Golf and life with Dad

Keeping in mind that this blog is all about you Valeria, my Angel, I want to share with you a part of your grandfather that I have probably never told you about in such depth. I wrote this in 1994 and I have to say, at second glance, I may have taken some liberties for dramatic effect, but be assured the spirit of the man portrayed is accurate and the significance of the game of golf in my relationship with him is as depicted here.

This may have something to do with why you call every sport I watch on television "golf". I hope I have not denied you any due attention to honor this game and my real prayer is to share it with you, if you so desire. You are four now and I hope you will soon walk the fairways of life with me and breathe in the sweet air of summer as we stride together toward the green heaven your grandfather now inhabits.
(He really did caddy for Bob Hope, by the way!)


KEEP YOUR EYE...

In the early evening, on a bus from Newark to Wilmington, Delaware, in the middle of a string of meditative associations, I find myself thinking of golf and of my old man. My senses transcend the rocking bus and I am standing under a tree back in Waterloo, Iowa at Gates Park Municipal Course on a Saturday afternoon near the tee of a 430 yard par four, the smells of birch and pond water, the splashing sounds of frogs playing on the weeded bank.

I love to watch him. He's not as graceful as the tour pros on television, but he has a class that doesn't require nice polo shirts or PING clubs. There is a depth in his stroke and in his eyes as he follows the propelled ball to its landing, his hand held on his forehead as a visor. I watch him watch. Over the years he has given me a lot of advice: most of it "goes in one ear and out the other", as he would say. But I hear him clearly in that still-framed moment under the Iowa sun, his attention seemingly focused on a small rubber band-wound, plastic covered sphere: "Keep your eye on the ball. Follow through," he says, without saying anything at all.

I see my father's life in his stroke. In my mind's eye, I tailor a black and white photo of him when he was twelve. I put him on that same golf course at that same hole where he caddied as a child. He caddied for Bob Hope once. I see him caddying for the legendary comedian, holding a bag almost as tall as him, pinpointing Bob's ball for him "just in the shadow of the third pine tree." After the round, Hope gives him five bucks and dad goes home bragging to his brothers and, under the intent gaze of his father, dutifully places the five in a jar marked with his name. All eight of his brothers caddied. He was in the middle of fifteen children. They each learned to pull their own weight and to take pride in a good day's work.

One day I would caddy for him. I started out just walking, tagging along. It was nice just to be with him. He enjoyed my company and it was obvious; teaching wasn't important yet. He just walked and talked and wrote on his little score card and I followed him and watched him hit that shafted hammer into that ball that seemed to go forever. He bought me hot dogs and Pepsi in the pro shop and dropped me a five every once in awhile when I got strong enough to carry his bag.

He played with friends, but I didn't care who he played with; I just wanted to be with him, my dad, my buddy. Sometimes we rode in a cart. I got to sit in the cart, all alone behind the steering wheel while the men stood at the tee and waited for the group in front. Dad never got a cart if he had any say in it though. It wasn't his style. It still isn't. He's a walker. He spies lost balls in the deep rough, under trees, by the roadside and even fishes one out of the shallow pond with a 9 iron on occasion. His feet track the earth as he strides through the high grass of the rough, crossing from one side to the other, lending an eye to the less attentive.

Then I started to play. He never demanded that any of us kids take up the sport; it was our choice. How could I not play golf? ...so many memories, so much a part of me, of him, of our whole family. I took lessons when I was twelve and I played three days a week, as specified by the green ticket I paid five dollars for each year. Growing up I played with other kids. I always had the worst score in our foursome. I used a baseball grip on my club, must to the chagrin of my teacher and even more so to my father. It took years to break me of that habit and I have several others I have never learned my way out of (not that dad hasn't tried his damnedest to help.)

One summer, I hooked up with a friend who's brother managed the University course. It was quite a deal. If my friend or his brother were working, I was allowed to just walk on. I got off work at three-o-clock and went straight to the course every day. I breathed golf and once in awhile I'd even have a good game. I'd get home and call dad about a part I needed for my car or ask him how his back was and slowly work into telling him that I had birdied number three that day by sinking a chip from the edge of the green.

