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CLEAR Temp: 90 °F Wind: NW at 10 mph Friday, August 29, 2003 SECTIONS Home Page Local News Sports Business Obituaries Life Opinion - Politics AP News Weather Classified Archives Site Map EXTRA HomeLife Magazine Joy Magazine Tempo A & E RogueValleyAutoFinder RogueValleyHomeFinder Real Estate Showcase Wellness Connection Newspaper in Education Prime Times Outdoor Journal Personals Movie Times TV Times E The People CLASSIFIEDS Find a Car Find a Home Find a Job Find Everything E SOUTHERN OREGON Automotive Communities Entertainment Publications Recreation Calendar ABOUT US FAQ What's New Advertise Home Delivery Classified Ad Employment Contact Us Media Kit Email Story to a Friend August 9, 2003 Tee Talk Golf gives dads, sons a chance to bond By TIM TROWER Mail Tribune My dad and golf. Dad fell into ill health and has been on my mind a lot. Golf is a passion of mine and something I write about regularly. Then it struck me. Could the twain meet? Could I write about Dad and golf and how the game served as a bond in our relationship? Advertisement It seemed silly at first. A good score for Dad was 120. His swing had more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle. A flying elbow here. A wrist break there. On takeaway, his muscles clenched, his wrists hinged, his hands moved and, eventually, the dawdling clubhead was pried along, as if it had stopped to gaze in a storefront window. His idea of a one-piece had everything to do with what gals of his generation wore to the beach, nothing to do with the golf swing. A south-sider, the downswing was heavy on the left hand, as a butcher might cleave a hindquarter. Don’t get me wrong. Dad made solid contact often enough, and sometimes the ball went straighter and longer than usual. The same punchy swing accompanied him around the greens, and a derivative of it showed up in his putting, the take-back long, the follow through brief. My dad and golf. How could I possibly subject readers to that? Easy. There are few things as universally shared by fathers and sons as golf. Warm, clear mornings, nature’s bounty stretched all about, a tranquil getaway. You start early in life and, unlike many activities, you play together forever. One need only look around to witness golf’s cohesive values at work. It began for us in an unlikely place. An Air Force officer, Dad took my two brothers and I golfing for the first time in the late 1960s at John Hay Air Base on the Philippine island of Luzon. He was stationed at Clark Air Base, and we vacationed at this mountain retreat. Upon getting a few rudimentary tips from the man running the driving range, we played nine holes. I remember little about the course. One hole had about three tiers leading to an extremely elevated green. Another featured a high tee box pointing over a sunken forest to the green below. A mountain goat would have left the course on rubbery legs. My score was 47; I doubt very much it was legitimate. Through the ensuing years, golf gave way to youth and school sports. Then it was jobs and our own families. We’d get together occasionally to play, but it was only in recent years the game again became a focal point. My dad and golf. Even though we were spread out — Dad in Corvallis, my brothers in Albany and Huntington Beach, Calif. — we tried to make regular trips, each serving as host to the others. We played Eagle Point and Running Y. We played Bandon Dunes and Sand Pines. Up north, Old Salem and McNary. In Phoenix, Ariz., where Dad wintered, it was the Karsten Course at Arizona State and TPC of Scottsdale, across from the Phoenix Open site. Trash talking with my brothers became a ritual. Granted, it was weak, as you might expect from three middle-aged guys with little game and no street smarts. Our e-mail zingers couldn’t make a nun blush, but Dad got a kick out of them. When we played, he sometimes tired easily and would sit out a hole or two per side. Each time, I gave him par, allowing him to sometimes beat one of us over nine holes, which in turn led to shrieks about the injustice of it all and demands for an inquiry. Speaking of shrieks, there was a time in Arizona when Dad and I were driving down a fairway and it dawned on me the 90-degree rule was in place. I made a hard left to get back to the cart path. Dad shrieked and made a hard right. I looked over in time to see him tumbling over the fairway with not nearly the grace of Mary Lou Retton on a floor-routine pass. He was unscathed but somewhat unnerved. My dad and golf. As he lay in a hospital bed, a victim of a bad heart and poor lungs, a ventilator tube sticking deep into his throat to breathe for him, we were at his side. Some of the time, Dad was awake and alert. At other times, sedated. Over the course of a week, my brothers and I chatted, read, watched TV. I thumbed through Ben Hogan’s revered book of five lessons and fiddled with the prescribed stance and grip. Golf was on TV and Peter Jacobsen — one of Dad’s favorites along with Bob Gilder — was on his way to victory. When he awoke, we gave him the news. His eyes brightened. My dad and golf. Dad passed away late on a Friday night. The tee time we’d planned for earlier that day had long been dashed. Still, I know how it would have gone. Lots of laughter, lots of ribbing, lots of errant shots. There would have been funky swings and pars the easy way and plans to do it again. That won’t happen for us, but it will for other fathers and sons. Maybe writing about Dad and golf isn’t so silly after all. Reach sports editor Tim Trower at 776-4479, or e-mail [email protected] Printer Friendly Version Email Story to a Friend Subscribe Archive: Click to Search Mail Tribune Home Local News | Sports | Business | Obituaries | Life Opinion - Politics | AP News | Archives | Site Map E Southern Oregon | Classified Copyright © 1997-2003 Mail Tribune. All rights reserved. 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