Sandbagged

What mischief lurks behind those shades?

There have been many books and articles written about that sentimental round of golf with Old Dad. There’s something so right about it. Like going to your first ballgame with your dad. (August 10, 1962 for me; Giants beat the Dodgers 11-2 at Candlestick Park, not that I remember any details about the game or anything.)

I have always enjoyed golfing with my dad, and until recently, he always beat me. As he got older and his considerable skills eroded, the gap narrowed until finally, just a few years ago when I was in my late forties, I finally got the best of him.

On my trips to California to see the folks, Dad and I would generally play the course at the retirement village where they live. (Pleasure Palace for Partying Pensioners is more like it, but that’s a post for another day.) They have a beautiful 18-hole track set in the foothills of East San Jose with views of the Santa Clara Valley at certain holes, and it is so fun to play. (One of their water hazards includes a small waterfall referred to by the Villagers as Viagra Falls but, again, a post for another day.)

The last time I played a full 18 with Dad was on his 80th birthday. I came in third out of the foursome and Dad brought up the rear. But good grief, he was 80! At 54 I should’ve driven circles around him. But a win is a win, in my book.

Now, understand that for seven years from 1996-2002 I hosted a golf show on Fox Sports Net and that made people think I knew what I was doing with a 4-iron in my hand. Nothing could be further from the truth. I took lessons as a 16 year-old, quickly developed bad habits, and almost as quickly gave up the game till I was 46 and took on the role of “golf expert.” Traveling to exotic courses and watching and talking with the best players in the world was fun and it reignited my passion for the game. Didn’t do anything for my ability right away, but I took up the game in earnest once again.

Fast forward to last week and my latest trip to see the folks. I didn’t know Dad was up for it, but he suggested we play the tiny par-3 course at The Villages. Though my short game was nothing to brag about, a round of golf with Dad was always something to look forward to.

Turns out I was hitting with my short irons as well if not better than I ever had. Thanks, but no shanks, no hooks, no pushing the ball off course. Every hit was solid and if anything, they were struck too well. I was flying just about every green. Meanwhile, Dad dribbled the ball off the tee with all the power of the soon-to-be 83 year-old he is. Frankly, I was starting to feel sorry for him.

“There you go, Dad. Good shot,” I encouraged him on every hole. Then I’d pick up the bag of clubs we were sharing, sling it over my shoulder, trudge to the next tee, and mark down the score. Then I’d get his clubs out of the bag along with mine, and swing away.

By the seventh hole, a sense of this-isn’t-happening crept into my mind as I added up the scores, only to see that the tortoise had overtaken the hare. Of course, Aesop didn’t have the hare carrying a set of golf clubs, keeping score, and basically being the caddie for himself and the tortoise.

No wonder he said, as we approached the ninth tee box, “I don’t think I can take another nine holes.” Hah! I was being hustled by the wily tortoise in old man’s Sansabelts, who pretty much chipped and putted his way to victory. Making me do all the heavy lifting, making me hit the ball too far, making me add up the scores. Stroke play, match play, I’d been played.

How else do you explain a healthy 57 year-old losing a round of golf to an 82 year-old cancer survivor who, thanks to multiple surgeries, has the use of just three-quarters of his lungs and virtually no left shoulder muscle?

I want a rematch.

The tale of the tape.