The best thing about memories is that they can never be taken from you..
My grandfather taught me to love the game of golf. He taught me to appreciate it.
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I learned the hard way as I used to haul his golf clubs up and down a hilly country club course when I was a kid. Yes, the life as a golf caddy.
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Fun? No.
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Unless you consider carrying the bag under the blazing hot sun for a sum of 56 cents - $10 for the loop- per hole, fun. I had plenty of time to do the math while sweating a ton each Saturday and Sunday morning during my formative summers.
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Would I do it again? In a second.
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He wasn't a big guy, probably 5-foot-6, maybe 160 pounds and was a three-handicap. As his playing partners would be searching for their shots in the woods and the rough, we'd be casually strolling down the fairway toward another well-placed shot.
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He wasn't a big guy, probably 5-foot-6, maybe 160 pounds and was a three-handicap. As his playing partners would be searching for their shots in the woods and the rough, we'd be casually strolling down the fairway toward another well-placed shot.
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I'll never forget the Walter Matthau-like voice giving me golf tips, a few of them I even practice, - others I'm not so good at - as we bonded.
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I think of him every time I golf. I still, and always will, use his old golf bag when I play.
I think of him every time I golf. I still, and always will, use his old golf bag when I play.
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His favorite tournament? The Masters..
His favorite golfer? Who else, Jack Nicklaus.
His favorite golfer? Who else, Jack Nicklaus.
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As I got older, I made it a point each year to call during the Masters tournament. Each Saturday morning as it was "moving day" at Augusta and it was time for the phone call.
As I got older, I made it a point each year to call during the Masters tournament. Each Saturday morning as it was "moving day" at Augusta and it was time for the phone call.
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Who was going to win? Who was going to falter ?
Who was going to win? Who was going to falter ?
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We spoke on the Saturday morning of the 1996 tourney, one year before a young golfer named Tiger burst on the scene. My grandmother was ill and not doing well at the time, I was hoping our Masters-chat would help him take a few minutes away that reality.
We spoke on the Saturday morning of the 1996 tourney, one year before a young golfer named Tiger burst on the scene. My grandmother was ill and not doing well at the time, I was hoping our Masters-chat would help him take a few minutes away that reality.
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Greg Norman was never one of his favorites but was having a good tournament. Similar in appearance to the great Nicklaus and, at the time, a threat to join Jack's legacy among golfing elite, he viewed Norman with disdain.
Greg Norman was never one of his favorites but was having a good tournament. Similar in appearance to the great Nicklaus and, at the time, a threat to join Jack's legacy among golfing elite, he viewed Norman with disdain.
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I don't know why he didn't favor Norman, he just didn't. I can understand that, I suppose, it happens in sports.
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At the conclusion of the third round, Norman held a commanding six-shot lead and the tournament was his for the taking. No golfer had ever gagged such a lead at Augusta.
At the conclusion of the third round, Norman held a commanding six-shot lead and the tournament was his for the taking. No golfer had ever gagged such a lead at Augusta.
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I was going to make the extra call that afternoon, give him hope that his nemesis would blow it on Sunday.
I was going to make the extra call that afternoon, give him hope that his nemesis would blow it on Sunday.
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I didn't make the call although I wish I had.
I didn't make the call although I wish I had.
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My grandfather passed away that night.
My grandfather passed away that night.
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Perhaps it was fitting that Norman posted a 78 the next day and lost the Masters to Nick Faldo.
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I remember my buddy Mike - the future best man in my wedding - saying to me that night that he could've sworn he saw my grandfather kicking Norman's ball into the woods on his way to the Pearly Gates.
I remember my buddy Mike - the future best man in my wedding - saying to me that night that he could've sworn he saw my grandfather kicking Norman's ball into the woods on his way to the Pearly Gates.
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He was trying to make me feel better, and he did. I knew that somewhere, my grandfather was in a better place. My grandmother joined him six weeks later, to the day.
He was trying to make me feel better, and he did. I knew that somewhere, my grandfather was in a better place. My grandmother joined him six weeks later, to the day.
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This will be the 13th time I view The Masters without having the privilege to make "the call". I believe his spirit is with me, and that has to be good enough.
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Now, I watch the tournament each spring, with a heavy heart and over-active tear ducts, but with the ability to reflect on my memories of what The Masters means to me -a prized possession that will always be inside me.
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Rest in peace, ole buddy.
1 comment:
You know your grandfather kicked that ball as well as I do. Thanks for sharing the memory. It brings back memories of my tribute to my Grandfather and father trip to Wrigley.
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