“Wow, Dad,” Incredulous Son exclaimed.
Wow, indeed, I answered.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he continued, the same wonder in his voice.
You’re still new to the game, I replied. Stranger things …
“You think the squirrel’s … dead?” he asked.
Probably just stunned, I replied, reassuringly. And sure enough, as we approached my golf ball, the furry little creature shook its head and scampered merrily off. (To be precise, merrily, with a slight limp.)
“Dad, that was exceptional!” My alignment was all wrong, I explained. My son and I were just finishing up a round of golf. With few exceptions, he wandered the fairways, while his father followed a more circuitous route. We finished off No.18 (now to be known forever as “The Squirrel Hole”) with no more surprises other than the fact that the difference between our two scores was getting wider.
Some people complain about the time it takes to play a round of golf. I am not one of them. On a typical school day, I get to be with my children for a total of 45 minutes, in five to 10 minute segments. The conversation during those intervals usually centers around homework, grades, dishes and bedrooms (i.e., cleaning).
The conversation also seems to be one-sided. Either through severe hearing loss on my part or the minimalist sounds teenagers use to form words when speaking to parents, the conversation too often includes such gems as, “I couldn’t understand a word you said,” or “Please don’t mumble,” or “Go to your room!”
On the golf course, I get four hours of quite audible laughter, agony at missed shots, jokes, giggling and praise. We become golfers rather than parent and child – which is why I would like my daughter to take up the game, but to date, she is mostly interested in our scores. It’s a math thing. “Who won?” Dear Daughter accosts us as we enter the back door.
Since we are no longer on the course, my now Silent Son offers his sister the scorecard and heads solemnly to his bedroom. My daughter checks the scores, finds a minor error in my total (two strokes), and shakes her head. “Guess he whooped you again,” Delightful Daughter teases. She knows her math.
Your brother did quite well, I admit.
Diligent Daughter continues to study her brother’s card, then puts it in my face. “Hey, Dad, that’s a par, right?”
Right, I say, stowing my gear.
“And this, what’s this again?” she queries, pointing to the number four in the little box, just above my number seven. It is a par 5 hole.
That would be a birdie, I reply, emptying my pockets of balls, tees and other detritus I seem to collect when I play.
“Right, ‘birdie,’” she says. “That’s good.” I nod in the affirmative. My bride enters the picture, gardening gloves in one hand and an adult beverage for me in the other. “Well, how did you boys do?”
Perfect day, I reply. Our son is getting this game down.
“He beat Dad again,” my daughter chimes in.
Soundly, I add. The three of us head out to the courtyard. We sit down on lounge chairs. The dogs laze in the sun. It is too early for the no-see-ums to begin their attack. It is (almost) a perfect family setting. My bride discusses her plans for the garden. Our daughter shares the vision of how she would like her bedroom rearranged. Again. I listen a bit distractedly. Actually, it is almost a perfect family setting. What’s missing is our …
“Whoosh!” A small bundle of something goes zooming by my head and lands on the table. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of my son’s laughter behind me and look at the table. There was a time, it doesn’t seem THAT long ago, when the children collected Beanie Babies. While that phase of their lives has passed, they both have dozens (hundreds?) of them still hanging about in their rooms. This one, the one on the table, if I remember is called “Nuts.”
“Hey Mom, Sis, you’ll never guess what Dad did today!” He is bursting to tell the story. And it’s going to be good. Which is why I like golf.
Originally published in CH2/CB2 Magazine, 2007