Our Story
A Twelve-Year-Old Who Couldn't Stand to See Clubs Thrown Away
I was twelve years old, working at Medford's Bear Creek golf course, when I first noticed golf clubs in the garbage can. It bothered me. John Watson, one of the pros there, saw me looking and said something that stuck: "Any club can be repaired."
He took me under his wing and showed me the basics. That planted a seed. Later, my dad—a big golfer himself—opened a repair school down in Reno. Between his teaching and the books we had from Golf Works, Golfsmith, and Roger Maltby, I learned the craft from the ground up. Not from shortcuts. From knowledge passed down and earned.
I went on to coach golf for 24 years. Hundreds of student-athletes. Frame-by-frame swing analysis. I learned to see things others miss—the compensation, the geometry, the moment where mechanics break down. That eye would become everything when I discovered hickory.
"This Is What Real Golf Was Meant to Be."
I was at Pat Sutton's golf show at Riverside Country Club. Back then, I was a classic club guy—steel shafts, collectibles. Jack, a well-known figure in the hickory world, sat down with me after the show. Over beers, he told me something that changed everything: "If you could take the steel shaft out and put a hickory shaft in, you'd have something special—a club worth playing."
I asked why more people didn't do that. His answer was simple: "People don't have the skill."
Then Peter Yagi handed me a hickory club and told me to try it. One swing. That was all it took. I don't want to call it an aha moment, but it was close. The feeling transported me—this was golf stripped down to its essence. No need for the best equipment. Just desire, passion, and feel for the game.
I feel like I'm a part of history when I take an old club and make it new again.
Three Stations. One Standard.
When you walk into my shop, you see three to four separate stations, each with a purpose. On the right is where most of the work happens—my vice is the most-used tool, always ready on the bench. Surrounding it are the hand tools I reach for daily.
Then there's the sanding station. And finally, the fine detailing area where refinishing, staining, and the careful work happens.
The smell? A combination of old history, if you will. Wood, stain, and the particular scent of work that matters.
My oldest tool is a Majestic golf club face marking tool from the 1890s. I got it from Chris McIntyre, a legend in the hickory world. It cuts scoring lines into old woods—one simple stroke. It's never needed improvement because it's perfect. Some tools earn their place through generations of use.
Historical Accuracy Over "Pretty"
Here's what separates my work: I restore clubs to be playable. I restore them to be right. The scratches and dings tell a story of the club's past.
I use period-correct varnishes. I notice when someone used the wrong type of whipping, the wrong grip for the era. Those small nuances matter. When you work on enough clubs, you can tell who did the work just by looking—everyone has their own style.
The nice thing about antique clubs is that almost all of them can be play-worthy. The old makers used good wood. But if a club has significant historical value—if a famous player used it, if there are only a few in the world—that's wall-worthy. You don't want to ruin that history.
Trusted by the Best in Hickory Golf
I do repair work for Peter Yagi—I make shafts for his clubs. Bob Charles, the famous golfer, switched to hickory. My work has been used at the World Hickory Championship.
You can Google my name in the hickory world. I don't want to say I'm famous, but I'm well known. My work stands for itself. A skeptic just needs to look at the time and effort I put in, to see the small details that make it the best club it can be.
And yes—I have a collection of 300 to 400 golf bags. I'm a golf bag guy. There's one old par bag that catches my eye every time I see it. Somebody offered me good money for it. I couldn't sell it at any cost. Some things aren't about money.
This Is a Work of Art. It's Done by a Craftsman.
When a club first arrives, I notice small things. Has it been worked on before? How much of the club is still original? The small nuances tell the story.
What do I hope you feel when you play with a club I've restored? The passion and the history. When I pick up an antique club, I want to know: Who held this? Where did they buy it? What journey has this club been on?
I hope you feel that same passion. That this isn't just a golf club—this is a work of art. It's not done by a money maker or a foundry. It's done by a craftsman.
If you want clubs restored by someone who understands both the wood and the swing—we should talk.
— Brad Harvey