Years went by and I fell into a permanent golfing slump. In spite of a valiant coaching effort on dad's part, I pulled up in his driveway one July afternoon and threw my clubs on his sidewalk, "You can have 'em! I don't ever want to see these stupid clubs again. I'm just not cut out to play golf!" I left him with those words. I had given it to him straight; put him in his place. "What nerve! How dare he try to teach me something that brings him such joy!"

The next summer, my clubs were there waiting for me- no questions asked, no rubbing it in. My game hadn't improved much but my attitude had changed. The time off put the game into perspective. I didn't start playing golf because I wanted to win or even to score well. I played because, walking up the long fairway or standing in waiting on the green, I could feel the presence of my father. Through adolescence and into adulthood, when I was unwilling or unable to ask for his attention, I found him at my side, even when I was golfing alone, carrying the weight of ten golf bags. I took hundreds of quiet walks up and down the hills and around the green, manicured curves of our city golf courses and pondered what it meant to be alive: sweating in the humid Iowa sunshine, hurrying ahead of the black ominous clouds and floating balls into the turbulent winds. I've never played a round of golf without thinking of my dad.

It's January here in Delaware. I'm a thousand miles from home and the rain has finally washed away the six-foot snow drifts that have made it hard to see the street from my window. I'm working sporadically at three different jobs, one that I would compare to playing an entire nine holes in the bunker. I'm working so I can go back to school, even though I don't know what I'll do with my degree when I get it. It's hard to concentrate when I'm so unsure, but dad is helpful without even knowing it: "Keep your eye on the ball, Tim; follow through." And finally I hear his supportive, gentle, reassuring voice, "Good ball, Tim. Nice shot. That'll do. That'll do."

The Cousin Experience

My father was in the middle of fifteen children. My mother is the oldest of ten. Catholic families. Close families. We know there was some dysfunction and minor separation within families, but that was minimal and when we were all together we all blended into the fold and were just happy to see each other. Holidays, weddings, funerals, brunches, graduations, ball games and barbecues, We watched each other grow and bloom from children to teens to adults. We did so with faith, fear, unity, support, laughter, tears and eachothers' undying friendship.

Looking back, I am thankful for the cousin experience. I can not imagine my life without those bonds. The four children in my family were all adopted. We were loved deeply and cherished by our parents. But we could not have known, upon being welcomed into our immediate family, that we would inherit the larger love of a close-knit extended family. As we settled into our lives as children, we were sprinkled into the mix of cousins, finding those near our age and sharing much in common.

I think I remember the teen years most of all. I struggled to belong in the harsh reality of adolescence, wanting respect and acceptance from my school peers. For whatever reason, I didn't feel like I fit and it was a huge burden for me at the time. Those family gatherings impressed on me that there was a place I would always belong. While there was some level of competition with cousins, there was a larger perception of us as a team (confirmed in the many pictures of us together over the years.) I played sports with my cousins. We discovered music and movies together. We danced, we sang. We made dares and took risks. We shared secrets and made promises. Sometimes we made mistakes...together. We challenged each other and we praised each other.

I am far from my big family now. I chose to be where I am and I have few regrets. Short visits back to Iowa remind me how much I miss that incredible group of people though. I am grateful for all the time I have had with them and look so forward to sharing my family even more in the years to come.

