Our friend and colleague John Hopkins passed these wonderful words along to share about the passing of Jeff Babineau.

My first meeting with Jeff Babineau came at an Open when we were both due to appear on an American radio station. I was on the telephone to my host when I heard him say: “Babs, if you are there, say hello to John.”

At that a beefy man a few rows away from me turned round and gave me a cheery wave across the deserted press room. “Ah” I thought to myself. “That’s Jeff Babineau.”

Down the years we bumped into each other at events in the U.S. and occasionally in the U.K., too. He was smiley and friendly.

Then we started working together at Augusta as the writers for the Masters Annual. We sat in the top but one row on the right of the amphitheatre in the media centre. To my left was Rich Skyzinski, once of the USGA and now an editor at the company that published the annual. To his left was Michael Hagmann, a large and restless presence who was in charge of the project. To my right was Babineau, one of the last to arrive in the morning and one of the last to leave at night, too.

As darkness settled over Augusta National he would be at his desk, a notebook filled with scrawls of writing to one side of him and a pile of sandwiches, doughnuts, wrapping paper and a drink to the other as he strove to make the piece he was working on as good as he could.

Or he might be finessing some detail to do with the annual dinner of the Golf Writers Association of America, traditionally held on the Wednesday evening of Masters week, because he did that as well.

Or he might be listening to a colleague, leaning back in his chair, a smile on his face, for there was a constant stream of his peers who wanted to tell him something or ask him something. He had that sort of appeal.

Whatever he was doing, he always seemed unhurried.

Others have spoken of his editing ability. I can vouchsafe his writing. He was thorough. Little of what had gone on that day escaped him.  

The characteristic I admired most was a working practice he instituted between the two of us. After he had finished a piece, he would email it to me to look at, not being the least bit precious about his writing as many others would have been. That made me comfortable to do the same with my day’s work. It worked. He made my copy better with his comments. I hope I did the same for his.

On Tuesday afternoon I was sitting in a coffee shop in Henley-on-Thames, a mince pie on a plate and a cup of coffee in front of me and a copy of The Times open on my lap, when I was texted by a friend in the U.S. with the news of Babs’s death.  I found it hard to process. He was such a formidable presence, in bulk and character. And now, nearly 36 hours after I heard it, I still am having difficulty realising that this bear of a man with a friendly smile and an easy way with people will not be sitting to my right among the team of four that produce the green (of course) leather-bound 2025 Masters Annual next April.

Furman Bisher, one of the best sportswriters in the U.S., covered many many Masters for the Atlanta Constitution. When he died a small hatstand with one of his typical hats on it was positioned on the desk in the media centre at Augusta at which he had worked for years and as we passed it we all nodded and thought of Furman.

I wonder what will be placed on the desk next to me next April to remember Babs? It had better be special otherwise it will not be a true representation of a good man, a good journalist and a good friend to so many of us.