Jeff Babineau, recipient of PGA Lifetime Award, remembered by colleagues

AUGUSTA, Ga. – I didn't fully appreciate how much Jeff Babineau meant to me until he was gone.

Babs, as many of us called him, died Dec. 9, 2024, at his home in Oviedo, Florida. He was 62 and left behind a loving wife, three children and countless friends and admirers of his work. It was only after I no longer could call or text him that I realized how much I relied on him as a sounding board, as a mentor, as someone who had showed me the ropes at Golfweek when I first made the crew that attended majors. [Reading back through our text string brings a wave of smiles, chuckles and eventually tears whenever I do so.]

Babineau, longtime editor of Golfweek and a senior writer before that, was one of the industry's most recognizable and revered figures. He covered hundreds of tournaments on the PGA Tour and LPGA, as well as more than 100 major championships and 12 Ryder Cups. He was named the 35th recipient of the PGA Lifetime Achievement Award in Journalism, and his career will be celebrated Wednesday at the 52nd annual ISPS Handa GWAA Awards Dinner at Augusta Country Club.

Jeff Babineau, left, with colleague Adam Schupak, right, covering the 2021 Ryder Cup at Whistling Straits in Wisconsin. Babineau covered over 100 major championships and 12 Ryder Cups.

Being at the Masters this week brings back memories of accompanying him one year to an Under Armour party, where I watched a master work a room of agents and player managers before hanging with Jordan Spieth's father. He knew everyone in golf. He took me under the famed Oak Tree, where he was a Jedi at getting sources to share some of the nuggets that became future Forecaddies. We – the Golfweek team – shut down media centers at majors together working into the wee hours of the morning.

I remember being on the phone with him at the Valero Texas Open, and he scrolled through the field list and suggested I find a little-known golfer making his PGA Tour debut named Martin Piller. I still remember how this wide-eyed newcomer marveled at the free food and dry cleaning available. Babs sent a note on my story that said simply, "Well done." Those two words meant the world to me.

So did the first time he accepted a Forecaddie contribution from me. It wasn't always kudos. He'd call me out whenever I used first person – he'd probably be saying didn't I teach you anything if he knew I was using it now! He'd ride me for using the same source too many times. Both qualified as lazy by his high standards. He also wrote me the most meaningful review of my career, tough love that still helps me to this day. He set an example of what he expected from everyone at Golfweek while simultaneously showing us all how to be a loving parent and spouse at home, too.

He assumed the role grudgingly of being our fearless leader. It wasn't something he aspired to, only because in his mind he already had the best job in the world. What he loved most of all was writing and he did so with humor and heart, compassion and kindness – whatever the story demanded. Friend. Mentor. Boss. Golf partner. He fit many roles. But he hardly did all this just for me. Here are more memories of Babs from those who worked in the trenches with him at Golfweek during his 19 years with the magazine.

Jeff Rude

Jeff Babineau had a playful, quick wit. It showed up not only in print, but also throughout the day of his normal life. Creativity was one of his gifts.

We met at the 1995 U.S. Open. Three years later I recommended him for a Golfweek job, and he took it from there. We covered and traveled the golf world together from 1998-2015, hitting Australia twice and South Africa and every major and cup and playing famous golf courses home and abroad. I had more golf adventures with him than anyone else in my life. He called me Rudy; I called him Baboo.

Constant quips and laughs and all-night writes dotted our time together. The laughs were particularly plentiful on a trip to Ireland for a week and about 1,200 van miles after the 2002 Ryder Cup. The coastal trip ended with a round at Royal County Down after visiting Portrush the day before.

Because of a tardy member in our group, we got there late and missed our tee time. When we rolled into the parking lot all sad-faced and told the starter we missed our tee time, the man said, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you off.” Baboo’s happy comment to me right after was, “He already did.”

Hours later, walking up a hilly fairway, I mentioned to him that County Down has so many blind tee shots over aiming rocks. He replied, “It has so many blind shots, the yardage book should be done in braille.”

From left to right: Former Golfweek writers Jeff Rude, Jeff Babineau, Dave Seanor and John Steinbreder at Royal County Down in Northern Ireland.

