I hadn’t cried in a long time. Living amongst men will do that to you. But today I gave in; I felt the world rest upon me as it had a few short years ago. My soul remained as frail as my mother’s physical presence. When I’d finished, I stood, kissed her forehead and left. I wouldn’t ask for any more miracles, and between my mother and I, no more would come. That had been the last gift she ever gave me. The following spring, she would be gone, and with her, the remainder of a child’s heart.
My grandfather had waited in the truck. It was our standard practice. I didn’t know how good I was at hiding defeat or sadness. I was no longer the little broken boy he had taken in three years prior, that I knew. He treated me like a man for the most part, and for that I was thankful.
“You ready to try something new?” He had posed the question easily enough; I agreed I was, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
My grandfather spoke while he drove; “How’d it go?”
I said I really didn’t feel like talking about it. My grandfather didn’t press, another trait of men.
“You’re a smart young man, Kevin, smarter than I was at your age. That’s why I want to show you one more thing; something to balance out the Neanderthal in you.”
I laughed at that. We pulled off the main road and entered a long tree lined drive.
At the end of the road was a parking lot surrounded by grass and trees in every direction. It was a golf course, the first I’d ever seen outside of television.
“Golf, huh?” I said it while looking around.
“Yeah, golf. What do you think?”
“I didn’t even know you played.”
“Took it up after the war, needed something to calm my restless spirit, at least that’s what your grandmother told me.”
“Are you any good?”
“I’m okay.”
Golf
My grandfather pulled a brown canvas bag from the bed of the truck and led me to a large field with yardage markers positioned every fifty yards.
I noticed the area where people hit from was fairly busy, men of all sizes and shapes swinging away at a stationary ball the size of an egg. It seemed many of them were having considerable difficulty with the endeavor.
“Hey grandpa, this looks easy.”
He just smiled, “Does it?”
He had purchased a large bucket of balls and found a spot at the far end of the range where the crowd was thinner. He set his clubs down, handed me one, and took one for himself. In ten minutes my grandfather had explained the proper grip, stance, and sequence of swing. He spoke on the matter as he did with most things, with a vast store of knowledge. I was barely listening. How hard could it be? I mean, the ball was sitting still and you had this long club to whip at it. No problem.
My grandfather moved a ball into place, then. He took his stance, looked at the ball, and then looked to a target in the distance. He was speaking to me about what he was doing right up until the point where he hit it. The ball sailed out of sight, straight and high. This only confirmed my belief about how easy this was going to be.
He placed a ball down for me and moved away while telling me to keep my head still as I swung. “Swing it back and forth naturally without forcing the issue.”
I liked the way the club felt in my hands. I was going to send this ball a mile.
I swung the club up and drove it back down like an axe handle; I felt the whoosh at the bottom of the swing as my club passed by the stationary ball without even a glance. I looked to my grandfather puzzled.
“Easy, huh Kevin?” He was smiling like he knew a secret I was just let in on. The game was not easy; in fact, it was the hardest thing I had ever tried.
We spent the next hour hitting those hundred or so balls - my grandfather’s flying with precision and great distance, mine a hodgepodge of steak sized divots and twenty to fifty yard bombs. At the end of it, my hands were blistered and my smallish ego bruised. It didn’t matter, I was hooked. As much as I enjoyed the boxing and the shooting, this was something different, something magical, a world removed from the ones I had known up until now.
When we were leaving, I asked when we would come again.
“You enjoyed yourself?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it; you think you might want to learn to really play the game?”
“Yes, I would.”
“You see that it’s not easy, and won’t be for some time.”
“I do, but I want to learn.”
“Alright, then, I will teach you. You just let me know when you want to come back.”
“Is tomorrow okay?”
“Sure it is. I’m guessing you’re going to want to bring Peter along next time.”
I hated to admit the thought hadn’t even entered my mind; for reasons unknown to me at the time, I felt selfish on this new endeavor. I asked my grandfather if it would be alright if it were just between us, at least for a little while.
When we had returned home, I hauled my grandfather’s clubs into the house for him.
I remembered him saying they needed to be cleaned after hitting, almost in the same way a rifle needed cleaning after firing. I took them to the kitchen and busied myself with the chore at the sink.
My grandfather sat at the table with a glass of milk and shared more of his knowledge on the topic.
He spoke of the legends of the game, living and dead, spun tales of the first courses of Scotland, and insisted of all the games in the world, this was the sport of Kings. That sounded just about right to me.
When I’d finished cleaning his clubs, I removed the one I had used on the driving range. I asked if I could take it outside with a couple of balls and knock it around. He said he would help me if I needed it; I declined any assistance, shooting more for a personal experience this time, hoping that by being alone I could unravel the mystery of making good contact.
With his blessings, I walked out into the field behind our home. I had thought of it that way for some time now: our home. I sat the balls down in a thinned patch of grass. There was enough property that I could swing away in any direction and worry myself not of the consequence. I laughed at that, given my efforts at the driving range. Perhaps the first walnut tree in front of me twenty yards should give pause, as for the rest they were pretty safe.
