I started playing golf at the age of 12. That’s when my dad bought me my first set of clubs. He really enjoyed the sport. I think he loved the social aspect that it provides. At least once a week, he’d meet his friends or clients (he was a salesman for most of his life) on the golf course and he drug me along. I got to know several of his friends this way. And often, he’d just take me to the course and it we’d spend five straight hours together. I loved the attention and it was also a great way for a father and son to bond. Sometimes, before we’d hit the course, he’d take me to the driving range, and let me hack away. Then we’d drive to a course and play the afternoon away.
Dad didn’t mess around when it came to golf courses—no executive courses for him. We played legitimate courses, complete with ridiculous doglegs, huge sand traps, and 500+ yard holes. I was terrible at first, but I caught on and finally began to look like the average Saturday hacker. I think dad would have loved it if I would have taken the game more seriously and went on to play competitively (I played a little in high school, but that was it). He bought me golf books written by Sam Snead and Ben Hogan and I studied them for a while, but I wasn’t good enough, and I didn’t care about it as much as I did baseball and tennis. Dad seemed just fine with that and he fully supported me as I pursued tennis.
In addition to his love for playing the game, Dad also loved to watch it on television. On occasion, I’d watch it with him. But my parents divorced when I was young and Dad eventually moved to another state, so I didn’t get to spend that much time with him in my late teens and early twenties. But somehow, just by flipping on the latest golf tournament, I felt connected to him—even though we were several hundred miles apart. I don’t think he ever told me who his favorite golfer was (although, based on the books he gave me, I’d guess it was Sam Snead or Ben Hogan), but somehow I latched on to Jack Nicklaus—probably because he was good, and Jack became a symbol of the connection that my Dad and I had through the game of golf.
When I’d write letters to my dad, I’d comment about how Nicklaus had played in the most recent tournament and I think dad was just happy that I was paying attention to the game he loved. Only after he died did I find out from my mom that Dad never liked Jack Nicklaus. I don’t know why—maybe it was a guy thing. Maybe Nicklaus was the arch enemy of one of the golfers that he liked. I really don’t know, but I know that whenever I hear Nicklaus’ name, I remember all those great times that Dad and I spent together on various golf courses around the Midwest, and I smile.
Not long ago, I was going through several golf books that belonged to my dad. After he died, I inherited everything he had that involved golf. I was looking for passages that he might have underlined or for comments that he might have written. When I picked up one of his books and started going through it, this photo fell out of it:
Yes, it’s me, during one of our excursions to the driving range. I was around 12 or 13 when Dad took this photo. You’ll never guess the title of the book that I found the picture tucked away in; “And Then Jack Said to Arnie: A Collection of the Greatest True Golf Stories of All Time.”
