A GOLF STORY

 

Background

 

My father played golf all of his life going back to caddying at the Broadmore Golf Club in Portland, Oregon. According to my mother, my Dad paid for his college tuition at the University of Oregon by gambling on the golf course, at the card table and on the pool table. My Dad never talked about it, but he never mentioned working at any particular place while in college. 

My earliest memory of golf was watching my father yell at the tv in support of his favorite, Arnold Palmer. “Charge!” was something I grew up hearing my Dad yell at the tv. I also remember my Mom being unhappy when my father would come back to the house at 6pm instead of the 3pm he had promised when he was playing with his friends on the weekends. 

These days, it’s common for Dads to bring their kids to the golf course and teach them the game. Not so my Dad or my friends Dads. They went to the course to get away from the wife and kids, to drink, smoke and talk in ways that wouldn’t be approved by the wife. I don’t blame them. 

That’s not to say that my friends and I never touched a golf club. We did. To use as swords as we pretended to be the 3 Musketeers. We would occasionally “borrow” our Dad’s clubs and hack around on the nearest park field  

Just Starting

So, given my growing up not playing golf, just how did I become a golfer? I’ll try to explain how I became addicted to this wonderful game, what the great Jack Nicklaus called the “Greatest Game.”  It started with a stroll through the Navy Exchange store at the North Island Naval Air Station a few months before I was to be discharged. 

I was walking through the sporting goods department when I saw this box on display with bright shiny irons. Dunlop Gary Player irons for $ 42.00. I had the money in my pocket and picked up the box as easily as a woman grabs a People magazine at the cashiers counter. I stowed the irons in the trunk of my 1972 Toyota Celica, which I was going to drive to my parent’s home the next day. 

When I got to my folk’s house, I unloaded my stuff, including the clubs. “You’re playing golf now, my Dad asked?”  He didn’t wait for an answer and told me to follow him in the garage. He got out his golf bag and took out his woods and handed them to me. Then he gave me his ancient looking golf bag and said “here, now you have a complete set of clubs.”

I was genuinely happy and only realized years later that my Dad had an ulterior motive. By giving me his old clubs, he had the perfect excuse to give to my Mom on why he had to buy new woods and a new bag. My old man was not dumb. 

I flew back to San Diego and completed my time in the Navy and then flew back north to my parent’s house. The next morning, I got in my car and drove up to Eugene since I was starting school in two days. The clubs were in my trunk, along with a pile of books I thought I might need, some clothes and a thermos of coffee. The clubs would be forgotten that summer as I immersed myself in college life. 

After a summer of classes, daily training runs and the occasional road race, I went back down to California for 5 weeks off. It was the longest amount of time off from school or work I would have until I retired some 38 years later. It was a time of many dates, parties, tennis and reacquainting with two old friends from high school. I did fit in the odd run or two, if only to sweat off the previous nights alcohol. 

Eugene was very warm when I returned, with a light humidity that reminded me of mornings in the Philippines. Nights were very cool and getting cooler by the day. The campus was fuller now, busy with fraternities and sororities planning their functions and parties, political animals scurrying about ranting about something that was just noise to me. 

And the young women, God, they were everywhere. An extravaganza of romantic opportunity on every corner and in every pub. I was only 3 months removed from the Navy and still feeling a huge thirst for female company which I quenched Monday through Saturday night. Sundays were for long runs and once cross country started, so ended most of my late night fun. 

Fall quarter passed by in a blur of classes, workouts and races. But, towards the beginning of November, cold, rainy November, I had thoughts of using those clubs waiting in my closet. On a rare trip to the mall, I came out of the store with a dozen Titleist golf balls. Why I bought these expensive balls instead of the cheaper Topflites or Dunlops I don’t know. Maybe, it was because that day I had received my GI Bill check and was feeling flush. I went back to my room and put them up on a shelf. 

The Japanese “Professionals!”

When I went to the dormitory that I was assigned on my very first day on campus, I saw a long line of people waiting to get their room assignments.  I heard some loud voices, I don’t want to room with that guy type of comments. So, I wandered up to the front of the line. There was a guy about my age (23) arguing with a younger man. “What’s the problem I asked?”  The older guy says, “there’s a problem-this guy, pointing to the younger man, doesn’t want to a Japanese roommate. Wanting to avoid a long wait I said, “hell, I’ll take him.”  The older guy hands me a room key and I go up the stairs to the 4^thfloor.