That’s not the attitude I told myself. Not if you want to be great. I had worked hard to become an accomplished shooter and fighter, this would be no different. Due diligence and diligence due I said aloud, didn’t make all that much sense, but I was feeling prolific in my state of prolixity so I cared not.
“All right, Kevin, let’s try and remember what the old man had said, okay?” It was the first time I’d remembered talking to myself. This game really was an unusual beast.
I looked at the ball closely. I imagined I was seeing just one dimple on the ball. I breathed out, calmed my grip. Hold it like a bird you don’t want to fly away, light enough not to kill it, and tight enough that it won’t release out of your hands. Yes, that’s what he had said; now swing, back and forth real natural.
My club impacted the grass a solid four inches behind the ball. The ball, along with six pounds of dirt and soil, traveled an amazing fifteen yards. The walnut tree was in no danger.
I stayed out there until darkness called me away. Eventually, I hit a couple of good shots. I actually had to run out into the field and search for several minutes to find two or three of the better ones. It made no sense at the time, none at all. I obviously had no aptitude for the game. I couldn’t even get one of those balls to sail like my grandfather’s had; like most things we love, the rhyme and reason seemed unnecessary at the time.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It had been three weeks since our first visit to the San Jose municipal golf course. In the days that followed I had read and committed to memory every lesson from a small soft cover book titled, Ben Hogan’s Five Lessons: The modern fundamentals of golf.
My grandfath
er gave it to me out of his personal library, said it was the best book ever written about the golf swing by one of the best players ever to swing a stick.
The illustrations made it easy; each night in front of a mirror I would fix myself in the positions from the book. In very slow motion I would adopt the perfect stance, grip, and swing sequence frame by frame with what I saw.
After an hour or so of this each night, I would wake up the following morning to new and different soreness in muscles I didn’t even know existed. I must be on the right track I thought.
On that third week, right after school, we drove to the course, this time to play. I was excited to say the least. I had hit a thousand balls in practice - for that I was sure - now I would be allowed to put it all to the test, on a real course. My grandfather had bought me a set of second hand clubs at a garage sale not far from our home. They were a mixed set, but he assured me they were fine quality all of them. I remember that day like it was yesterday. The air was cool with moisture, the grass and trees vibrant in their color and disposition, the sky above was a bright candid blue, not a cloud to mask the greatness I would display on this course of destiny.
We were on the first tee, just the two of us. We waited while a foursome in front of us walked to their tee shots. My grandfather was warming up, swinging two clubs at a time. I followed suit, but I didn’t need to. My body felt loose and responsive.
It was time. I stepped to the tee markers and looked around. I placed the ball on top of the tee and pushed the tee into the ground just as grandpa had showed me. I stood behind the ball then and picked out a target in the distance.
After a couple of practice swings, I moved into position. I looked down the fairway and back to my teed ball. Jack Nicklaus be damned here comes the pain, I thought. With that I swung to beat the band, this ball was going to possess the hang time of a Ray Guy punt. Only it didn’t. The ball barely cleared the end of the tee box, traveling, or rolling rather, a mere forty yards? What the hell?
My grandfather offered condolences, then striped one two hundred and fifty yards straight down the fairway. “It’s a game of a lifetime,” he said as I mustered through my next seven shots to achieve the distance of his first. We finished the nine holes right at darkness. I was beat. Between all the swings, ninety-six of them the card read, and carrying my bag of clubs, the experience had taken its toll.
My soul cleansed I would not be dissuaded.
It was my new passion and remained so through a full year.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I was fifteen now, taller, stronger, and as good a golfer as my grandfather. He had coached me through the tough times and through the arguments we had. If only his patience had not been so infinite I’m sure I would have played football or basketball instead. But he was strong and kind and direct. When I bitched, he offered no comfort - only the words of champions, “You get back what you put in. When you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, we’ll resume.” Jesus that would piss me off. Somehow I knew he knew it; it was always enough to fire me up for more practice. It was what I dreamed of: the courses, the practice sessions, the competition; all of it held something for me that had never been before. I loved the game like I loved the man, with unyielding respect.
It hadn’t taken long for everyone at the San Jose Municipal golf course to know who Joe Anderson’s grandson was. My grandfather made it known his boy Kevin could take anyone who stepped onto the course. I thought his tactics a bit robust, so I let my clubs do the talking. That summer I set the junior course record with a 66. The adult course record was 63. It was something to shoot for.
In the time of my youth, high school golf teams were something of an oddity; sure you could find them at private schools, but not amongst the public ranks. Fortunately, there was the Northern California Junior Golf program.
My grandfather had paid my registration to be a member. I recall the tournament schedule arriving in the mail, the thrill of checking the listings and discussing with him the sites where I could compete.
We had picked six tournaments, all within an hour or so.
“You’re excited about this, aren’t you boy?”
