Father’s Day & golf
Published 12:00 am Saturday, June 16, 2001
J. EDMUND BARNES
My father has never forgiven me for introducing him to golf. I remember the first time we played golf. It was back in January 1998. I was home from college for the weekend – my friend Greg had come down to see his fiance, and we were hoping to get some fishing in on Sunday before going back up to Oxford. But we hadn’t run the boat’s motor all winter, and when we tried to see if it would start it refused to work. We were happy that we had found that out before we got onto the water, but we were still irritated. No fishing. Now what? Greg and I had been in the habit of leaving our clubs in the trunk. While the winter weather in north Mississippi is icier and more miserable than it is down here, general laziness and the vague notion a tee time might be available over the weekend found them still in my car. So instead of fishing we decided to go golfing. And we invited my father to come along. He had never played before, and even held the game in a kind of disdain. How much fun could chasing a little white ball for over two miles be? We went to Audubon Park, paid our greens fees, rented Dad some clubs, and went to the first hole. I think I hit 3 wood on that first shot. I’m certain that I shanked it a fairway over. Greg laughed. So did my father. “Ha ha. You’re up, Pops,” I said. He lined up his shot. He imitated most of my moves, like squinting at the hole in the distance, adjusting his grip on the club, and pondering the ball on the tee. Then he swung. And missed. He had lifted his head to watch the ball’s flight, and as a result the club had failed to strike the ball. I laughed. I had done the exact same thing when I played golf for the first time. He gave me a dirty look, and swung again. This time he concentrated on hitting the ball, and made contact. The shot wasn’t pretty – a worm burner that bounced and rolled only a couple of dozen yards down the fairway. But it was straight, better than my chunk-shot that had dropped into the trees that line the jogging path along the edge of the course. The rest of the game consisted of the three of us hacking our way through 18 holes, jawing with the British foursome that was behind us, and losing somewhere near a dozen balls in the lagoon and rough. My father posted a score that were I to print it would result in me being disinherited. I, on the other hand, had to be modest about my 120 or so strokes. It was not a day for good golf. But it was a lot of fun. Since then, my father has broken 100, and beats me about half the time. No, my father has never forgiven me for introducing him to golf – for not introducing him to it sooner. For Father’s Day, take your dad out to the links and let him beat you. Or in my case, try not to lose too badly. J. EDMUND BARNES can be contacted at L’Observateur (P.O. Box 1010, Laplace, La, 70069, 652-9545) or by email at josephusbarnes@hotmail.com.