Golf Lessons from Dad

I was never athletic. Luckily for me - bad for females in general - sports wasn’t a big thing in the life of most women in my day. As far as I knew, I did not have an athletic gene anywhere on my genome. Not even a recessive one for shuffleboard.

It isn’t that my family wasn’t into sports. They were. But by the time I came along sports in our house involved more watching than doing. 

My mother had ridden in her youth. We have lots of photos of her on horseback over the course of the 1930s. Then according to her account she was thrown and dragged. She never got on a horse again. I don’t know how much she ever played tennis but she was quick to hand her racquet over to me as soon as I was old enough to hold it. (Notice I did not say “use” it. Another story.)

My father was not a scholastic athlete but when younger he did play tennis and row sculls on the Schuylkill River. By the time I was born, he was in his forties and limited himself to golf. He was over fifty by the time I was ready to hold a club. Or, at least by the time he thought I should be ready. So, off we went for a round of golf together. 

I have brief memories of that day and I am fairly sure it was just one day.

    After becoming concerned that I was finding too many balls, he questioned me to make sure they had stopped rolling before I found them.

    He had me sit out a hole. I think it was the ninth hole. Whatever fairway ran by the clubhouse. Later, I thought maybe he hadn’t paid greens fees for me, but then I learned there were no greens fees for members. He was probably worried I’d be removed from the course.

    There were several creeks that crossed the fairways. I found it much safer to roll my ball across the old wooden bridges than try to hit it over the water. My estimate? I took around five strokes to get across.

    I was really good at getting out of sand traps. I mean, really good. Of course, that means I was also really good at hitting my ball into sand traps. Only one of the reasons you don’t see me on the LPGA tour.

But that wasn’t the main reason I ended my golfing career before my age hit double-digits.

There was a medical incident.

As I recall we were outside some sort of shop. It might have been the pro-shop but it wasn’t in the club house. My memory places it somewhere near the ninth hole. My memory also says it stocked ice but maybe it was only towels. Whatever. It was the spot my father picked to teach me how to drive a golf ball.

I remember his standing behind me, showing me how to position my feet, telling me where to direct my gaze, and placing his hands over mine to demonstrate a proper grip. Looking back on it, he must have said, “And now you would swing.” I, however, heard “swing” and swung.

There was blood. Not a lot. Not flowing, more like seeping from somewhere near his ear.  The people in the shop were very helpful. The details about how are hazy but no further medical treatment was required. 

Nonetheless, after that day, my father gave up on golfing as a family affair. My brother preferred caddying to generate revenue. Neither my mother nor my sister had any interest. As the youngest child, I had been his last hope. Luckily my father had golfing buddies who played every Thursday afternoon and most Sundays. 

Not that the rest of the family didn’t support his country club life. We backed him up when it came time to eat the monthly minimum - usually on a Sunday night when we climbed back into our church clothes so my mother would not have to cook.

Some of my fondest memories are sitting in the lounge area before dinner. The big comfortable sofas were definitely there but I wonder if my imagination added a fireplace for winter evenings. I like to recall a gentle fire warming the area, true or not.

My favorite visits took place in the warmer months when the patio was open for drinks and dinner was served under the awnings on the porch overlooking the course. I think those dinners shaped my taste in restaurants for my entire life. I might not have developed any golf skills but I became very good at dining.

Not every dining experiences was calm and bucolic. I recall meeting a boy my age (whom I could not identify under hypnosis) who liked to pretend-drive the golf carts. I will always wonder why the club stored the carts facing down a tall hill. I am pretty sure this kid could get the carts rolling but I don’t recall that he could get them to stop. I remember hopping off a slow-moving cart. I do not recall hearing any splashes after that and can only assume the carts never reached the precipice. No thanks to the two of us.

Eating the minimum had another great impact on my future life. One night when I was about seven, the club featured a raw bar. My first. I discovered oysters. I have memories of many trips to the buffet table. I have no idea how many oysters I ate but enough to last a lifetime. I didn’t get sick. I’d just consumed my quota. Twenty years passed before I tried again. I had one. My last.

NOTE TO SELF: I wonder whatever made my father think I’d be any better at bowling.

© 2023 Jane Kelly