We walked down the fairway in silence, and I was reminded of all the rounds I’d played with my father over the years. So many of them had been like this. Both of us lost in our own thoughts. There had been a comfort in knowing that conversation was not expected. We were playing golf. If we had something to talk about, we would do so, but otherwise we were just . . . together.
I had taken the comfort I gained from playing with him for granted, but now, watching my father pounce down the fairway with his long stride and forward lean, I felt a warmth come over me. This is . . . cool, I thought. I was playing golf with my father as an equal.
Dad hit a fairway wood up close to the green for his second. Meanwhile, I flipped a wedge from 115 yards to within about a foot of the cup.
“Great shot!” Dad yelled as he passed by me.
“Thank you.”
He chipped his ball to about five feet and, without taking a lot of time, made the putt for par.
I took a bit longer with my little putt. I found myself having those old feelings of wanting to please my father and not let him down by missing a gimme. I tried to shake them off, but it was no use. I snatched the putter head back too fast and decelerated coming through. Fortunately, the ball caught the side of the cup, curled around the hole, and finally landed inside it. I sighed and snatched the ball out of the cup. Then I glanced over at him, and he was grinning at me.
“Nice birdie,” he said, but I could tell by his wry expression that he thought I’d gotten lucky.
“Almost choked it,” I said, feeling like the fifteen-year-old version of myself and unable to meet his eye.
He didn’t say anything as we walked side by side to the next hole. “What do you do for a living?” Dad asked, as I put my tee in the ground on the second tee box.
“I’m a lawyer,” I said. “Personal-injury defense work.”
Dad smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “I would love for my son to get in that kind of career.”
I saw an opportunity. “How old is your son?”
“Twenty-four.”
Without thinking much about my shot, I stepped into my stance and drilled a nice drive down the right side of the fairway. The second hole at Twickenham was a 515-yard par five and, but for a big oak tree that could block you if you went too far to the right, had no trouble except for a creek that guarded the front of the green.
“Good shot,” Dad said. As he put his tee in the ground, he grunted and said, “My boy wants to be a professional golfer.”
Before I could respond, Dad hit his typical banana slice. This time, his shot sliced too much and ended up behind the tree on the right.
“Do you think he can make the tour?” I asked, as we walked toward our respective shots.
“Yes,” Dad said, and I felt my heart flutter at his lack of hesitation. “I know he can.”
I was dumbfounded by what I had heard and had to compose myself to be able to respond. After several more strides, I cleared my throat and tried to keep him going. “Well . . . that’s good, isn’t it? If that’s what he wants to do?”
“I don’t know,” Dad said, beginning to veer toward the right where his ball was blocked by the oak tree. “At what cost, you know?” He ambled away, and I knew it would be awkward if I followed him. Without taking more than fifteen seconds to size up his shot, he punched a ball under the tree branches, and it rolled down the fairway to one hundred yards from the green. It was an incredible shot, but Dad acted like he’d hit it a hundred times.
He probably has, I thought, remembering all the knockdown shots I’d seen Dad hit out of the trouble that his slice off the tee put him in. I turned my attention to my shot. I was 220 yards from the green. This was a good distance for me, because I knew I could carry a three wood to the front fringe, and it ought to roll out to pin high. If I hit it solid . . .
Without allowing myself to think about it too much, I took out the three wood and addressed my ball. I hit it as pure as snow.
The ball started off left of the flag, turned slightly right, and landed on the front of the green. When it finished rolling, it appeared that I’d have about fifteen feet for eagle.
“Looks like you’re the one that ought to be on the tour,” Dad said, as our paths connected again.
“Lucky shot.”
“I know better than that,” Dad snorted. “Your swing reminds me of my boy Randy’s. The power fade. That’s what Hogan and Nicklaus hit, and they were the straightest drivers in the game.”
I felt heat on my face and knew I was blushing. “I don’t hit it as far as those guys.”
“Neither does my son. One thing that’s holding him back is his distance, but I still think he can make it based on the overall strength of his game.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it.”
He shrugged. “Like I was saying. At what cost? He’s married to a sweet gal, and she’s pregnant.” He smiled. “Gonna have my first grandchild.” Now, it was his face that was beaming.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He stopped at his ball and grabbed a wedge out of his tote bag. Without taking a practice swing, he addressed his ball, took one look at the green, and swung.
The ball landed about ten feet left of the flag and spun to the right. I doubted he had more than a five-footer left for birdie. I smiled and shook my head. “You sure don’t take much time.”
“What’s the point?” Dad asked, reshouldering his bag after putting the wedge inside. “My lick isn’t going to get any better with practice swings, and I know where I want to hit it.”
I chuckled. “I see your point. So, you were talking about the cost of being a pro golfer. You think it’s too much?”
Dad gave his head a jerk. “The time. The money. The travel. That’s going to be hard on a young family. There’s also the lack of any assurance or guarantee that he’ll be successful. There’s no job security.”
