A Good Walk Indeed

Mark Twain said that golf is a good walk spoiled.  It’s too bad he never got to play the game with his son.

I first took my son Davis to the golf course when he was five. I thought it was about time he learned about a great game and enjoyed some father-son bonding, but there were no sports on television and my wife told me I had to leave the couch and take him somewhere…anywhere.  So we hit the links, and I set out to teach him the finer points of flinging a lob wedge after a shank.

Opportunities to impart wisdom from father to son present themselves sparingly and grudgingly. A father who is alert and astute will recognize these opportunities and seize them. The rarest of fathers will actually get their sons to listen to this wisdom and do so  without the assistance of sugar in any form.

We each brought the tools we needed for a wonderful day of golf. I grabbed my sticks and a handful of “junior” clubs I had fashioned  with a hacksaw. Davis brought a dozen golf balls, Gatorade, and innumerable questions.

As we teed it up on number one, Davis began his inquisition. “Where are all the people daddy?” he asked.

“What people?” I responded, looking around.

 “You know, all the people,” he continued.

“Well, look son, there’s a group over on three and a foursome down on six,” I said.

“No daddy, the people who clap for us. Where are all those people?” 

How could I have forgotten to bring along a gallery?

He decided to play on without a cadre of fans, and proceeded to whiff and scuff his way off the first tee. The next few shots were not pretty, but I don’t always bring my “A game” either. We hit and walked and missed and tripped our way down the fairway, finally holing out on number one, a full 45 minutes after we had started.

As we walked off the first green, Davis resumed his interrogation. “Daddy, did I beat you on that hole—what was your score?” he asked.

“Oh son, don’t worry about my score. Remember, we don’t play against each other, we play against the course,” I said with Solomon-like wisdom.

Surprisingly, Davis didn’t muse too long on my profundity, but instead zig-zagged his way down the next fairway, swiping at hedge apples and chasing squirrels. As dusk settled over our third and final hole, some two-plus hours after we had begun, he paused to watch my bogey putt lip out. 

“Daddy, does the course always win?” he asked.  

Even Mark Twain would have relished that moment.