Eighteen holes of golf was the one Father’s Day tradition my dad and I had shared when I was growing up. Looking back at it, that annual game produced some of my fondest, yet most frustrating memories. See the thing
Eighteen holes of golf was the one Father’s Day tradition my dad and I had shared when I was growing up. Looking back at it, that annual game produced some of my fondest, yet most frustrating memories.
See the thing is, my dad is an amazing golfer. The frustrating part of that is that he shouldn’t be. He’s never had a lesson. He only plays about two or three rounds a year. His clubs look like they should belong in a museum somewhere in Scotland and he’s maybe about 150 pounds soaking wet.
But every Father’s Day we’d hit our local course in the morning, and every year I’d think that this was the year I was finally going to beat him. Usually Father’s Day would be his first round of the season and I already had a few under my belt. But each year, just like clockwork, he’d pull out his $30 Big Bertha Driver that I bought him for Christmas once, take half of a practice swing and then lace a drive straight down the middle of the fairway. There’s never any rust. No warming up period. His game is the same every time he plays. Usually by the second hole I’m already out of the running.
But this year was going to be different. About a month ago he called me and said he had a work trip to Kaua‘i the first week of June with about a 30-hour layover. I immediately asked him if he wanted to golf. I was licking my chops at this opportunity. I’ve been regularly golfing since I moved here a year ago and have been swinging the sticks more consistently than ever. He, on the other hand, was just emerging from the frigid Alaska winter and hadn’t played golf in over a year. If there was ever a time to take down the old man, this would have been it.
So I made us a reservation over at Puakea Golf Course and when asked I told him, “No, I’ve barely been playing at all.”
I was prepared when we showed up at the course. He was not. He had just gotten off the plane and had to buy a collared shirt in the pro shop. We hit the first hole and I unleashed a massive drive down the middle of the fairway. He landed in the trees. I was ecstatic. Through the first five or six holes I maybe had a three or four stoke lead on him.
Then came the snowmen.
While he shook out of his first hole funk pretty quickly, I developed a fondness for eights. On holes No. 7-9 I carded the dreaded ocho each time. My lead was gone and so were my hopes of making 2012 my favorite Father’s Day yet.
We didn’t even keep score on the back-nine. I knew he was dominating me so there was no point. The thing is, though, I don’t think he knew, or at least he didn’t care. Our tradition of me trying to beat him on the golf course has always been a one-sided affair. I think every son at some point wants to beat their dad at something, and for me that something has been golf.
I know my dad golfs with me for the sake of spending a fun afternoon with his son. And in truth, that’s the reason why I’ve always wanted to beat him. He’s the most modest and generous man I’ve ever met and I’m lucky to call him my father. My thought process is that if I can equal him on the course, maybe someday I’ll be able to equal him in life.
Do I ever think I’ll be able to best him on the course? Sure, maybe someday. But I have no problem with being the second best golfer in the family for quite a while longer. I still have a lot of things to learn from him on the course and a whole heck of a lot more off of it. Maybe I’m just not ready to beat him yet.
That is, until next year.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