When I went into my new room, there was a Japanese man about my age, maybe a bit older sitting on a bed. “Hi, I’m O’Brian, I guess we’re roommates.”  “Yes, I am Masa Takeuchi,” my new roommate says to me. We shake hands. I tell him I need to go downstairs to my car to get my stuff and he says “I go help you.” Some roommate huh?  

Masa turned out to be the best roommate I ever had.  He was part of a group of foreign students who came to the college to spend a year learning English well enough to be admitted to the regular college. Masa was certainly smart enough, he already had a law degree from Waseda University. 

Soon, I was introduced to other Japanese students, some of whom played golf.  When I met them, they had just returned from a round of golf.  One was dressed from head to toe in Munsingwear Golf clothes, another wore Fila brand clothes and the 3^rdwore Lacoste. I mean they wore matching shirt, sweater, jacket, pants, socks and hat all bearing the same logo.  This was explained to me how things were done in Japan, golfers, tennis players, runners or other athletes chose a brand and every piece of clothing had to be that same brand. No mixing of brands as in the US. 

When I asked them why they did this, one of them, Haruki I believe his name was, loudly proclaimed loudly, “we are the PROFESSIONALS!”  So, from that point on, I would refer to them as the professionals. Once I started playing again and went out with them, I learned that they went to very few English classes and played golf almost everyday. They had no intention of getting their certification for English proficiency, they were here to play golf, drink huge amounts of beer and then return back to Japan to work in one of the big corporations. Years later, I realized that they must have known that they would have little time for golf until they retired 40 years later. 

First Round

One Saturday evening, I opened my closet and saw my golf bag. I took it out and examined each club. I got a cup of water and mixed in some shampoo and with a toothbrush, cleaned the groves. Then I wiped off the grips of the woods with a damp towel to get the years of acquired gunk off. I put the dozen golf balls in one of the pockets.  I looked at the bag and the irons leaning up against the dresser and thought of a soldier laying out his weapons the night before a battle. I put the clubs in the bag and propped it up in a corner and went to sleep. 

The sun was just peaking through a darkened sky over the eastern part of the campus as I got into my car.  It was November, it felt like rain was coming and I was going to play golf. Brilliant.  I stopped at a diner and got a coffee to go. Sipping the hot coffee and listening to an oldies radio station playing Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin songs, I had started a pattern I’ve continued to this day. I love the quiet, the cold morning and hot coffee all mixing together as I drive to a golf course. 

When I got the golf course, there were only 4 cars in the parking lot. It was likely a sigh of the almighty, which I ignored, that as soon as I opened my car door, it started to rain, heavily. I shouldered my bag and went inside the pro shop. There were 5 older men inside, one behind the counter and the other 4 grouped around a table drinking coffee.  

“I’d like to play 18, walking,” I said to the man behind the counter. “Are you sure about that, he answered, it looks like its about to rain pretty good.” “Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. He gave me a sideways look and I heard one of the old men behind me chuckle. “Suit yourself,” the man said and took my money and handed me a score card. 

It was a small course and didn’t have a driving range so I went straight to the 1^sttee. It was raining, but was pretty light so I ignored it and swung my wedge a few times to get warmed up like I had seen my Dad and other golfers do. My first swing was a mighty one. The slice that flew over the trees bordering a line of house was pretty mighty too. I heard a thump against wood.  I teed another ball, topped that shot and walked as fast as I could away from the scene of the crime. 

That first round went pretty much what one would expect. Chunked pitches, more slices, tops and 5 putts. Two things were constant-the rain and the smile on my face. With the rain, it felt as if I was wrapped in a pipeline wave looking through the narrow opening to a green. It was quiet, more quiet than I had experienced in a very long time. I was in heaven. 

On a short par 4 on the back side, I hit the shot that started this marvelous addiction that has stayed with me for forty years. It was my approach shot following yet another 100 yard popup. This time, the ball was in the middle of the fairway. I took out my thus far, my shiny unused 4 iron and drawing the club slowly back hit a shot that gently faded not 10 feet from the pin.  My cheerful yell brought to mind the old riddle-if a tree falls in the forest with no one around, does it make a sound?  No matter, it was a triumphant walk to the green.  Two putts later, I had scored my very first par. 

3 hours after I began, I returned to the clubhouse feeling at peace and very waterlogged. My shoes squeaked and leaked water with each step. I stepped inside and saw the same five men looking at me. One of them asked, “well, how was it?”  “It was great,” I said. Another of the old men said, “we were just having a glass of whiskey to warm up, you look like you could use a drink.”  I said, “why yes, I believe you’re right.