“Well . . .” I thought of what Arnold Palmer had told me in his airplane. “Sometimes, don’t you have to believe in yourself enough to take a few risks?”
He looked at me with his steel-blue eyes, and just like that, I felt like I was twelve years old again in the backyard and he was showing me a patch of grass I’d failed to get with the mower. “That’s not a luxury that a young father has. I’ve spent my whole life working with my hands. I’m only as good as how well I can use them, and being a professional golfer is no different. Sure, if he’s really successful, then he might make more money, but the minute he stops making putts or if he loses his confidence, then there goes his career. Poof in the wind, and he’s got nothing.” Dad marked his ball and again peered at me with those piercing eyes that were as cold as ice. “I want more for my boy than a life that depends on how well he can use his hands. I want the same for my grandson or granddaughter, whatever the case may be.”
I marked my ball. “Have you told your son that?”
“I’ve tried to.” Then he let out a long sigh. “You got kids?”
“Yeah. I have a teenage daughter.”
“Have you ever tried to tell her something and had it come out wrong?”
I smiled. I had never had a conversation like this with my father. I had never heard him admit that he had difficulty talking to me. “Many times,” I finally said. Then, seeing the frustration in Dad’s eyes, I added, “It’s not easy being a father.”
He peered at me for several seconds, and for a brief moment, my stomach tightened. Does he recognize me?
Then, gesturing toward the hole with his putter, he said. “I’d kind of like to see an eagle.”
36
I missed the putt for eagle but left myself an easy tap-in for birdie. Dad lipped his birdie putt out and settled for par. We walked to the next hole, and I hoped that we might continue our conversation about his son. Me . . .
But alas, Dad went ba
ck into silent mode. It was his way, and I wasn’t surprised. Dad had never been a talker, and I suspected he felt that he’d already said too much. Other than a few “good shots” here and there, the next six holes were spent playing golf and doing little else. Despite the lack of conversation, I had to admit that I was enjoying myself. I was also four under par, adding two more birdies. For his part, Dad had scrounged around in three over, making no worse than bogey but unable to give himself any more birdie looks.
The eighth hole at Twickenham was a two-hundred-yard par three with out of bounds to the left and bunkers and tree trouble to the right. It was a tough hole that required a well-executed long iron. I grabbed my three iron and struck the ball solid. It rose high into the air and landed ten feet to the left of the flag.
“Beautiful shot,” Dad said. “You’re a heck of a golfer, Randy.”
“Thank you, D-D . . .” I stopped myself before I said the word. “Thank you, Robert.”
He again peered at me for several seconds. “You look awful familiar,” he finally said.
“You do too.”
He struck his shot, and the ball sliced into the sand trap that guarded the right side of the green. As we walked toward the green, I realized I was running out of time and there was something else I wanted to ask him. “Robert, when you tried to explain the costs of being a PGA Tour golfer to your son, you said it came out wrong. How do you mean?”
“Why do you want to know?”
I felt my stomach clench. Because I’m your son and I’ve wanted to know this my whole life . . . I sucked in a quick breath and chose my words carefully. “Because I’m a father, and I’m having my own problems communicating with my daughter.”
“I used an analogy. I told him that there comes a time in every man’s life when he realizes he isn’t going to be Joe Namath.”
I felt gooseflesh rise on my forearms, as I heard him repeat the words that had been the bumper sticker of my life for the past sixteen years.
“I felt the meaning was obvious. Joe Namath was the most famous athlete in the world at one time. He was Broadway Joe. That type of fame comes with a price, and I think every man who has the responsibilities of a husband and father, at some point, realizes that he can’t live that life anymore.” He sighed. “But I guess I was also saying something else.”
“You were telling him he wasn’t good enough.” The words burned coming out of my mouth, and they sounded harsh and unsympathetic. Dad’s shoulders sagged but he didn’t say anything. “You were telling him that he didn’t have the talent and skill to be a pro golfer and that he should give up that pipe dream to do something more practical.”
Dad stopped by the bunker and took out his sand wedge. For a long moment, he paused, looking at the ground. “That’s right,” he finally said.
“But you told me earlier that you did think he was good enough to make it. Why would you tell your son something different?”
Dad continued to peer at the grass. “I don’t know. My son had a friend who had made the tour.” He gave his head another jerk. “A scalawag named Darby Hays that I knew was bad news, but Randy was blind to that. He worshipped Darby because he had made the tour and was playing with Arnold and Jack. Randy could never see past getting his tour card. He couldn’t picture the life he’d be living away from his wife and child.” He paused. “Was he good enough to make it? Yes, he was. Was he good enough to win on tour?” He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Why wouldn’t you want your son to chase his dream?” I asked. “What would have been the harm in that?”
Dad finally peered up at me. “I was trying to be a good father and give sound advice.” He paused. “I was wrong, and I’ll never forgive myself.”
I felt the air go out of my lungs, and my arms hung limp at my sides. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Then I asked another question. “Why can’t you forgive yourself?”
