I recently spent a bittersweet day with my eldest son. Though I accepted his invitation with joy and excitement, I approached the morning with some trepidation. The event was the first annual Cannonball Memorial Run Golf Tournament; created to provide immediate financial relief to the families of all fallen law enforcement officers across the country within 24-48 hours of their death. This was their first attempt at holding a golf tournament to raise needed funds.
Normally, a scramble-format golf tournament is one of my favorite ways to spend a day. I have many happy memories from numerous of these charitable events. But I hadn’t played golf in probably three years.
I began playing golf at age 14 when one of my Jr. High School coaches started a golf team. My first round I shot 72! Before you are too impressed with my initial round, let me also confess that it was a nine-hole score. I was so bad that one of the other players on my new team (don’t worry Mark Blakeslee, I won’t mention your name) tried to get the other two to just play ahead and leave me behind.
Luckily, there wasn’t much competition to be on that team. Eventually I got better. And I got better. There came a time in my life when I was pretty good. Of course, as Yogi Berra said about baseball, Half this game is 90% mental. I believe it also applies to golf and I never believed in myself enough to be really good. I shot under par on various front- or back-nines, but I could never combine a round to score better than 75 on a full 18. Never.
In other posts I’ve talked about how much the game meant to my life; how it was the thing I had in common with my father which kept us on an even keel even in the most trying times in my young life.
In days gone by when I’d laid off of golf for a while, on those first days back on the course I always managed to hit some pretty good shots. And it didn’t take me long to get back into playing a good game for whatever age I happened to be; easily settling into scores in the 80’s.
I was a bit uneasy as I approached the course that morning. My anxiety was because I didn’t want to embarrass my son, who had invited me to fill a spot in his foursome in place of another who’d dropped out at the last minute. I was uneasy because the odds were against me being able to contribute to the team and I didn’t want my lousy play to reflect on him.
The course wasn’t easy. My golf game was, at best, terrible, and I never saw a single golf shot all day. My son and his friends, on those rare shots that went anywhere, had to watch my ball-flight for me. They’re terrific young men. And, though all of my fears were realized to the greatest degree, I had a blast.
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I began losing my eyesight when I was ten-years-old. My nearsightedness worsened continuously throughout my life. In high school my glasses were so think that the old phrase, coke bottle bottoms, was far less than accurate. Luckily I discovered contact lenses when I was college-age and LASIK in my late 40’s. But my myopia still progressed and now I’m dealing with cataracts and some not-so-ideal outcomes with surgery.
During the day, I became painfully aware that I am now so old that I can’t quickly pick up the game again, and I realized how bad my eyes have really gotten. I became vividly aware of my mortality and its icy grasp of impending finality. Experiencing this brought to mind the moment I noticed my father’s own aging. And, with irony, it was on a golf course not far from where we were playing that day. When the image struck me, I turned to my son as he drove our cart and said, “Son, I’m sorry for getting old on you…”
Still, despite not being able to hit a lousy golf ball, coupled with so vividly experiencing my failing eyesight and, if I’m honest, my slowly fading health, it was a good day. I was with my son. His fellow officers were a joy to hang out with; both respectful and courteous. We got to enjoy a day in the sun while helping to raise money for a very worthwhile cause. Later I was told that the Morongo Band of Mission Indians had donated the entire cost of the course that day, enabling the charity to double its funds. So, while I had trouble being able to see the world in front of me, I was able to see that there are fine people in this world, many trying to help those less fortunate. And I could definitely see the value in spending what time I have left with friends and loved-ones. My heart saw what my eyes could not.
I may be old and tired. But I continue to be blessed.
