For me, it’s fitting the final round of the U.S. Open is almost always on Father’s Day. That’s because it reminds 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, frustrating, and difficult. But he did; you see, my dad didn’t do anything else. He didn’t hunt or fish, and he was no handyman. But the man could play golf, and had a passion for the sport that was unrivaled.
He was a skilled player. Dad even carried a 1 iron, the most challenging 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. So, naturally, I thought I could hit it, too. In fact, from my teens until my fifties, you could always find one in my bag.
Growing up, we frequently played together on summer afternoons with my mother. I still laugh when I think about the time he picked up a grasshopper and flipped it on her. It stuck to her rayon blouse like a piece of Velcro. I’m sure her screams were heard three counties over.
A few years later, I occasionally played with dad’s Saturday morning group, on opposite teams, of course. As a result, I frequently experienced his gamesmanship skills. He would pepper me with heckles and taunts, especially if the shot was meaningful.
We absolutely hated losing to each other. Consequently, there was nothing sweeter than beating my old man out of a buck or two. Naturally, I never took his money.
In later years, an infection from a knee replacement ended his playing days. Eventually, it cost him his leg, and finally, his life. I know that something in both of us died when he gave up the game. It was special sharing golf with him. And now it was gone.
A short time after he passed away, I knew what I had to do. It was time to give dad a special tribute I’d planned for a while.
I went to my golf bag, dug into a side pocket, and pulled out three new Titleist golf balls, his favorite. Using a Sharpie I wrote, “Thanks Dad” on each one. Then I grabbed a special club and headed for the course I grew up on. It was a quiet, reflective drive.
In about half an hour, I turned onto the road that leads to the clubhouse. What a lovely mid-October afternoon it was. The air was dry and comfortably warm. The leaves had traces of crimson and yellow; their technicolor show was still a few weeks away. It seemed especially quiet, as if nature was showing respect for the occasion.
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.
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 flew about 150 yards, skipped twice, 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 chance for a golf shot that I desperately wanted to hit well. I took a deep breath, and made a long, fluid swing. 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 allowed old memories and the pain of my father’s loss to wash over me. Finally, I dried my tears, walked to my car, and drove home, feeling like his death had lost some of its 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 tee it up again before you know it.
Joe Hobby is a standup comedian, a syndicated columnist, and a long-time writer for Jay Leno. He’s a member of Cullman Electric Cooperative and is very happy now that he can use Sprout from his little place on Smith Lake. Contact him at [email protected].