“Because I’m not sure my boy is ever going to believe in himself again. He’s in law school now and making good grades, but there’s something missing. Something I took from him.”
“What?”
My father gazed at me and his blue eyes were no longer cold. They were sad and tormented. “His spirit.”
37
I finished out the eighth hole in a daze, trying to come to grips with what my father had admitted. All these years, I thought. All that time. I was angry that Dad had never told me he had been wrong. Why couldn’t he have taken it back?
But how do you tell your son that he is good enough when you’ve already informed him that he isn’t?
More than anger, though, the primary emotion permeating my being was sadness. For my father. For me. For us.
The ninth hole at Twickenham was an uphill par four that ran adjacent to the first hole on the right and Airport Road on the left. As we hit our tee shots, the sounds of cars passing by could be heard. Dad sliced his drive all the way into the first fairway, while I blocked my ball in the same direction.
“Not our best,” I said, as we trudged off the tee box.
“Nope.”
We both ended up hitting low punch shots for our approaches. Mine finished in the front bunker, but Dad hit a perfect run-up shot that finished on the front portion of the green. As we walked, I noticed that the sun was beginning to drop, which didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be more than two o’clock in the afternoon.
Does anything make sense in these dreams?
By the time we reached the green, the sunlight had faded, and dusk was upon us. I hit a sand shot that finished a couple inches from the hole.
“That’s good,” Dad said.
I picked my ball up and began to feel heat behind my eyes. The round was almost over. How much more time did I have with my father?”
I took out the pin and looked at the man that I had worshipped since I was old enough to think. Dad thought my hero was Darby Hays, and I guess maybe I had thought that at one time too.
No. I knew, feeling the tears begin to fall down my cheeks. I’m looking at my hero right now. He peered at the hole and crouched over the putt with a pigeon-toed stance reminiscent of Arnold Palmer. He struck the putt and then watched the ball keenly as it made its way toward the hole. Instead of following the ball, I looked at Dad. His Popeye-like arms. The chest hair that poked out of his golf shirt. The salt-and-pepper hair. Had I ever known him when he didn’t have gray in his hair? I remembered the smell of his aftershave when I used to sit in his lap on Christmas Eve while he read “ ’Twas the Night before Christmas.”
I heard the ball land in the cup and then looked down and saw the evidence. I smiled and wiped my eyes. Then I knelt down and retrieved his ball, flipping it to him and putting the flagstick back in the hole. “Nice birdie.”
“Better late than never.”
For a few seconds, we gazed at each other, and then he extended his hand. “Well, Randy, I really enjoyed that. Maybe we can play again some time.”
I held on to his firm hand and couldn’t find my tongue. All I could do was nod.
He started to walk away, and I watched him, feeling my heartbeat racing.
He won’t recognize you unless you allow him to . . .
Finally, as he reached the fringe of the green and was placing his putter in his bag, I found my voice.
“Hey, Dad.”
He looked up from his golf bag and squinted at me. Behind him, I saw the sun setting orange on the western horizon. Then, slowly, he walked back toward me. When he was a foot away, I noticed that his salt-and-pepper hair had turned completely salt and he had aged another twenty years.
“Son,” he said. He smiled but it appeared forced. “That was quite a round you fired. Four under by my count.”
“Thank you.”
For another few seconds, we gazed at each other. The sun had almost completely disappeared, and I knew that my journey
that had started with a visit from the ghost of Darby Hays had come to an end. It had all led up to this moment.
This is the most important lesson . . .
“Dad, can you do something for me?”
He nodded.
“I need you to forgive yourself.”
“Why?” he asked. “I broke your spirit. You were never the same. What I did . . . was unforgivable.”
“No,” I said. “I . . . forgive you.” I nodded as I said the words and then, because it felt good coming out of my mouth, I said them louder. “I forgive you, Dad. You were trying to be a good father, and I forgive you.”
For the first time in my life, I saw tears in my father’s eyes. “What about Graham? You were in the worst storm of your life, and I died on you right after Graham. You needed me, and I failed you.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said, hearing the truth in my own tone. “No, Dad, it was you who gave me the strength to get through Graham’s passing. You were a tough and demanding father. You taught me to take care of my family first. To be responsible.” I paused. “You taught me how to be a man, and I relied on every one of those lessons during Graham’s illness and death.”
He wiped the tears from his face. It was so dark now that all I could see was his shadow and his blue eyes peering back at me. “Randy, you’re the strongest man I’ve ever known.” The words resembled what I’d heard him tell Davis on the day of Graham’s funeral.
I extended my hand, and he took it. Then we hugged, and I smelled the familiar aftershave that would always remind me of Christmas Eve. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, son.”
We unlocked our embrace, and he began to walk away. After a few steps, I could barely see him.
“Dad?”
“Randy, there’s one more thing you need to do.”
“What?”
The Golfer's Carol Page 16
