Timeless sophistication. The epitome of class. Announcers with foreign accents. Amateurs baptized by fire as they compete against experienced virtuosos. The drives down the middle of the fairway, the cheers and gasps from spectators, the clutch putts. The Nike dry-fit adorning extremely fit individuals. Awful hat lines at the trophy presentation. The Green Jacket.
The Masters conjures many inspirational stories to mind when it returns annually to Augusta. For me, watching the Masters brings back sweet nostalgia of golfing with my dad. Some of my finest childhood memories came on the links of Chardon Lakes and Sandridge. Summer nights were spent accompanying my father as he searched for the key to golf - which he found at least five times, and then inevitably lost. My brother, sister and I would act as his caddies, raking sand traps, holding the flag hole marker, bending down on one knee, Jack Nicklaus style, to judge the slope of the green and better advise him on putting. He was even gracious enough to use the iron we determined most appropriate after looking at the sprinkler heads for yardage. Johnny Schmoker was Dad's fictitious companion on the course who consistently shot bogeys. If Dad was having a particularly off day, Johnny Schmoker would be busy with his girlfriend or other social engagements.
Earlier years were spent on the public golf course; however, with the announcement of a private golf club came anxious anticipation. After a round of golf, we would drive to the site of the new course and admire as our Jerusalem came to fruition. When it was finally finished, Sandridge Golf Club was nothing short of incredible. Standing at the first tee, watching my dad swing his inaugural mulligan, we were transported to another place. A place where every breath was fresh, the only sound was the club striking the ball, and green ensconced us. We were certainly no longer in Chardon.
I wish I could say that I accurately represented golf's classy tradition, but as we know, the elusive standard of class is harder to reach for some. When I was seventeen, I pleaded with my father to go golfing Easter Sunday, as the weather was gorgeous - sadly, an anomaly for Chardon in April. After much convincing, we headed to the links with my siblings and brother-in-law. The course began the usual way: we negotiated who would drive the cart, praised my father when his fairway shot landed on the green, "dancing like a Mexican jumping bean." (This saying never seemed strange to me, but five years later, I still have no idea what a Mexican jumping bean is. I do know they dance.)
Around hole four, my bladder began to sharply exclaim that it required attending to. It is true that I have been known to do so in less than socially acceptable places, but I would never defile the sacred Sandridge golf course. Unfortunately, there were no bathrooms within this Pebble Beach-esque paradise, so I pressed onward, doing the occasional jig in hopes the pangs would subside.
It was at hole seven, after my father had sunk an impeccable putt and was outplaying Johnny Schmoker, that any attempts to uphold the classy reputation of golf was thwarted beyond repair. The fresh spring air quickened my step to the cart, and as I skipped to my destination, I tripped and fell. Not only did I lose control of my balance, but also of all bodily functions. There I lay, curled in the fetal position, my pants soaked with urine for once one loses control of the bladder, it is nearly impossible to retrieve. Lydia ran to see if I was seriously injured. My body was only a bit sore, but as usual, my dignity took the hardest blow.
As is the case with all of my humiliations, I gleaned a positive life lesson from having to walk the remainder of the course with stained pants. I learned that while golf is touted as a sophisticated sport, it is still a sport. Those playing, watching, or assisting are still human and do not exude this sophistication at all times. Tiger Woods may have cheated on his wife - arguably a classless maneuver. However, I pissed my pants on the golf course, so who am I to judge him? Plus, when I see him flaunting the Sunday red and aggressive fist pump, perhaps the most motivating and intimidating expression of confidence in all sports, I cannot help but want him to rise to uphold the tradition unlike any other, which is simply golf.
No comments:
Post a Comment