As seen in Long Island Golfer

January 2002

It was the summer of 73’ when my father told me to put on some nice shorts and a blouse and meet him in the driveway.  “We’re going to play golf,” he announced.  “Golf?”  I said in amazement.  “Where did that come from?”  “Never mind.”  He demanded.  “Just get dressed.” 

Being 12 years old, tomboyish and the eldest daughter in a package of three, I was always selected to take the place of the son Dad never had.  This week, however, I wasn’t sure why we weren’t headed to the bowling alley just like we did every other week.  Don’t get me wrong! I enjoyed many sports, and looked for every opportunity to spend time with him, but golf had never held a position on my list of ‘fun things for a Sunday afternoon’.   

As we pulled up to the driving range at the Golf and Tee in Cold Spring Hills, I wondered how I would know what to do, but sort of trusted that my dad would teach me.  I say sort of because he taught me how to swim by throwing me head first into the ocean at the age 4.  ‘Golf can’t be that hard’ I reflected and walked up to the fake grass matt with determination.      

The club felt awkward in my hand and I almost wanted to grab it like a baseball bat, but instead was instructed to rest it on top of my hands, which were interlocked at my left forefinger and right pinky.  “Now I want you to sit a little and bend at the knee.  Don’t stand up so straight.”  He kept talking while he physically positioned my legs using the end of his club.  “Keep your head down.  Alright, now watch me take a swing first.”  I averted only my eyes; keeping my head bolted in place for fear of losing the exact spot he put it in.  Dad was a natural athlete and made it look pretty easy.    “Now it’s your turn.”  He was very serious.  “Don’t pick your head up and don’t worry about where the ball is going.  I’ll watch the ball.  Just swing nice and easy.”   I lifted the five-iron with precise control and swung through, keeping my eye riveted to the red band around the ball until it left its plastic holder.  After I heard the smacking noise, I raised my eyes to catch my dad’s expression.  He was a man of few words, but his face usually told the story.  This time however, I had no idea what he was thinking.  “Well, how did I do?”  I said eagerly.  “Did it go far?”  “Just do it again,” he said as he placed another ball on the tee, “the same way as before.”    

I hit it again, this time averting my eyes in just enough time to see the ball drop straight ahead at the 100-yard mark.  My father’s face was beginning to take on some life.  “Am I doing it right? …Dad?”  He wasn’t answering, but kept putting balls on the tee and pointing.  After eight or nine swings he handed me a long club called a driver and said, “Do the same thing, except stand a little further away.”   The clicking of the wood sounded so much better than the metal, and it felt better too, like throwing my football in a perfect spiral.  I looked up at the last second to see the ball fly passed the 100 sign and roll down toward the other flag.  By now my father was having trouble containing his excitement.  He handed me one club after another and each time I hit the ball, big dimples dented his cheeks a bit more.  “Okay, pick up your stuff.”  He declared as he started out towards the first tee.  “You’re ready.”  ‘Ready for what?’  I wondered as I huffed and raced to keep up with his fast pace.   

We found out that day that I was a natural and except for lousy putting, could put the ball on the green every time.  Of course he directed each move I made, aiming my body in the right direction, handing over the correct clubs and verbally controlling the pace of my swing.  I wound up with two pars; totaling 49 for nine holes and at the end of the round, my dad triumphantly marched into the pro shop and bought me my first set of clubs.   Unfortunately, for the both of us, it was the beginning of the end, and I would not experience another great round for more than 25 years.  It seems that with golf and me, the more I knew, the more I could screw up.   

My father’s elation didn’t falter for some time, however.  He immediately went home that day and drew up the plans to make me my very own driving range in the back yard.  I had a platform and giant net facing out to the woods (just in case I got a little out of control).  I was to be the next Laura Baugh, and if no one remembers her, not to worry, my career was just as short-lived.  It was every day practice and lessons whenever he could break away from work, going out on the course on Sunday afternoons after he got back from playing with the boys.  But despite his instruction, my game worsened and my confidence deteriorated.  There was so much to remember and when I finally perfected one part, another aspect of my game would go awry.  The pressure to perform was enormous and always being the only female on the course was daunting to say the least.   

As time passed, I began to realize my only incentive for playing was to please him.  The game became a form of torture, walking and sweating for hours while taking one dubious swing after another out of the woods.  Not to mention obeying all the rules of etiquette, which Dad rigorously pounded into my head, and for what?  Because of putting, my handicap never fell below 40, and I felt like an embarrassment.  I looked terrible in those stupid skirts with bozo-sized, fringed shoes, and as I began to ‘blossom’ it became harder to maintain my natural swing.  There was nary a girl in site to relate to and even on the golf team in high school, I was the only female.  ‘This isn’t any fun’ I would lament, ‘it’s a teenage nightmare!’   

Eventually my father’s hopes dissipated as he realized my faltering enthusiasm.  He was holding onto that one summer day, the vision of my perfect swing and the potential it carried with it.   And I was holding onto the fear of disappointing him, but in a few years it wouldn’t matter.  I turned twenty, married and became a mother, dusting off the clubs a few times each year to play in a parent/child tournament or share a round at his country club.  Although it was fun to be with him for the day, the game still held negative emotions for me, including frustration at my inconsistency, but when I reached the age of thirty, the game would encase an entirely different meaning.  It was that year that I lost my dad to cancer and our outings would remain in my heart as the most profound aspect of my childhood experiences with him.  

My memories changed from a young girl’s idea of trauma to a grown women’s perspective of love between a parent and child.  It was during those golf games that we continually bonded and found common ground.  Where he gleamed with pride in my natural abilities as club pros tapped him on the shoulder to remark about my swing.  It was where he taught me to mingle amongst the rich and powerful, but respect the hard working, and up-and-coming.  I remember trips to the ninth-hole Oasis, drinking ice tea blends and chomping on Peanut Chews, and our laughing fits when a sprinkler went off under my feet as I was about to take a swing, or of “Mr. Smith” tumbling down the 10th tee from too many Martinis at lunch.  The golf etiquette he so stringently dictated would become an intricate part of my positive attitude towards others and my ability to always value what people are thinking and feeling.  Of course he couldn’t have possibly known just how popular golf would become, but he prepared me for a life of incredible advantages in business and a confidence as a woman golfer that could only come from years of playing experience.  

When I don the fringed shoes now, I relish in the shadow of great golfers who enjoy taking me out on difficult courses and tutoring me.  My best games are spent with low-handicappers, like my dad, who point me in the right direction and challenge my club choice.  It reminds me of those days and the idea that golf is not a lone sport, but really an opportunity to connect with people, while relishing in perfect landscapes and challenging your mental and physical abilities.  These days, my game is better, (especially my putting) but not because of lessons or continuous practice.  Instead I have since learned to surrender my expectations of a perfect game to match my perfect swing.  I relax, enjoy and remember why I am really out there and what started it all; the desire to be with people I care about and just have some fun on a beautiful Sunday afternoon.  

Written by Donna Martini