Creating my own legend, one lousy swing at a time

Growing up, my dad was my hero. I thought he was the funniest, smartest, and (of foremost importance to a 10-year-old boy) strongest guy in the neighborhood.

He’s 77 years old now but, deep in my psyche, he’s probably still all those things to me.

“Dad, did you ever kill anyone in the war?” “Dad, how much can you bench (press)?” “Dad, can you hit a golf ball 250 yards? 300 yards?” Remember that golf clubs had wooden heads and golf balls had soft covers in 1983 so this was serious stuff. Somehow he never disappointed.

Well you can imagine the pressure yesterday when I brought my 2, 5, and 10-year-old kids to the driving range with me for the first time. The moment I offered it, the anxiety in my gut spiked. And when we pulled up to the course my worst fear was realized. It was packed. I surveyed the landscape and decided there was only time to instill one lesson. So I told my 5-year-old that the most important thing at a golf course is NOT TO YELL, a convention that I had to know, based on her age and maternal lineage, was a truly impossible ask.

We grabbed our clubs and approached the driving range where another golfer made a joke about my bringing my retirement plan with me to the course. I chuckled uncomfortably, thinking less about the PGA Tour and more about avoiding Children’s Hospital, where they are surely using my insurance deductibles this year to build a new wing.

Let the swinging commence! The two younger kids started swinging away with predictable result. Mostly swinging at air, occasionally making contact and celebrating like they just holed out for eagle on 18 at Augusta. With all the forbidden yelps of delight of course. So much for my lesson on course etiquette.

My entire focus was on these two future 25 handicappers when I heard an unfamiliar sound - a golf ball struck with such precision, such purity, that you just stop to watch it fly. My 10 year old had somehow taught himself in 5 minutes to hit a pitching wedge the way it’s supposed to be hit. Ball after ball. Thwack. High and soft, right down the middle.

Then he calmly looked up and asked the inevitable. “Dad, I want to see you hit some.” Followed by the high-pitched chorus behind me, '“Yeah daddy, your turn.”

Oh boy. These were the moments my dad always shined. Here goes. I grabbed the old wedge, swallowed hard, went through my mental checklist, and swung… Horrible. I grabbed another ball. Another awful shot. I was losing face. But then, like magic, the third golf ball floated from the tee, down the fairway and almost hit the flag I was aiming for. My 10-year-old shrieked, “That’s amazing! How do you do that?”

Stick around kid, I’ll show you everything I know. Or if you’re smart you’ll ignore everything you saw here and you might have a shot at playing this game adequately someday.

My two-year-old finally declared he was bored and wanted, “an icy Coke.” Saved by a soft drink. Sounds good to me. And off we all went.

And do you know what they talked about this morning? That Coca-Cola. That’s it. There’s probably something profound there but I don’t quite know what that is. Maybe a topic for a future post.

George Bernard Shaw said, “You cannot be a hero without being a coward.” Done and done.