Sunday, 20 April 2008 01:11 by
Dave Today would have been my father’s 88th birthday, so if you’re out playing golf this week, I need you to do something in his honor.
Reach into your bag, and find a new sleeve of balls. Take one out, and regardless of whether the dangers of water, the rough, or trees are present, hit away. If you lose it, grab another new one. Hit away again. Don’t succumb to the temptation to use an older ball because it may be headed for a watery vacation. Think positive. Live for today.
My father loved to play golf. He was never any good at it because he enjoyed the camaraderie of a foursome far more than the rewards of a low score. To play good golf generally requires you stop talking and concentrate before swinging, but he never did. He just gave it a good swing and hoped for the best.
As a result, he spent a lot of time in the woods, as well as portions of the golf course that lawn mowers rarely see. It killed him to lose a golf ball, and the ultimate indignity was to lose one that he had just taken out of the box. Losing a new ball that had survived only one swing, in his world, was a sin.
As I grew older and would return to Norfolk once a year to play with him, this became quite a point of debate. I once looked down at a ball he had hit on the green, and it had a small picture of an elk on it, as well as a bruise mark that generally occurs when you’ve hit a tree with some force. Having just given him a dozen new Titleists, I queried him as to why he would be playing a ball not even as good as a range ball.
“I’m saving the new ones,” he’d say. “I don’t want to lose them.”
So as the years went on, the routine got more pronounced. At first I would check his bag before we left and make sure there were plenty of new balls. That rarely worked, so I started making him show me what he was playing on the first tee, then handed him new ones on subsequent tees. Somehow, he’d hit one into the trees, find an old one, then keep playing the old one so he wouldn’t lose the new one.
Keep in mind, a dozen golf balls are the easiest gift anyone can send a Dad who plays. My father got a dozen at least three times a year – on his birthday, Father’s Day, and Christmas.
When he turned 70, he still kept playing, but he was hitting the ball shorter and shorter distances. I got him to try a 100 compression golf ball, and the first time he took a swing, he hit it as far as he had hit one in years. He became convinced that it wasn’t the fact he kept his head down and followed through – no, it was the 100 compression ball. So I started sending him 100s several times a year.
Eventually, my father got too old to play, and our arguments about using new equipment stopped. His last round of golf was probably eight years ago, and in August of 2006, he passed away.
My mother left his things undisturbed for the next year or so, but in the last months, my sisters and mother started going through them. As most of his generation did, he saved just about everything, and if any family member got their name in the newspaper, he clipped it and saved it. In one closet, every gadget gift of the last decade was there, from the snake light, to the automatic bending screwdriver. The only thing missing was a salad shooter, and it’s probably in there somewhere.
Once done with that closet, I thought we were finished, so I headed back to Ashburn. Last week, my mother and the Vista operating system had a significant difference of opinion, so I drove back south to fix her computer. Once there, she said they had gone through another closet, and found something I might want to see.
She showed me an old Navy footlocker. Inside it, I finally got the answer to my “what is he doing with all these golf balls I’ve been sending him?” question. Neatly stacked were 12 boxes. Each contained a dozen or more golf balls. All 100 compression.
So no matter how big the lake, how foreboding the tree, or how high the rough, swing away. Golf balls don’t increase in value over time, so use them. And if you lose one, don’t sweat it. Think of it as a birthday present for my father.
Happy 88th, Dad. We all miss you. One day, we’ll play again.
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