My parting gift to dad — a dozen Titleists

In our house there was never a birthday, Christmas or for that matter, Father’s Day that my dad didn’t receive a dozen Titleist golf balls.  

You can tell a lot about someone who loved the game as much as my dad and no one loved it more than him.  

My mother contributed to this obsession as she encouraged him to play as often as he had the chance.  

Her theory was that every man should have an “outlet.”  

I suspect she wisely figured that any man out on the golf course for four hours under the gruelling sun, pursuing a small white ball would be too exhausted to pursue anything else.  She needn’t have worried.  

He was totally devoted to her, us and the game of golf.

Athlete

My handsome, stocky dad was a natural athlete and with the exception of basketball which he claimed that he didn’t care for (code for he was too short), he pretty much excelled at everything.   

He taught me how to swim by letting me climb on his back and while he held his breath, I would paddle across the ocean, Superman style. It was probably a small miracle that the poor man didn’t drown since I was so insistent that he kept letting me “swim.”  

His happiest day I suppose was when I could tread water and take a few strokes on my own. 

 He was an incredible ice skater, skier, football player and was a pretty good baseball player. 

Always a gentleman but a bit of a tough guy too.  He taught my brother and I how to box and felt very strongly that there wasn’t any sense in my not knowing how to launch a left hook or a quick jab just because I was a girl.   

While the Barbie generation was playing with dolls, my dad made sure that I didn’t fight like a girl. 

In all things in life he would tell us to, “Look sharp, be quick on your feet and don’t think you know all the answers.”  

His classic response to any of my political pronouncements that veered dramatically from his own opinions would be to pound the kitchen table and proclaim, “Answers!!! 

“Why, you don’t even know the right questions to ask!” Now in my late fifties, I see his point.  

While my mother conducted her own summits at the kitchen table or while we were shopping, my Dad conducted his on the golf course.   You can’t imagine the subjects you can cover with your father while walking the fairways or in my case, traversing the roughs or buried in the bunkers.

“Keep your head down, relax your grip, and for the love of Mike, would you please, please address the ball properly!”   

No one delighted more than he if I cracked a ball straight off the tee and positioned the ball well for the second shot.  

Notorious

I was notorious for having a good tee shot only to duff my second ball and as he liked to point out, I was, and still am, a lousy putter.  

But we had fun and latter, after the game, he would introduce me to some of the other “fellas” as he called them.  

Back then men stood up from their drinks even for a young, gawky teenage girl.  

We talked about politics, we sort of talked about boys, and we talked a lot about books since he was an avid reader and one who loved obscure topics.  

We talked about the “what ifs” in life, as in what would you do if you were driving through the Callaghan tunnel and it started to collapse?  “I would die,” was his reply.  He thought this was hilarious. I trusted him more than anyone else in the world and we had a lifelong pack to “not tell Mom” if we thought anything would upset her. She was the most important person to him and we came next.  

He insisted on this arrangement so we would always be respectful of our mother. He was right on this too.

A little over twelve years ago while coming up the first fairway, my mother noticed his gait was off and he was having trouble speaking.  

He carried on with his clubs and played the worst game of golf in his life.  

In the hospital he told me he couldn’t hit the side of a barn.  

Doctors marvelled at how anyone could have played 18 holes of golf while having a stroke.  

I told you he loved the game.

My wonderful, perfect, funny and generous dad, died a few weeks ago.  He was 90 and spent most of the remainder of his last years suffering from Alzheimer’s.  

I’d like to think that during those lost years his memories were filled with our happy days as a family and his best days on the course.   I tucked a sleeve of Titelist balls in his casket and figured that they might come in handy in Heaven.  The greens there are suppose to be pretty good. n