Beth Ann Nichols

It was June 2007. Michelle Wie was once again embroiled in controversy and I was on the ground in South Carolina, following the unfolding 88-gate, not quite a year into the role as senior writer.

I filed a column on Sunday night and Babs sent it back. I can’t remember what he said, but I began again and recall something unlocking. I found a voice that night in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina.

I filed again.

Babs sent back a short note and, once again, I can’t remember what he said. But I remember the confidence that I gained that night like it was yesterday.

Most people will remember Babs as one of the best storytellers in the game. Both in print and in person. And he was that, every day.

But he was also a teacher – in the ways he went about his business, with high standards and a soft heart. If Babs sent a two-word note that said, “terrific read,” it meant the world.

He made us all better. Still does.

Jason Lusk

Jeff Babineau was my boss at Golfweek for nearly a decade, and we shared an office space at the magazine for even longer than that. We built hundreds and hundreds of issues of Golfweek, and he loved his job most days, especially writing. But Babs, as he was known by everyone, was so much more than just his work.

He was the ultimate fun guy, the life of every party with the best stories from the world of golf and beyond. At his core, he loved people and they loved him, whether it be a PGA Tour star or a club pro or a college dreamer or somebody he grew up with out on the Cape or just somebody he met in an airport. Babs always took the time to listen, and he made sure that we learned that kind of listening skill as well.

The love of humanity showed through in his work, for which has been honored and memorialized in many ways now that he's been gone for just over a year. He loved meeting people, laughing and listening. He loved to tell their stories, whether that be on his laptop or in a bar late at night. I miss Babs every day, and I think I always will.

Jim McCabe

Nothing invigorated me more than talking storylines with Babs. He had such compassion and such depth. You found yourself changing your path and re-thinking your lead, and while it meant more work, you loved how he made your story better.

Following his death in late 2024, Jeff Babineau was remembered in nearly every media center for being an old-school journalist and a beloved figure in the game.

Brentley Romine

Jeff Babineau was known to the golf world as Babs, but to me, a scrawny only child with a single mom and very little baseball talent, he was Coach Babineau. I played many seasons for Babs’ Red Sox in elementary and middle school, and I always appreciated him drafting me despite me contributing almost nothing to his teams and knowing that he often had to swing by my house to shuttle me to practice. Little did I know then that that probably meant less time crafting some feature about Tiger Woods or more likely Ernie Els.

Fast forward to 2011, I was 20 years old and had received an internship at Golfweek. When I was brought into the editor’s office for an introduction, a familiar voice goes, “I know Brentley. He was my second baseman.” It was Coach Babineau, who had to have been relieved that I wasn’t wearing a glove, as it meant he finally had some sliver of talent to work with.

Sure, there was the time I went trick-or-treating that next year while still in college and accidentally ended up on his cul-de-sac. Babs, I believe, offered my friends and I beers that evening. But after that initial embarrassment, I spent the next dozen or so years doing everything I could to not only learn from one of the best to ever cover the game but also just be around him as much as possible. There was no better storyteller, whether you were reading him in the magazine or listening to some crazy tale over dinner and drinks. And I’m even more certain that no one in this business could deliver a better punchline.

Of the many lessons I learned from Babs, a few stand out. He’d get on you if you went to a tournament and didn’t touch grass – aka watch the actual golf – and again if you did that but didn’t bring a notebook. To this day, I always strive to get as many voices as possible in my stories, even if it means more work. The most important voices are often players’ family members, and Babs never missed a chance to walk a few holes with a mom or dad or sibling. He developed so many relationships that way.

And above all, I always appreciated the tough love, especially on the golf course, where my bad attitude would often get the best of me in my 20s. One time he basically put me in timeout after a company retreat. Many years later, I’d like to think I’ve become a better, more patient man – on and off the golf course – because of Coach Babineau. As for writing, I’ll never be as good as he was, but I can sure swing for the fences.

Dan Mirocha

A project that I helped lead in 2009 won first place in the Golf Writers Association of America’s annual writing contest, and the Golfweek team who wrote the story was set to be recognized at the association’s awards dinner in Augusta, Ga., the night before the first round of the 2010 Masters.

