A Golfing Life

One of the reasons for this journey to southern climes is to acknowledge and feed my passion for golf. When I examine when and how this magnificent obsession started, I must confess that it took me by surprise. Most of my "athletic" life had focused on tennis. I was not only a non-golfer; I was an anti-golfer who was convinced that there could not be a dumber undertaking than golf.

Tennis had been my obsession since my preteen years. My father introduced me to the game and I was immediately hooked. I was self taught. I would watch people I thought were skilled and try to mimic them. I remember clearly saving up to buy my first racket, a T.A.Davis Imperial model, gorgeous with all of its gleaming laminates. To earn the money for the racket, I worked at Harvard Stadium vending in the stands during one football season. When I excitedly counted my "profits" from the first game I was dismayed to learn that I had lost about $8.00. I must have given some guy, presumably a Harvard student, the wrong change, and he never told me. There's probably a better than even chance that person works in the Massachusetts Legislature today.

Things got a little better as the season progressed and I eventually had enough money to buy that racket by season's end. Of course by then it was too cold to play tennis so I had to wait until spring to finally use it. It's hard for me to describe how much I loved that tennis racket. It was so artfully and beautifully made that I would just stare at its intricate logos and deep brown colors in awe. It's entirely possible that I have never loved any "possession" as much as I loved that first T.A. Davis Imperial racket. (Think Ralphie from "The Christmas Story" and his obsession with the rifle and you'll get the idea. Luckily, I didn't put my eye out.)

Old friend Marty Flashman and I would meet at Dorchester's Franklin Field to play. The courts were horrible, coarse asphalt streaked with grass-filled cracks and fading lines. You even had to string up your own net, which Marty somehow owned. Of course to my eyes we were at Centre Court, Wimbledon. After I had improved, I would take the "T" to places like Milton and Brookline where some of the better players would hang out. Like most sports, the only way to improve in tennis is to play better players and learn from the drubbings you will inevitably take. Gradually, I developed my strokes, footwork, and understanding of the angles and intricacies of the game. My tennis heroes were the Aussies of the day: Ken Rosewall, Lew Hoad, and especially Rod Laver. I loved everything about Laver, but was especially proud that we were both left-handed. Much later I would devour every word of Bud Collins' great book about Laver, The Education of a Tennis Player. Collins' description of Laver was perfect: a 150 pound left arm hanging off a 90 pound body.

Eventually my tennis progressed to the point where I could compete at a club level. I even won the singles championship at my tennis club one year; however, in the interest of full disclosure, I must say that I diligently searched the entire South Shore for a tennis club in which the talent pool of men's singles players was at an incredibly low level. I was able to find such a club and happily won the men's singles championship defeating (in order) Mike (The Midget) Moriarty (I lobbed him to death!) and One-Armed Al Appleton in a thrilling tiebreaker. If Al's prosthetic hadn't gotten tangled up in the net, he probably would have beaten me. Still, it remains one of my crowning athletic achievements.

Eventually, I turned tennis into a second career, teaching private lessons, coaching high school, and running the tennis program at Camp Androscoggin in Maine. I was able to teach Ada, Josh, and Matt about the game and there were many exciting family matches, most of them ending in tears for one unfortunate family member or another. Those idyllic summer afternoons at the old Weymouth Tennis Club watching the boys battle it out on the court and then taking their frustrations into the pool for a spirited game of Marco Polo seem like a very long time ago.

And then one day around 1999 tennis just stopped being interesting to me. I still can't figure out how an activity that had been so much a part of my identity for over 40 years could one day just cease to be of interest. Perhaps it was the knowledge that I had climbed the mountaintop in tennis when I defeated The Midget and One-Arm and there were no more peaks for me to ascend.

With retirement looming, Ada and I decided to give golf a try. We were moving to a golf community in New Hampshire and we were ripe for a new activity we could do together. We took some introductory lessons together, starting the all too familiar process of getting hooked on golf. My addiction (I don't use the term loosely) became obvious one day when I went to the driving range for about the thousandth time and was able to get most of the balls in the bucket airborne. There is a certain "nothingness" that accompanies a well-hit golf shot that I believe is the essence of golf's addictive nature. By nothingness I mean a lack of vibration or jarring; the club face, ball, and ground are all where they are supposed to be and the ball just soars majestically skyward with seemingly no effort on the part of the striker. This happens rarely even now and I'm pretty sure it's why I keep coming back for more. Ada was only slightly less obsessed with golf than I was and starting with our retirements in 2000 we pursued the game every chance we could. After our initial fears that we would be clogging up the course for everyone else, we were thrilled to discover that golf was the only game in which almost everyone who played it sucked! We were no worse than most of the people we encountered and were mindful of playing quickly and efficiently. Soon we got over our fears and started going on golfing vacations to the usual places like Myrtle Beach, Hilton Head, and Tucson. We became thoroughly involved in the golfing life at our home in Eastman and were lucky enough to have made many great friendships through this game. It was mainly Ada's Eastman golfing buddies who hovered around her offering equal measures of meals and prayers during her illness.

I'm forever grateful to golf for putting such wonderful people in our lives. I hope I meet a bunch more of them on the panhandle.

Be well and much love,
J