It’s Sunday May 18, 2025. I look outside my window to our deck, and the small horse farm that lays behind the tree line, and the low stone wall that separates our modest green space from the corral. It’s a magnificent morning with a stiff breeze moving green leaves that have emerged from their infancy. 63° Temp. Sun clear. Blue sky and cirrus clouds. Could you find a better day to be on Race Brook’s golf course?
And yes, I am drawn to memories of playing golf with my Dad… and my big brother Paul. Paul.
Long before I picked up a 7 iron, Paul already had a golf resume. As a high schooler he played golf on Hopkin’s Golf team. Competed on Yale’s challenging course. But his arc of improvement took a detour as he spent a summer cycling in Europe with his classmate Alan Chasnoff. Forgive me for compressing, or misstating the details here.
But this was apparent when I began walking along as Dad and Paul competed in tournaments at Race Brook, Paul was erratic. Which played into Dad’s and Paul’s partnership on the course. Dad was steady to cover Paul’s miserable showing on a hole. And then Paul on the next hole could win outright. It’s called playing in and out golf. And it was so why they did so well in tournaments.
And then I was of an age that I could play along with Dad and Paul. And these were some of the most memorable days of my life.
I think high in treasure for me was when Paul and I played alone on Race Brook’s “inside 9”. Before WWII Race Brook sported two 18s separated by Race Brook Rd. But then some of the across the Road 18 went back to nature, and Race Brook’s layout was modified to a main course 18 on both sides of the Road, and then a 9 on just this side of the Road.
For the most part on Sunday mornings Paul and I played the 9 twice. And now, old enough, after a round I could enjoy lunch with Paul in Race Brook’s excellent men’s grill room. We would tuck into the best cheeseburgers & fries accompanied with either Raz Limes, or Black Cows. We would recall our best shots, not be too bothered by the botched t-shots.
I never became proficient in golf. Never touched the level that Paul played at Hopkins. Never the consistency that Dad had. But I was fortunate for an early lesson that Dad gave me. It was on a Sunday when it was just Dad on me on the Inside 9. I had just horribly sliced a drive off of the tee and I was so pissed that I tossed my driver on the ground. He said to me, “pick up your club, and if you ever do that again you will never play golf with me again.” Then he added, “If you want to correct the slice, you have to put in time on the practice tee and I will pay for you to have lessons with Joe (Joe Sullivan, our golf pro) and he will correct that slice.”
I didn’t pick up that offer. I wasn’t looking to become a pro. Early on I saw golf as a once/twice a week thing. Maybe. But Dad’s warning was a key to learning to manage my expectations on the course.
I was able to relish in a perfectly lofted wedge over the sand trap at the 14th and not be totally undone by an errant tee shot into the woods on the 9th.
And was there a better backdrop to sharing the joy of a random Sunday than the beauty of a golf course? Well, I love a stretch of sand and waters softly turning on to the shore. True. But today I am drawn to mornings with Paul – with a cheeseburger and a black cow at hand – slightly sweaty and thinking shots well played.
As much as I enjoyed playing golf, I have zero interest in picking up the clubs again. What would be the point? It was really about being with Dad and Paul. Paul, and cheeseburgers and raz limes. How can you improve on that?
