The crowd behind the first tee let out a collective, “Ahhhh” as it moved past the first kid’s drive on the fly.
I watched as my first competitive drive rolled into the greenside bunker, 304 yards from its starting point.
I wanted to give ol’ cocky a look, but I thought better of it and walked on.
At the end of that first day I had shot a 76. I was two shots back of the leader in my age group. I could have done better and would do better, but it was the first time I had seen the course. I didn’t know where to hit the ball half the time, and the greens were tricky.
Steve Limpkin, or ol’cocky as I had deemed him, held the lead with a 74, and rightfully so. His parents were members of the club. He played the course almost every day.
My grandfather arrived an hour before I finished.
He was standing there by the eighteenth green when I walked up to putt. He didn’t wave or make a scene, just laid back in the shadows, but I knew he was there. He smiled as my final putt fell and gave a brief clap as spectators do. I felt as if I’d let him down. I knew there were two more days to the event, but I wanted to present him with good news for all of the time and money he had thrown in to back me.
“You looked great out there, Kevin. How’d it go?”
“Not great, pops. I’m in second. I shot a 76.”
“A 76 on a course you’ve never seen before? Sounds pretty damn good to me son.”
“A kid in my group shot 74, he’s leading it.”
“Two stroke deficit, huh? Sounds manageable.”
“I’ll try and do better tomorrow at Spring Valley. I know that course pretty well.” The event was played one day at San Jose, one day at Spring Valley, and then one day back to San Jose if you made the cut.
“Remember this, my boy: you’ve only been playing this game for a year now. These other kids have spent years at it, growing up on private courses with all the advantages in the world. So whatever you end up doing out there, it will be great. You hear me? Great. Just have some fun for Christ’s sake, you’re a kid.”
My grandfather always had the words to calm me or make me laugh. He was a serious guy who didn’t take life all that seriously; it was a rare quality.
“What if I really skunk it, like shoot a hundred or something?”
“Then you shoot a hundred. What? You think I won’t let you come home or something?”
“I just want you to be proud; I know this means something to you, even if you play like it’s just for fun.”
My grandfather stopped and turned to face me, making sure I was attentive. “I’m proud of you, Kevin - you. This game, or any other thing you may choose to do in your life, is secondary. You are what’s important. You remind me so much of your father. He was the exact same way, always wondering if he was good enough or living up to my expectations. Let me say for the record, pal, you have exceeded any expectation I may have had. You’re everything a father, or grandfather, could have ever hoped for in a son.”
I didn’t know what to say so I nodded and walked. He put an arm around my shoulder and smiled; it was a beautiful place this world.
The next morning came and I found myself more at peace. I was partnered with the same group as the day before. I didn’t try to introduce myself again, just traded scorecards and thought about what lay ahead.
Spring Valley was a public course located in the foothills of Milpitas. I had played it twice before. I didn’t really care for it all that much, but at least I knew where to hit the ball.
Ol’ Cocky didn’t have much to say, and our playing partner had shot himself out of the tournament on day one with an 89, less than great company for this second round. The starter called on us and we began. I nailed my drive and once again was at least twenty yards past the leader.
His attitude and ego surely had a problem with this, especially since it was proper etiquette to give acknowledgment to a well struck shot. Though he mumbled it more times than not, he was stuck saying good shot most of the day.
I had one truly memorable hole that day, and my grandfather was there to witness it. I had shaken off the first day jitters and asked him to stick around and see how things turned out.
It was the ninth hole - a 520 yard par five, with a must make tee shot of at least 200 yards of carry over water before reaching the fairway. Cocky and I had no problem making the fairway; our playing partner however, put three balls in the drink before finally resigning himself to the drop area across the lake.
From a less than spectacular spot in the left side of the fairway, I had two-hundred and fifty yards left to the front portion of the green. It wasn’t the most difficult shot considering the fairways at Spring Valley were wide and flat, with a generous close cropping that allowed the ball to roll an extra twenty or thirty yards if you didn’t spin it too much.
My problem was the tree line. I had just managed to roll my ball behind one of the biggest oak trees on the course. I would have to punch the ball low for the first hundred yards, draw it slight left, then hope it would raise up, gain enough carry to cover the distance, then run out to the front of the green - oh yea, and miss the two pool size bunkers to the left and right of the green’s front opening. No problem.
I pulled my two-iron from the bag. Usually, if struck well, I could count on this club for approximately 190 to 200 yards. Today I was asking for 250 and a host of other unreasonable requests.
I lined up the shot, closed my stance, strengthened my grip slightly, and let it rip. Impact was a thing of daydreams. The clubhead transferred energy up the shaft to my hands which informed my brain that the shot was one of the best in my life thus far. The ball left on a string, low and powerful, hooking slightly, then touching down and rolling just onto the first cut of the green. I could hear people from behind the green clapping and shouting. I didn’t mind, I was sure this type of shot was pulled off daily on the pro tour but out here, amongst the teenage set, it was a miracle.
