At the bottom of my street is a well-maintained par three golf course. I’ll admit that my golf game is far from great, but it doesn’t stop me from getting out on the course as often as I can before the New England cold really sets in. Someone once told me, “You’re not supposed to be good at golf. Enjoy that you’re outside with friends, having a few beers.”
I care that I play whatever-my-definition-of-well-is, of course, but I very rarely walk off the 18th hole frustrated or angry.
I’ve taken my son with me since he was two years old. If we’re playing what he has always called “The Big Golf Course” across town, he’ll watch me shank a tee shot and then we’ll drive to wherever my ball ended up. He’ll play in from there alongside me. If we have a group behind us, we’ll charge ahead a few holes so as not to be in anyone’s way.
Down at the par three track (aptly called “The Little Golf Course”) he is beginning to put his tee shot near or around the green. This summer, he recorded his first par. He was equally excited about that and about his post-round lemonade. After every round, we shook hands and told each other, “Good job today.” We made sure to thank the owners or whomever was in the clubhouse.
This is an unspoken emotion that he will only understand once he’s a father, should he become one, but to me we’re doing more than golfing together. The chatter is about technique and etiquette as we walk the fairways. In the future, maybe we’ll talk about a college decision, or proposing to a spouse. Maybe neither. Maybe we’ll just enjoy the grass beneath our shoes, the sun on our faces, and the company we’re keeping in silence.
