As Father’s Day approaches, naturally my thoughts turn to memories of my dad. Taking into account that, at my age, the years fly by, it is still difficult to wrap my head around the fact that it’s been more than 18 years since he passed.
In past stories, I’ve talked about the challenges we had in our relationship. There was never a doubt that I didn’t live the life he wanted me to live. He encouraged—cajoled, coaxed, attempted to persuade, and all but forced—me to pursue his childhood dream and I had dreams of my own. And that led to constant friction.
A very young Dad with some of his trophies. (I took this with my very first camera!)
Luckily, as I grew and became moderately successful in my own right, most of the wounds of my adolescence were healed. Oddly, or perhaps not, the thing which brought us together was the same thing that caused all the friction in my youth: Golf.
I am grateful for the many happy hours we were able to share on a golf course later in our lives. And by that time, our family doctor, Dr. Charles Gunnoe, was nearing retirement and spent more time at golf. Those days when he joined us often bordered on the magical. These were the two men I most admired when I was a child. From my perspective as a single-digit-aged child, both Dad and the Doc were men of near-mythic stature. As far as I could see, they could do anything and they knew everything.
As an adult, I could see them from a vastly different perspective. I could see them as human males, just like me; men with their own flaws and foibles. But I was never their equal. I always held Dad and the Doc in higher esteem. Seeing them from an adult perspective, I also could see some of the sacrifices they made for their families and friends and I admired them even more.
Dad and me in Myrtle Beach
I remember one round we played and I—though this should come as no surprise—was the last to have honors on the tee. As Dad and Doc took their practice swings and hit their tee shots, I found myself with this all-encompassing feeling of rapturous joy. Somehow, in those few moments, I was seeing them through my child’s eyes, my adolescent eyes and my adult eyes. It was as if, in a micro-instant, all the love and respect I had for them was consciously realized. For a moment I was lost in what felt like a Heavenly euphoria. I won’t claim my eyes weren’t misty; I can’t recall. But I suddenly realized that they were both looking at me. In my blissful state, I felt as if they were about to say something profound. What else could they possibly say but some weighty, philosophical declaration that would place my life—all life!—into crystal clarity.
I was drawn from my bliss by the words, “Come on! What are you waiting for? It’s your turn to hit!”
Ahem! I inaudibly cleared my throat and lurched forward, trying to appear as if I was already aware I was on the tee.
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On another outing, I used my laser-like precision to place my ball in a greenside sand trap. Not an unusual occurrence. In my younger days, if I happened to be in a greenside bunker, I’d be trying to hit the next shot into the hole. By this point in my life, I was trying with all my might to not kill a member of my foursome or someone on an adjacent fairway.
So, I took a swing and skulled the ball into the lip and it rolled back down by my feet. I swore through gritted teeth. I took a bit more of an upright swing and I took so much sand the ball nestled itself into the sand no more than a foot away. I stepped forward and proceeded to blade it, again, into the lip. I settled in and chunked it once more. My displeasure was now quite vocal. I made a few more angry swings. Skull. Chunk. Skull. Unsuccessfully fighting to contain my rage and frustration caused a thudding in my ears and my vision began to tunnel.
Out of nowhere, I felt someone lightly take my wrist. It was the Doc who’d taken his life into his hands by entering the trap and walking up behind me. Through my fury I heard him say, “Here, Billy. Let me show you…”
I know how to get out of a f—ing sand trap!!!!!
Me and Doc and Dad
Obviously I didn’t and I didn’t actually say that out loud. Instead, I snatched my hand violently from his gentle grasp and said something like, “Forget it.” I spun around, my back now to him, and I just stormed away from the green and went to the cart he and I were sharing that day. I slammed my club into my bag and flung myself into my seat.
Once seated it took only one breath to wash over me and I realized how incredibly rude I was. “Oh, expletive,” I thought. “Not only was I just tremendously impolite to another, this was Doc! If there’s anyone who deserves my utmost respect, it’s him!” And what would my father say? Yes, I was an adult—somewhere in my 40’s… at least!—but my discourteous behavior would surely warrant some sort of admonishment from my dad.
I knew my apologies to both men must begin before another swing was taken.
I felt the Doc sit down next to me. I began immediately. “Sir,” I said. “My frustrations notwithstanding, that was incredibly rude of me to storm off the hole and I am very sorry I acted that way.”
Doc patted my knee and, with his ever-gentle voice, said, “That’s OK, Billy. If I was playing as badly as you, I might have stormed off the whole course.”
I laughed out loud.
On the next tee, I made a quick apology to my father and we went on with our round.
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Again, it’s funny to me that the game over which we fought when I was a kid, had become the very thing which brought me and Dad back together. And it gave me a wonderful opportunity to know Doc from an entirely different perspective.
As I said, Dad has been gone for more than 18 years now. And it was our dear doctor who stood with our family and shed tears at Dad’s bedside in ICU when he passed. And Doc has been gone for more than seven years now.
I once had a very vivid dream where I was in my office and my father came to me, dressed for a round of golf. In that dream, he told me that there was golf in Heaven. Many times over the years, I have pictured the two of them waiting for me on the first tee of our old golf course. I can see their golf bags laying on the ground and both of them, youthful as ever, swinging their drivers as they warm up.
They look up to me watching and I say, “It’s not my turn to hit yet. You go ahead and I’ll catch up…”
