many members viewed me as one of the primary teaching resources at the club.
That was incredibly rewarding.
Not because of ego.
Because of validation.
Years of struggle.
Years of uncertainty.
Years of starting over.
Years of chasing opportunities.
All of it was finally beginning to pay off.
Financially, things improved.
Professionally, things improved.
Personally, things improved.
Most importantly, I regained confidence.
Not confidence in my golf swing.
Not confidence in my teaching.
I already had those.
I regained confidence in my ability to navigate adversity.
Every setback I had experienced since leaving college had taught me something.
The injuries.
The financial stress.
The failed professional golf dreams.
The job losses.
The uncertainty.
The criticism.
The disappointments.
None of it had broken me.
In fact, all of it had prepared me.
Without realizing it, I was becoming exactly the kind of golf professional I would later need to be.
A coach.
A mentor.
A teacher.
A competitor.
A husband.
A father.
And eventually an entrepreneur.
The journey wasn’t smooth.
It rarely is.
But standing on that lesson tee at Superstition Mountain, watching students improve and building relationships with members, I could finally feel momentum returning.
For the first time in years, it felt like I wasn’t just surviving.
I was building.
And that foundation would soon open the door to an even bigger opportunity—one that would eventually take me to northern Idaho, year-round teaching, national tournaments, and a renewed pursuit of competitive golf.
The next chapter of my life was about to begin. It started with a place called Black Rock.
Thank you for taking the time to read this sample from my book of over 1700 Pages. Hopefully you enjoyed my stories and feel that having the complete digital copy for yourself will add hope and inspiration for your journey through golf and life.
- Cheers!
- Craig