I saw my grandfather conspiring amongst the other parents and onlookers as I strolled up like it was the 18th at the Masters, instead of the second day of the Mercury Junior Classic.
I was all smiles, and so was he.
All that was left was a forty foot uphill putt breaking from right to left. I walked the green, checking all of the angles. It was not a crazy difficult putt, but it would require commitment. You couldn’t back out on it and leave it short. I chose my line, picked a spot some three feet to the right, and hit it. I watched along with the rest of the spectators as my ball rolled and rolled, until finally dunking center cut into the middle of the hole, an Eagle three. I jumped in the air as if I’d been shot. That putt had put me two under par for the day and only two over for the tournament; I was now leading the event.
I finished the day with a two under par 70.
I signed my card, handed Ol’ Cocky his card which recorded his day at even par 72. We were tied going into the final round.
My grandfather had walked along the back nine watching my steady round stay steady. It felt good having him there.
The rules prohibited the parents from speaking with the players during their round, but it found no fault with clapping for a good shot, or giving a wink and a smile.
On the drive home my grandfather was unable to mask his pride. I knew there was one more day to go and that anything could happen. If he’d had his way, they would already be engraving my name on the winner’s cup.
“You looked great out there, Kevin, great.”
“Thanks, pops. I felt good, focused.”
“People were asking about you, wondering where you’d come from, what club you belonged to. It was quite a stir.”
“Really?” It was surprising to hear.
“It’s a gift, my boy. You respect it. No one can believe you’ve only played a year.”
“Did you fill them all in?”
“I might have said a word or two.”
We both laughed after that one. My grandfather was notorious for boring the shit
out of the other patrons of San Jose Muni with stories of my prowess.
The final day had me and Ol’ Cocky together once again. As the leaders entering the final round, we teed off last. You’d have thought with the performance I’d turned in the previous day, and the distance I gained on him with every tee shot, he’d mellow out - well, far from it. His personality was a by-product of privilege and contempt. It was apparent he found me a nuisance and nothing more.
Tee shots away, our walk into the final eighteen began. For the first nine holes it was unclear who would be the victor. We exchanged the lead every couple of holes. One thing was clear: it was a two man race. Starting the back nine we were six shots beyond our nearest competitor.
It became a classic match play scenario. On the twelfth hole I spotted my grandfather and Peter in the gallery. It was energizing and a bit terrifying, the amount of people which had stayed to follow our match.
I didn’t know any of them. Even fellow competitors were amongst them. On the fifteenth hole the match took a turn, and not for the better. Cocky had strung two perfect shots together on the short par five and was laying twenty feet away for an eagle.
I had snap-hooked a drive into the left tree line and was forced to punch my second back into the fairway. I was left with one hundred and eighty yards for my third. It’s not the scenario you want when your rival has a good look at eagle.
I watched the flag; the yellow piece of cloth moving to the west gave me some indication as to the wind speed I would be dealing with.
It was similar to making a long distance shot with a rifle, you had to account for wind-speed and gauge your shot accordingly. I thought of just that for a moment - my grandfather over my shoulder, with hushed tones, advising me on how far to aim one way or the other to make the perfect shot. I heard in my head him telling me that in golf, just as in shooting, you only had one opportunity to get it right.
The gallery of onlookers faded away. I pulled a five iron, gripped down a half-inch, aimed the slightest bit left, and pulled the trigger. The ball took a lovely high flight, simmering in the sky for a second before fading into the front right portion of the green. It had looked good from where I stood when I hit it. Upon seeing it at green level, it was great. My ball came to rest a mere six inches from the cup, a kick-in birdie.
I smiled at Cocky as I said I would get mine out of his way. Birdie four on the card; it was up to him now to keep up. I watched with the rest of the folks at greenside as his putt traveled the twenty or so feet downhill left to right into the side of the cup.
He was up, the crowd was up, and the momentum was his for the moment.
On seventeen we matched pars. The eighteenth loomed ahead, a tough finishing hole, 440 yards, dogleg left. You had two options off the tee:
1.) Hit the driver and attempt to catch the sloped fairway, where a precise shot would roll you down to a spot approximately one hundred yards from the green or
2.) Hit a two or three iron into the middle where the landing area was generous, then take your chances with a long iron into the green.
He had the honors. He made the safe play, his ball coming to rest in the middle of the fairway, but a considerable ways from the green. It was up to me now.
I was juiced. I pulled my driver, took three practice swings at half speed, and breathed out slowly. I wouldn’t try to steer the ball. That was the self-talk going on inside my head. I would pick a spot down the fairway, line up accordingly, and let it rip.
The ball came off the clubface hot. My finish was high and balanced, the outcome perfect. I had caught the slope. I had but a wedge left to the postage stamp sized green.
As we walked to our tee shots, I remember the feeling of pride I had as I walked a hundred yards past Cocky’s drive to my ball’s final resting place.