“Yes, pops, I am, almost to the point of being nervous.” I had taken to calling him pops six months earlier. Calling him grandpa seemed juvenile now that I was almost sixteen.
“You plan on winning any of those events?”
“I don’t know, I hope to. I’ll try my hardest anyway.”
My grandfather smiled. “Kevin, someday when you’re being interviewed by some reporter you give ‘em that, ‘I don’t know, but I’ll sure do my best routine,’ okay? For me, however, you give me the truth, what’s in your gut?”
“Yea, pops, I’m gonna kick some serious ass out there.”
“That’s my boy. Now c’mon, I’ve got something to show you.”
I followed him out to the barn. Once inside he brought a package out from his locker; it was covered by a blanket.
“Go on, Kevin, reveal them.”
I was a little nervous. His face was filled with pride. I didn’t know what to expect. When I removed the blanket, a new one no less, I found a new set of clubs held by a new bag. The irons were Ben Hogan blades, Apex Irons; they were the best of the best at the time for serious players. The driver was vintage Tommy Armour, persimmon head with a green glass insert. They were beautiful and they were expensive.
“Look, Kevin, I had your name embroidered into the bag. Everyone’s going to know the name of the kid hitting all those long drives.”
“I don’t know what to say,” and I didn’t. It was another example of his generosity, his love. I didn’t take it for granted, not a second of it. He was without equal as a man and a grandfather.
“I’ll pay you back, pops, I promise.”
“Watching you play is all the payment I’ll ever need, Kevin. You have a gift, use it son. Use it to take you places your father and I never saw.”
“Okay.” It was all I could say. I was really in a spot with the reference of him and my father. I was young and stupid as all young men are, but I felt things, and I believed I knew his heart. He was providing me a future as he had from the minute he took me in. He wanted so much for me, the way he had wanted for his son. I wouldn’t let him down, not ever. I promised myself that right there and then. When the heat left my face, I changed the tide and asked if we could go to the course. He laughed like a kid himself, said of course we could and in the next few seconds we were off.
Somewhere along the way, Peter had figured out what I was doing. He was impressed, however not interested. He stuck with the boxing and encouraged me in my efforts.
It had happened one weekend when I had taken him to the yard to hit some balls. I was proficient enough at the time I felt comfortable teaching someone else. He gave it a try but it didn’t click, not like it had for me. Strangely his lack of feeling for the sport came as a relief. It was the only thing I had which felt personal. I didn’t mind the solitude that came with the game. I enjoyed being alone, hitting balls, working my swing, tweaking it with no watchful eye. It was spiritual in that way.
The course had become my church; I felt God amongst the tree lined fairways.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The tournament season began.
My grandfather drove me to my first event. I was still fifteen, six months shy of earning my driver’s license. He asked if he should stay. I asked if it would be alright if I went this one alone.
My stomach was performing somersaults, and the idea of my biggest supporter watching me strike my first official tee shot was terrifying.
“You go on then, Kevin. Have fun.” He said those words in the manner akin to his nature. No pressure, relaxed and friendly. I walked to the registration table, told the lady sitting there my name, and was handed my scorecard and a sleeve of balls along with a small sack of tees. I moved away feeling a little lost. Kids of all ages were everywhere. I found the driving range and an attendant passing out range balls.
> My stomach was still knotted up when I took my first couple of practice swings. Breathe, Kevin, just breathe. Jesus you’ve done this and far harder things a hundred times.
I found the pattern and swung like nothing mattered, because in the grand scheme of things they didn’t. In no time I was sending them straight and true. At my home course people on the range would actually stop what they were doing to watch me. Not here. Here everyone around me was good; it was like watching a pack of junior tour stars hit balls.
I sized up my competition. I searched out the ones I thought would be in my age bracket. You could tell the wealthy kids from the rest.
Their golf bags had the name of what country club their parents were members of, along with their names.
One kid was striping every single drive. He wasn’t very big but he could hit the ball a ton. I was worrying about things for which I had no control. I stopped myself and got back to my own warm-up session.
A half hour later I was on the practice green finding the speed of the putts. The greens here were faster than where I played. It was a private course; I figured the place would be in immaculate shape.
The time was rapidly approaching. I had done what I could. Now it was time to let it unfold.
I watched the group before mine hit their tee shots. Three players, all in my bracket, sent their drives straight down the middle. I questioned my abilities. Had I moved too soon? Was I really ready for this? These kids looked and acted as if they had played since birth.
My name was called. I sucked back the nausea and strode confidently to the first tee. My playing partners were looking at me strangely. I introduced myself. One of them, a cocky shit said, “Yea, man, we know your name. We need to exchange scorecards.” God damn it, I thought, already I had been embarrassed and we hadn’t even hit our first shots.
Cocky shit was up first. He rifled one down the pipeline almost reaching the short par four. Next was the second in our group. He mishit his and sent it flying into the tree line on the left. It was my turn. I shook off the tension; stared breathing again, took aim, and fired. The ball left the face of my new driver like I prayed it would; I had sent it a mile.
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