A few anecdotes, mostly for cousins who will read.  Two weeks of golf, swimming, Batman, Steve Martin, then eating Maderites and playing on the plane in Marshalltown with Pat and Greg every summer. Jimmy, Tony and me as the three musketeers. Having peanut butter and honey sandwiches and sugared cereal at the Reidy's (things my frugal, health-conscious mother denied us). Singing Bad Bad Leeroy Brown, more than once with McGrane-side cousins. The awe of visiting my cousin Jimmy Craig who was allowed to drive a golf cart at age 10 (on the course where his dad was the pro.) Getting to hang in the country with Tony and shooting a bee bee gun for the first time...Labor Days at that house, one where we picnicked under ominous clouds and saw Martin and Lewis reunite on the Telethon. Sharing my graduation celebration with my cousin John (who stole the name I was to have because he was born first! So I got Timothy John.) Meeting up with Cara in college and sharing stories, since she roomed with a high school friend of mine and mourning Cara too few years later. A poignant moment with my cousin Jim Reidy on a busy night before his wedding, singing Elton John songs while he played the piano. Oh, I forgot, a memorable kegger with aforementioned Jim Reidy where some aunts paid us a visit (party poopers) and Jim...split! Many more simple yet wondrous moments that won't fit into the space of my brain or this blog.

Facebook has changed life for us all. Now we know things we would never contact each other to tell. But we can celebrate the high points of our lives and support each other during the low points, even from miles and miles away. Cousins, I love you all!

FEAR

There was a moment yesterday, as I walked from my car to a site where I visit one of the participants I work with, that I felt uncomfortable (to say the least.) I watched a man walk from a corner where I know drugs are sold swiftly toward me. In the end, he was walking to somewhere else and not toward me at all. But fear overtook me, briefly. I have had this experience before. The moment was brief because I knew that most times my fear is unfounded. I also know my friends and my cousin were murdered unexpectedly. After my good friend died, 20-some years ago, I made my way into the heart of the city, maybe to show I was not afraid. Not too long after another friend was murdered, I fled to the countryside. I never proved  or escaped anything. I've lived in "bad" neighborhoods and been threatened with violence more than a few times over these many years and, on a good day, I remember that I am a vessel of love. On a bad day, I imagine the worst. But, honestly, there is nothing worse than believing another person wants to harm you (even if they do.) I dig deep to see the goodness in others. I know for sure there have been times that I have diffused violence by demonstrating my belief (at minimum my hope) in someone's goodness. I like to profess non-violence on a larger scale, but I have to profess it locally and constantly if I really believe it is the way, God's way.

Christmas and Revival

Christmas snuck up on me this year. I have been experiencing mysterious pain and my thoughts have been scattered for awhile. I have started to enjoy distraction (from the pain) in whatever form it comes. But she does not distract me. She revives me- in every word she says, every silly smile and every screech of joy. She marches through life believing each day is hers to relish. Why not? She is virtually untarnished and she sees the world in its innate beauty. I just follow and soak her in. I field her questions and try to keep her healthy and whole, body and soul. I know that I would die for her and, as the pain in my body spreads and intensifies, I discover that I want to live for her. It is a gift to be alive, to have a chance to celebrate the holiness of holidays and to be in the presence of unbridled emotion.

Carnival

We went to the church carnival last night. It's an annual event and we look forward to it. As we brewed in the steamy night, a few things occurred to me. First, I was thankful I had left my phone in the car and was able to capture moments with my wife and daughter that I may have forced myself to observe through a digital lens otherwise. I have to admit I put my hand in my pocket a few times out of habit, wanting to take a picture or see what time it was or if I had a text. I do like to share pictures. The cell phone is a valuable tool in that respect. I know that family and friends appreciate being able to see our precious Valeria and that when they see her joy they are able to get a sliver of it. But it was equally valuable to take some time, tech free, to soak it all in and feel the summer sweat consume us in under the lights of the carnival in the dark night.

The second thing I observed troubled me. I have said it was a hot night. Obviously, people dressed for the weather. But I was disturbed by the attire of young girls, some not yet even teenagers. This remark is by no means prudish. I am not condemning these girls or suggesting they need to be on a leash. Part of the disturbance in my mind was that I was noticing. I was not looking up to see girls, but I was glancing at what I thought might have been attractive women, occasionally to realize they were children. My reflections, briefly interrupting the sweet smell of funnel cakes, focused on my role. I silently vowed to try to play less of a role in objectifying women with the hope that other men will join me and young girls will not feel compelled to look sexy to get the attention they already deserve.

