YOU NEVER HEARD OF DAVID MOORE. He was an English kid we toured with back in the 1970s. An absolute brilliant player, unlimited potential, destined for greatness. He could do things with a golf ball the rest of us couldn't do. In the winter of 1976, there was a series of tournaments in Zambia. Big events, excellent purses. All the best Ryder Cuppers were in the fields as well as Jack Newton, who'd just lost an Open playoff to Tom Watson at Carnoustie. The towns in Zambia were remote with few hotels, so we stayed with host families. A few days into it, David asked me who I was staying with, and could he possibly arrange to stay with us as well. "I don't like the atmosphere of the house I'm in," he said. "Something is not right with the guy who is hosting us." I sympathized and looked into it, but the house I was in was full of guests. A few days later, David and another pro attended a party at a rugby club. The host and the host's wife were there, and the guy got drunk and accused David of having an affair with his wife. Which was insane, because David scarcely knew them. The husband left. A couple of hours later, when David and another player arrived back at the host's house, the husband opened the front door, drew a gun and shot David in the head. Killed him. My inability to get David into another house has always haunted me.