Dad was an avid golfer when he was younger. He bought both my brother, Jeff, and I our own set of clubs that we proudly took to the driving range with him. Unfortunately, they were stolen from his car while parked at a downtown Boston garage near where he worked. I never owned another full set until about 15 years ago, when we began playing with friends.
I don't remember when my Dad stopped playing golf on a regular basis. I suspect it had something to do with his perpetually bad back and/or being too busy with life as his first two sons grew and a third somewhat unexpectedly arrived.
My Father still played every now and then. When friends would visit from Indiana they would always spend a weekend at what was then the Sheraton Hyannis near the Melody Tent. The boys would play golf at the hotel course, Twin Brooks, while the girls would cruise the Cape Cod Mall and have a leisurely lunch.
My Dad's been gone almost 11 years, but I just recently went through all the pockets in his golf bag and found several pencils from Twin Brooks.
He also would play on occasion when he and my Mother would visit us on the Cape. Nine holes at our home course, Holly Ridge in Sandwich, with Mom riding shotgun in the cart, followed by lunch in the Clubhouse. He also played when we vacationed for a few summers at the Jack-o-Lantern resort in New Hampshire. Ironically, my parents took us there when we were kids, but I don't remember him packing his golf bag.
Dad would be rusty when he teed it up, but you could see that he probably had a very respectable handicap in his younger days. I'm sure he played at other times, too, probably with my youngest brother, Eric. But, he never got back to anything consistent.
He still passionately followed the game and would attend pro tournaments when they came to the area. My daughter has fond memories of going to the Senior Open in Salem, MA. with her Grandfather, Uncle Eric, and Dad. We got there in time to see the pairing of Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus tee off and sat in the stands with David Duval, who was there watching his Dad play.
My Father was the best at getting autographs and my brother has several hole flags and program books filled with signatures from everyone from Donald Trump to Greg Norman.
He was excited for a number of reasons when my folks finally left the Brighton section of Boston and moved to the suburbs in Natick, where Eric and his wife live. One was that the driving range where he took Jeff and I when we were kids was just minutes away. He talked of practicing there and hopefully playing again at a nearby course.
Unfortunately, shortly after moving Dad learned that the pain he was experiencing wasn't his back acting up again, but cancer. He passed a little more than a year later having never got to the range.
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| Mariana with Holly Ridge teaching pro Darren Falk |
Since it's summer and golf season, my reading list has featured several books about the game. It seems that more than a few have been written about sons, their Dads and golf.
One particularly touching book is Final Rounds written by golf writer and biographer James Dodson. It's mostly the story of a trip the author took with his ailing Dad to golf courses in Scotland and England, some of which Dodson's Father played as soldier during World Way II. But it's also about Dodson's memories of his Dad, golfing buddies and final days. If you've lost your Father, the closing chapters might be a little gut wrenching. They were for me.
If nothing else, Dodson's experience made me promise myself that I will take the time to play with my granddaughter. Weather permitting that's what I hope to be doing Fathers Day, nine holes with Mariana and Mari, then lunch at the Holly Ridge Clubhouse.
I'm hoping that someday I can finally visualize that logo on my Dad's hat and take Mariana to where her great grandfather played. Lasting memories are made on the golf course and that's one I don't want to miss.
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