I Nailed It Dad!
For me, it’s fitting that the final round of the U.S. Open is almost always on Father’s Day. That’s because every year when golf season begins, I think of my dad who taught me how to play this maddening game. I still don’t know whether to thank him or curse him for introducing me to a sport that is so humbling, so frustrating, and just so difficult. But he did. It had to happen; you see, my dad didn’t do anything else. He didn’t hunt or fish, and he was certainly not a handyman. My mom used to say that if she saw Dad with a screwdriver in his hands, she would stop what she was doing and go follow him because he was about to break something.
But the man could play golf. He learned the game as a kid at a 9 hole course in North Birmingham. And he developed a passion for the sport that was unrivaled. I can remember sitting with him in the clubhouse in the middle of February until the course had thawed out enough for us to play. That my friends is passion. Or stupidity. Or a little of both.
He was a skilled player with a decent swing, despite the fact that he was shot in the elbow at the Battle of the Bulge. Dad even carried a 1-iron - some call it a driving iron. For those of you who don’t know, this is the most difficult club for any golfer to hit. Lee Trevino put it best when he said, “If you are caught on a golf course during a lightning storm, hold up a 1-iron. Not even God can hit a 1-iron.” But my father could. He had a prowess with this club. Unlike most golfers, he had no fear of the 1-iron. So, naturally I didn’t fear it either. In fact, from my teens until my fifties you could always find a driving iron in my bag.
Growing up, we played together frequently on summer afternoons with my mother, who was also smitten with the game. I still laugh when I think about the time my dad picked up a grasshopper off the putting green and flipped it on Mom. It stuck to her Ban-Lon blouse like a piece of Velcro. I’m pretty sure her screams were heard three counties over.
As I got older, I was occasionally invited to play in Dad’s Saturday morning game. Not a lot of cash on the line, but a lot of pride. We almost always played on opposite teams because there is no way I could live in our house if I missed a putt to lose a match with Dad as my partner. As a result, I could fully expect to be the brunt of his formidable gamesmanship skills. He rained heckles and taunts down on me, especially if the shot was meaningful. It was all about winning. We absolutely hated to lose to each other. Consequently, there was nothing sweeter than beating my old man out of a few bucks. And I poured alcohol on the wound by refusing to take his money, saying something like,” Don’t worry about it, we’ll settle up later.”
In his later years, an infection from a knee replacement ended Dad’s playing days. Eventually it cost him his leg. Finally, it cost him his life. Looking back, I know that something in him died when he gave up the game. Something died in me too. It was special sharing golf with him. And now it was gone.
A couple of weeks after he passed away, I knew what I had to do. It was time to give Dad a personal tribute that I’d planned for a while.
I went to my golf bag, and dug into a pocket that is normally reserved for Advil, Band Aids, and protein bars. There they were - a sleeve of three brand new Titleist golf balls, my Father’s favorite brand. I pulled out a Sharpie and wrote, “Thanks Dad” on each one. Then I looked around our basement until I found a certain old club, tossed it in my car, and headed for the course I grew up on. It was a quiet, reflective drive.
After about half an hour, I turned onto the road that lead to the clubhouse. What a lovely autumn afternoon it was. The air was dry and comfortably warm - after all, it was mid October in Alabama. The leaves had not pocket, but you could make out slight traces of crimson and yellow. Their technicolor show was still a few weeks away.
I grabbed the club and balls, then began walking from the parking lot to the 18th tee. Even though the sun was setting, there was enough light for what I had to do. It seemed especially quiet, as if nature was showing respect for the occasion.
I teed up the first ball and took a couple of practice swings. Then facing the large lake that flanked the tee and fairway, I said, “This is for you Dad.”, and hit the first ball with his 1-iron.
What a lousy shot it was. It flew about 150 yards, then skipped a couple of times and plopped into the water. Ugh. Stiff muscles.
The second shot was better, but still didn’t come close to the high standard I had set for myself on this day.
This left one more ball. One more swing. One more chance to hit a golf shot that I desperately wanted to hit well. I took a deep breath, focused intently, and made a long, fluid swing. I nailed it. The Titleist solidly hit the center of the club face and leapt into the fading light. I held my follow through until it splashed and disappeared in the water.
I stood silently on the tee for a few moments and let a flood of old memories and the pain of my father’s loss wash over me. I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew my dad would have approved. Finally, I dried my tears, walked back to my car, and drove home, feeling like his death had lost some of it’s sting.
Happy Father’s Day, old man. I’m sure you’re golfing on two legs now, certainly on a much nicer course than I play on. We’ll be playing together again before you know it.
Find more of Joe’s stories on his blog: https://mylifeasahobby.blogspot.com/?m=1. Also, follow him on Facebook at: Joe Hobby Comedian- Writer.
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