At 28 years old, I was by far the youngest and greenest member of our team who contributed to the project. Sure, I had come up with the idea for the story and managed the project, but it was the words of so many talented writers, including Babs, that made the story sing.

Still, Babs insisted that I be the one to accept the award on stage and give a brief speech.

Babs also went a few steps further. He pulled some levers and got a ticket to the awards dinner as well as a Masters Wednesday practice round ticket for my dad, who flew in from Minneapolis for the day.

It was my dad’s first time at Augusta National, and he and I spent the afternoon walking the course. In the late afternoon, Babs invited him to hang at the rental house with our Golfweek team before we left for the awards ceremony. It was really cool to be able to give my dad a small peek into my work life and let him experience the Golfweek camaraderie as one of the guys.

Babs made it all happen, and it’s a memory I’m still thankful for 16 years later.

Scott Hamilton

Only the best of us get short, concise nicknames. Arnie. Jack. Tiger.

Babs.

And what an ideal nickname for Jeff Babineau the golf writer and Jeff Babineau the beloved man.

Indeed, Babs' writing was economical; with compact sentences painting pictures that drove home larger messages. His interview skills were also tight. Brief questions, or a quick – and sometimes mundane – observation released rivers of responses from folks who were either reluctant to open up, simply didn't know how to share or both.

Everyone and anyone could talk with Babs. Mainly because he knew how to listen. For as quick as he was with a witty barb or a perfectly timed anecdote, Babs was first and foremost always coiled to lend an empathetic ear. Even the most downtrodden golfer or despondent friend so often felt that Babs “got it.”

That’s because he didn’t label folks, or at least not until he considered their position or simply imagined walking 72 holes in their spikes. Still, his conclusions remained sprinkled with understanding. After all, completely condemning a person wasn’t in his bones.

Babs grasped humanity’s frailty and imperfections because he embraced his own. His endless string of timely one-liners were rooted in the willingness to laugh at himself even when the joke wasn’t on him. Funny enough, such humbleness only further elevated him amongst his peers and friends. Babs proved that greatness can be projected in different ways.

And consistently performing acts that elevate and never denigrate helps you become a profession’s version of an Arnie, a Jack, a Tiger. Or, in the case of those of us blessed enough to know him in and out of media centers, a Babs.

Scott Hamilton, left, and Adam Schupak, right, at the unveiling of a memorial bench for Jeff Babineau at Dennis Pines Golf Club in South Dennis, Mass., at Babineau's old stomping grounds.

Eric Soderstrom

Over 20 years later, I realize how little time he must’ve had to spare. Babs still responded to my e-mail, though. He kept responding, too. He kept opening the Word docs. Kept reading through my drafts. Kept sending his edits. His insight. His encouragement.

The last thing Jeff Babineau needed was more words in the queue. More words from a 21-year-old wannabe scribe who could certainly stand to learn a few more words.

I was just out of college when I sent my first note to jbabineau@golfweek.com. I told him I wanted to be a golf writer. I attached a story I’d been working on for a regional golf magazine. I asked for his thoughts.  He didn’t know me from any other e-mailer on the planet. But he still responded. With many words. All of them the right words. Words I may have forgotten but will always remember. Words this kid needed to hear, I can tell you that.

Thanks Babs.

Kevin Casey

Jeff Babineau was really a pure writer. His prose was some of the best I’ve ever encountered. He also had an eye for a good detail.

One of the first times I met Babs was at the 2015 U.S. Amateur, and he was writing about Bryson DeChambeau floating his golf balls in Epsom salt. It was that wild type of color he seemed to uncover with ease.

But Babs was also more than his abilities. He was a great teammate. He was supportive and constructive. If he saw you were invested, he would very much invest in you. He wanted to see you grow and succeed, and he would show you how. And overall, he was just a fun presence to be around.

Always incredibly quick with a line – as his strong prose would imply, he could turn a phrase – and had a great open-mouth laugh that makes me chuckle even thinking about it as I write this sentence. Babs was gone too soon, but he left a legacy that will live on.

This article originally appeared on Golfweek: Jeff Babineau, recipient of PGA Lifetime Award, remembered at Masters