Who Dad?!

From Father to Son

How did it all begin? There's no one still alive who could tell me exactly when my father first placed a golf club in my hands.

I believe it was in Florida. My mom, sister, and I had taken the train to get there. My father drove there alone. I was very young. What I remember is having a hard time getting the ball into the air. Even more I remember the real stuffed alligator I came home with, whose dried and leathery skin foreshadowed where so much golf in the sun would lead.

My father didn't give me much golf instruction, just abundant opportunity. Years later, I understood why. He wasn't very good at it. But that didn't keep him from playing it, enjoying the zany company of other men, blustering and bantering in what long passed as male intimacy.

Cigar smoke, booze, and laughter were frequent companions. They went well together, so even though his course handicap was high, his bar index was scratch.

He was a good partner in a scramble because he could always putt. Perhaps it was from all those years of reading the straight lines in blueprints. It showed up in his exact printing and in bowling as well. He played in leagues, had his own ball, and wore a team shirt with the nickname "Irish" stitched on it.

He wasn't Irish, nor did I ever hear anyone call him that, but he sure could bowl. It was something I never beat him at. Unlike golf.

Left to my own, hitting practice whiffle balls in our backyard or pitching real golf balls into a bushel basket, I developed both a smooth swing and soft hands. I acquired the game he wanted but had never committed to gain.

He'd take me on outings to best his friends, get pleasure from my long drives as if he himself had hit them. Still, I was wild back then and couldn't break 80 with all the penalty strokes and blow-up holes.

I didn't become any kind of a stick until I myself became a father. My guess is that is when and how I learned to rise above emotional responses, quiet myself to focus more in the moment, no matter the conditions.

And, I started to practice again at home. My son Ryan and I would even have putting contests on our carpet. I also put targets out in the wash, brought a piece of astroturf to hit shots from, and became accurate from a variety of distances.

I didn't push golf on Ryan, but we would go to the range, or short courses when he was small, even took a father-son overnight adventure when he was a teen to the Apache Stronghold near Globe where he hit a drive that reached the green on a par 4. I felt my own father's pride stir, reaching through time, swell up in me.

Ryan's game though isn't golf; it's tennis, and he has far surpassed anything I ever did on a court with a racket and ball. Perhaps that is how it needs to be with a father and a son: to not compete, but to stand slightly back from, with some awe, while applauding each other; not just cheering, but reveling in the closeness of our difference.

And me? I'm just grateful to be here: this blessed place between my father and my son.

Have I mentioned Ryan was a state tennis champion, singles and doubles, when in high school? Today, he's happily an assistant pro at Tucson Country Club.

We've always enjoyed talking about, watching, and playing, sports with each other. I even used to volley with him and he'd hit and hunt golf balls with me.

I wish it were easier to talk about tennis with him, but I can't pronounce (or spell) half of the names on the professional circuit. Quick, say the names of the men's semi-finalists in a recent U.S. Open: Medvedev, Zverev, Thiem, and Carreño Busta.

With golf, I can refer to D.J., Rory, J.T., and Tiger before he can get even one "Shapovalov" out. Golfers like giving each other nicknames, will chat and kid with each other even during a tournament.

Tennis players, separated by that net, and striking a ball at and away from each other, grunt, shout, holler, and moan. I guess that's good foreplay for some kinds of relationship, but not the type I have the energy for anymore.

Remember, in golf, someone drives around bringing food and drink while you are playing, even during money games! One can weigh the cost of buying your opponents drinks against the amount of the wagers. It's all in the game. Try doing that on a tennis court, Ryan.