Not sure how I got a seat on that airplane, but the
”
You-should-take-Mark-with-you-crowd
”
undoubtedly got a big boost from Mom and Dad. The week after
Christmas without the rambunctious 13-year-old at home had to sound
good.
Not sure how I got a seat on that airplane, but the “You-should-take-Mark-with-you-crowd” undoubtedly got a big boost from Mom and Dad. The week after Christmas without the rambunctious 13-year-old at home had to sound good.
So, despite an airline strike – not sure if it was mechanics or pilots – and a behind-the-scenes debate of which I heard little, I found myself wide eyed and on a plane with Gramps, Uncle Jim and Uncle Dan. We were bound for the Hawaiian Islands. My grandfather had never been. He was older and somehow a plan had been hatched to fulfill one of his few expressed wanderlust dreams – to travel to Hawaii.
His dream became my jackpot. Houdini couldn’t have changed faster when we finally hit the hotel at 10 p.m. Ocean water warm? Didn’t believe it. Hey, I’d been to Pescadero State Beach and Rio Del Mar. I loved the water, but ocean water … well, you had to freeze yourself until you didn’t really feel the cold. When I waded in, I could hardly contain myself, a warm playground of salty, churning water.
We moved hotels the next day, from the place on the hill that made it tough for Gramps to get to the beach (he had battled back from a stroke) to a beachside hotel, which came with a little 9-hole golf course, something that caught my Uncle Jim’s eye right away. Of the six Derry children, Jimmy was the most gifted natural athlete. He starred in basketball at Santa Clara University and, though small in stature, he was tough, mentally and physically.
Anyway, one afternoon after the requisite romp in the warm ocean, he suggested we hit the beckoning links. The flagsticks were waving in the breeze and with worn sets of rental clubs we went off to battle, wrestle with the course, ourselves and the opposition players.
I unleashed a surprise attack. Little did my uncles know how often my mom had dropped me and a buddy or two off at the nine-hole Emerald Hills course the Elks Club ran above the fog line in Redwood City.
We played all day – 36? Tee it up. Hole 3 and 8, from tee to green with only putters? Sure. No one on the course, make up a new hole. We were game.
Uncle Jim talked Uncle Dan and me into a money game before we struck the first shot. What did I know? Some spending money for the trip came my way and all the meals were paid for, so sure thing – think it was $5 a side.
I beat ’em both. I’m not sure what I enjoyed more: watching their faces as it became clear the “upstart kid” could play the game or collecting the cash as we walked off the little course. The uncles satisfied their bet obligations immediately and we began to walk back to the hotel, I basking in boyhood glory.
Halfway to the open-air lobby, Uncle Jim put his arm around my shoulder and uttered the words that brought me down to earth and taught me a lot about golf and life: “Winner buys the drinks.”
We sat in the bar, ordered, I paid. The winnings vanished, but so did the sting I felt when I got the word that I had to give up the prize money.
Sitting in the bar with my uncles, all felt right with the world. I competed, I won, I shared the money, but it really was better than that. I shared the experience, and that’s how golf has been my entire life. That’s why I enjoy it so much.
About a year ago, after 25 years of talking about it and two years of actual saving and planning, seven friends and I jetted off to Scotland on mostly different airplanes and spent 10 days playing historic courses, including the Old Course at St. Andrews where this weekend’s British Open is being held, and dutifully conducting historic research in Scottish pubs. Whether in Scotland or Hawaii, some things never change.
Magical. That’s how I’d describe both experiences, one as a boy, the other as an adult. But looking back each fits into the same emotional looking glass.
Golf is about competing, to be sure, and winning a 5-spot, a beer or a look of admiration is sweet. But what really fills up your glass is the shared experience, the wry comments, the beautiful surroundings, the sand shot that hops over a rake and goes in, the tree that swallows up the ball and spits it, magically, back into the middle of the fairway, the handshake at the end of a round, and the laugh over the Scottish caddie who pipes, “Aye, we’ll get it” right on cue as another white-dimpled ball disappears into the thick gorse.
Golf has a way of cementing friendships. It’s common ground for understanding – the game can lift you up or beat you up. It like life, and the most important lesson about both, is to enjoy it. We live and we learn.
When I watch the British Open this weekend, I’ll think about shooting a picture directly down on Ralph, aka “Wee Man,” from the rim of a sand trap. I’ll think about Ernie’s godawful emergency room-teal rain suit. I’ll recall Jeff’s drive on No. 1 at the Old Course – lotta room to the right, laddie. I’ll think of Jimmy sitting on a rock in the middle of the fairway with the breathtaking Turnberry Lighthouse in the background. I’ll think of Uncle Keith (yes, I have been blessed with great uncles), looking like the Michelin Man with outstretched arms while the howling wind filled his rain jacket. I’ll think of Bob getting a peppery pep talk and responding with his best round. I’ll think of Steve somehow getting the worst caddie of the bunch, again. I’ll think of how much we laughed and smiled.
There were great shots, there were horrible shots, there were toasts to fair maidens and fairer winds. There were rainbows and dark skies. What it all comes down to is this glorious truth: “Winner, happily, buys the drinks.”
