his itch to enrich the lives of others. She particularly
sees her husband in Banks, who’s prone to quiet analysis
before a decision. Once, though, he had a bedtime melt-
down, and Ashley burst into tears. “I’m trying the best
I can right now,” she pleaded.
“Banks, be nice to Mommy,” Beau said, sensing the
moment’s Gene-sized void.
The boys ask often about the man who killed their
father, worried about their safety. Ashley tiptoes, too;
she hired private security in the days after Gene’s death.
Her heart races whenever she sees a white pickup truck.
And every night she takes an extra lap around the house,
checking doors and the alarm, household chores that
Gene used to tackle, that she says she took for granted.
She feels her husband’s absence most in those realiza-
tions: She had little sense of how much time he spent
tending to their yard until, a month after his death,
bushes, vines and grass had sprung forward, unchecked.
For these extra burdens—for being robbed of her
best friend, for feeling
exhausted after another
day of single parenting—
anger occasionally sub-
sumes Ashley’s grief.
Her fury is directed at
the accused shooter, then
23-year-old Bryan Rhoden,
a former metro Atlanta
high school football
player who’s had a string of
drug-related run-ins with
law enforcement across his
young life.According to prosecu-
tors, Rhoden (who sits on
trial in Cobb County, where
he pleaded not guilty)
and an accomplice, Justin
Caleb Pruitt (who, records
suggest, remains at large),
kidnapped both Paul Pierson, 76; and Henry Valdez, 46;
and used duct tape to bind their arms and legs, the vio-
lence seemingly tied to all four men’s purported connec-
tions to the drug trade. After stuffing Pierson and Valdez
into the bed of Pierson’s truck, Rhoden and Pruitt alleg-
edly drove some 40 miles to a dead-end street bisected
by the cart path leading from Pinetree’s 10th green to its
11th tee. There Rhoden allegedly shot Pierson in the torso
and Valdez in the head, and the truck appeared headed
for a discreet disposal in the lake guarding Pinetree’s
10th green...until the bunker intervened, stranding
the truck and prompting Gene to set off up the fairway.
Siller was merely a victim of happenstance, stumbling
upon an atrocity he was never intended to see.“I don’t hate anybody,” Ashley says. But “I loathe
[Rhoden] with every ounce of my soul.”A
SHLEY STIFLES THAT hate by clinging to what
she loved. On the day before Gene’s funeral, she
and three girlfriends ventured to Pinetree’s 10th-hole
green, where a collec t ion of f lowers, photos a nd golf ba lls
marked the spot where Siller had fallen. Ashley brought
along two pictures her boys had drawn, including Beau’s
bright summer sun and blue sky, and she leaned down
to place them on the turf when a mammoth dragonf ly
landed on the red pants Beau had sketched. The women
fell silent. The insect hopped over to the other drawing,
by Banks, then f luttered back to the red pants for a few
seconds more before f lying away.
Across cultures and religions, the dragonfly is a sym-
bol of rebirth, and Ashley has convinced herself that
Gene buzzed by to say hello—to show that he was with
her, always. Like Gene’s path to Pinetree, and to the
10th hole, one could see the
dragonfly as fate. Or just a
coincidence. In her sorrow,
Ashley chooses fate.
Now, she and those
around her see dragonf lies
everywhere. Her mother
spied one hovering over a
vine wrapped around the
staircase of Ashley’s back
deck, a gardening f lourish
that Gene treasured. Byrne
describes how one hung
nearby while she was on
the phone with Ashley. And
when family members took
Banks to play at Joyce’s
course, Hawks Ridge, a
dragonfly followed them
for nine holes. That night,
Banks reported to Ashley’s
mother, “Nana, Daddy
watched me play.”
Joyce knows: When
you’re looking for something, you’re bound to see it. Also,
dragonflies are ubiquitous in muggy Georgia summers.
They perceive color more vibrantly than any other crea-
ture; perhaps Ashley’s visitor at Pinetree was simply
attracted to the splash of red in Beau’s drawing.
For those closest to Gene, though, these explanations
are inconsequential. Probing for meaning amid misery,
they attached his name to dragonf lies, omnipresent in
gardens and golf courses, his favorite places.
The most important decisions in Gene Siller’s life were
governed by his devotions—right up until the end. Now,
to repay him, the people he loved will do all they can to
ensure that his two little boys never stop noticing the
dragonf lies all around them.SPORTS
ILLUSTRATED
SI.COM
APRIL 2022
CO 79
UR
TE
SY
OF
TH
E^ S
ILL
ER
FA
MIL
Y
SILLER OF STRENGTH
In February, Gene’s parents (right) and
in-laws joined Ashley in accepting a
posthumous award for PGA Professional
of the Year in Georgia.