I stood off to the side as he hit. I remember thinking at the time that there was no way he could pull off the shot he needed. The small green was protected on both sides by trees; they had been planted there just for this purpose. The golfer daring enough to hit a driver would have no problem; a wedge could carry these impediments with enough spin to stick the green. The man back two hundred yards would face some tough choices.
I watched as my competitor pulled a fairway wood from his bag.
I remember being surprised by this. On the card he would have 230 yards left to the green, but with the elevation change, the green falling away and below, that number dwindled to a more likely 190 to 200.
It didn’t matter what he did, it wasn’t something I could control. He took at least seven or eight practice swings, double the amount he usually took. He was feeling it, he must have been. He knew his lead was only one, and the possibility of bogey from where he was lying was significant.
I turned away as he swung. I had my own shot to think about. I was standing there with my head down, taking calming breaths in and out as I heard the roar.
Somehow he had done it; his ball was on the middle of the green, maybe fifteen feet from the cup.
My earlier joy was caught dead center in my throat. There was nothing to do about it except make a good swing. It was an easy shot; I was sitting perfect - 92 yards from the flag.
I had a pitching wedge in my hands. The swing was a soft whoosh back and through, no more no less - easy as pie, except it was the final hole and I was one down.
I hit the shot as I had done many times on the range, only this time the result was different. My ball sailed the green. I was over the back by fifteen yards. My grandfather would later explain the dynamic of adrenaline.
There were no miracles for me on that day. I pitched the ball onto the green from a terrible lie in the rough and two putted for a bogey five. Cocky went on to beat me with a two putt par. When we shook hands after his final putt, he removed his hat like tour players do and said, “Nice playing out there. You’re really good.”
I was surprised by the warmth in his statement. It was as if someone entirely new had entered the kid’s body. It was my first lesson in gamesmanship and a winning mindset. He wasn’t the complete dick I had first perceived, just a kid who knew how to win.
Peter being Peter asked me to sign a ball for him, citing the value it would have in the future. I felt like an idiot, but I did it. On the drive home grandpa was both thoughtful and sympathetic. He knew I was bummed about the second place, but he remarked with wisdom and candor; “You love this sport, I can tell. I feel it through you when you’re out there. Following you around today was one of the best days of my life. Maybe you don’t realize it now because, well, you’re a young man, but the way you play, it makes others feel good just watching you. You were a class act all the way.
Even when you knew you were beat, you met your opponent half way, head held high with the grace and manners of a gentleman.”
Peter was seated between us looking at my trophy; I wasn’t sure how he felt hearing my grandfather say those things. I felt uneasy in that moment, like maybe I should focus some attention on him.
My grandfather beat me to it; “It’s like Peter with the boxing; he moves like a fighter, natural rhythm, perfect timing, no wasted movement. You’re both very special boys.”
Peter and I smiled at each other.
“So, boys, on this very special occasion where would you two like to eat? It’s my treat, anywhere you want to go.”
Peter had never been to the steak house downtown. I mentioned it, told him he’d love it, and there was no argument.
It was the perfect end to my first taste of tournament golf. As we sat there eating steak, my trophy on the table, Gino making a deal over it, inviting others to see the next Jack Nicklaus, I savored the moment. It was my place in the sun where so many days had been rained out.
It was the kind of memory you put away some place special, always there when you have a minute to spare or just need a reflection of something wonderful, my grandfather’s pride, my best friend’s laughter, and the world coming to a complete stop, if only for a second.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The following year and a half brought changes both great and small. I had grown six inches over the summer between my sixteenth and seventeenth year, leveling me out at 6’2”. I looked my grandfather in the eye now, literally. He was the same rock of support, the firm hand and kind word, the fighter and the poet. He was everything everyman should aspire to be.
With my mother’s leaving he had become everything, my entire world. The thing I would remember about him most was the limitless giving of self. Whatever issue I faced, what guidance I needed, he supplied in countless measure.
I was now in my final year of high school. Letters of interest were coming in from around the country regarding golf scholarships - schools I had never heard of and then some that were known by all.
I didn’t want to think about that, all I really wanted was to continue on with the life I had led since age twelve. Me and pops, here on the ranch, our weekly round of golf together, meal times, nightly reading, and the tea.
Peter still came around, however less frequently. He had discovered girls. We both had, only he was taking on the practice of women the way I trained for golf, relentless.
One thing was for sure, I wasn’t leaving. There were plenty of good schools close by; though my grandfather would never admit it, he needed me here. It was a big place and he wasn’t getting any younger.
I had narrowed it down to two; it was a pretty obvious choice, given the prestige of the one. I would tell him over our next round of golf.
He had been after me ever since the letters started coming in. His lectures about education were as passionate as his lessons on golf or shooting or anything else he had cared for. It was his dream for me, and now I wouldn’t have to burden him with money issues as my choice came with a full ride.
It was a crisp spring morning, a Saturday tee time we had held for the past year. It was a time I cherished as much as the talks and readings over Earl Gray. We teed off and took our stroll. With him there was no pressure, this was golf for golf’s sake, a beautiful walk through the park.
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