The Honor

It always made me feel uncomfortable to tee off first. They call it the “honor”. I didn’t find it so. It made me nervous. Particularly on the first tee, when other foursomes waiting for their turn to tee off stood gathered in observation.

I can’t recall the protocol for the first tee when the “honor” was not bestowed on the person, or team, who won the previous hole. But the protocol in our foursome (my Father, Paul, me & someone else) to strike the first shot on Racebrook’s par 4 first hole, usually fell to either my Dad, or someone else.

And maybe there were Sundays when it was just the three of us. But even if we were joined by someone else, Sam Ross or Ike Miller ferinstance, it was really the three of us.

Dad was a consistent golfer. Not long; but good. Paul was erratic. He could hit the ball a ton; but I didn’t see him at his best. Me? I was just happy to be part of the mix, although it was said that I had a natural swing.

Sam Ross? He lost $3 everytime he played with my Dad. You could almost hear my Dad say on the first tee… “Sam, why don’t you give me the three bucks now and then you won’t have to worry about it for the next 18 holes?”

Ike Miller, too. My Dad “owned” him. All we heard from Ike on Sunday was how great he played on Saturday. Paul and I loved it… Ike always played like Arnold Palmer on Saturday; but against my Father on Sunday he was powerless. For my Dad it was like taking a dollar from a baby.

During the course of play, Ike was forever complaining about this or that. My Dad softly confirming his observations… agreeing with the sorry circumstance… putting it the sand next to a Canandian goose turd… the unfortunate pin placement… or the bad luck landing in a divot… a divot left by an inconsiderate golfer… my Dad, shaking his head, always acknowledging the misfortune of the situation… asking Ike if, perhaps, wouldn’t it be better for him to pick up his ball and take a 1 stroke penalty to get a better lie?

Dad must have been busting his gut inside with laughter.

But he knew that it would be poor sportsmanship to rub it in. Walking off the 18th green, he took satisfaction in admitting to Ike that he was lucky to have beaten the better golfer… as he relieved Ike of a fin… three dollars on the nassau, and two dollars for the press bets on 17 and 18.

Paul and I had no financial stake in the outcome of the round. Unless you factor in our glee in Dad humbling Ike Miller one more time. And what made that glee so sweet was the absence of malice. The Miller’s were close family friends. But Dad had Ike’s number, we all knew it… hell, even Ike knew it.

Maybe that’s why the gin ‘n’ tonics and black cows tasted better on the “19th hole”. We just spent four hours communing with lush fairways, thick rough, velvet greens, stately trees, clear ponds & streams… the sky above us… and our score wasn’t all that important. It was really about the time spent together.

I loved golf, although I was never great at it. Still, I wouldn’t play a round without at least a shot or two that created a lasting memory… the perfectly lofted 7 iron on the par 5 10th, the tee shot to the elevated green on the par 3 11th… the seven foot putt that curled into the cup on 7 to save bogey… memories to be recounted in high detail over a cheeseburger and a black cow.

Playing with Sam and Ike was an honor. Playing with Paul and Dad was a joy and an honor.

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