Speak Easy

Hearing the unfamiliar sound of an accent seems to be pleasurable for most of us in most cases. I hope this is true because, at heart, we welcome the differences in culture in our world. I believe we should be careful, however, about pointing out accents to people who have them. We should also remember that we all have accents. Just because someone is in our neck of the woods doesn't mean that they don't hear an accent as well.

No reason to be ashamed that a particular accent sounds sexy, alluring or mysterious. But when you tell someone that, you are really pointing out the differences between you and it is a very one-sided train of thought, since you are assuming they don't hear your accent and they are the only one who has the accent. You would not say to someone, Ï love how dark your skin is" or Ï really like your big breasts".  Yet, because telling someone you love their accent might not be as severe as the previous examples, when you "complement" someone on their accent, they may say "thank you." Listen close. I have observed that this can be the kind of thank you that aunt Betsy gets for a bone-crushing hug.

This one's mine, but I'll share: I Remember...

I remember being held high in the air, Father Donovan fishing a golf ball from the suer with a coat hanger, our beater of a station wagon, the neighbor Brian and running from beebees.....I remember Cub Scouts and a clothing drive and knowing Grandpa had died...I remember the railing and the stairs to our upstairs bedroom that stretched the length of the house and I remember the rectangle carpet squares that covered the room sometime after Terri got stitches in her chin from sliding on a pillow down the tile..I remember the Christmas Tree parties and the maple tree in the front yard and shaking flashlights to make a strobe...I remember walking dad his last few blocks home while he walked his bicycle, the neighbors grandchildren and their snakes and the creek that connected us with everyone in our neighborhood...I remember Armstrong's popcorn balls, a real walk to school, sledding at recess...I remember wrestling and losing and winning and feeling something in my bones...I remember a big sparkly icon we called God reigning above the altar, my First Communion, my First Confession and karate in the front yard with my cousins...I remember the smell of chlorine at the Y, being buzzed through the door, mom waiting and thinking I might drown...I remember mowing lawns and eating lick-a-sticks and catamarans on skateboards down the church hill...I remember Big Macs for helping Sister Judy, flag football in the rain, discovering love (puppy and otherwise)...I remember seeing Grease in the theatre, pitching nickels in the bathroom, looking for someone to sit with at the football game...I remember the first taste of beer, the long buzzes and short hangovers, smoking Marboro Reds and walking the streets in summer...I remember learning to drive, the terrible drunk night, the days after and knowing I'd survive...I remember long days of golf as a kid, as a teenager, as a man-never long enough those days- one solid drive and HEAVEN- really!...I remember Jesus and Christ-like (ness) and Merton and Berrigan and mass in my parents house, mass in a gymnasium in El Passo, mass at the Worker, mass during lunch break, mass for the funerals- my family, my friends....I remember Doobie Brothers and Rod Stewartand John falling asleep in his breakfast and mass at his wedding and mass at Jimmy's wedding where we posed as a full football squad for the wedding picture...I remember late nights and endless nights and wondering and wishing and trying (to be loved)..I remember roads- gravel and paved- leading and descending on foot, holding hands, on a motorcyle; tears blown dry to my face, roads to big houses, from big farms, to parties, from cemeteries, roads and highways....I remember spinning through the snow  and ice while my dad was dying and my uncle was dead, hiding and afraid, afraid of Death like never before...I remember meals, big and small, hot and cold, lively and mundane, breaking bread under a shelter where bees begged for our sandwiches somewhere near Washington DC on a family vacation...I remember breaking bread at the Brown Bottle for Homecoming, breaking bread at our huge family gatherings, breaking bread with my wife, my wonderful wife, my sweet giving wife and her family here, in Mexico, here again and again...I remember proposing in the parking lot ourside of Sears...I remember finding out...guessing then knowing that SHE would be ours...holding her the first time and handing her to Amada, naming her after my mom, all of the first times we shared her with those we love who love us...I remember her on my knee watching the Phillies, her little hands and feet, her first sprinting steps, her wiggling and dancing in her crib...and NOW wiggling and dancing and singing everywhere with everyone...and soooo much more! I don't want to forget EVER!