Perhaps a 7-year-old has the perfect temperament for the game

First things first, I am not Earl Woods and my son is not named Tiger. Actually given our genetic heritage of being Polish and from Toledo, our skills and talents are more conducive to bowling than they are to golf. Nevertheless, my 7-year-old and I embarked on a summer of tournament gold and found an everlasting bond available only to fathers and sons.

At least I think so.

You see, at the age of 4, my son had little choice but to swing the set of cut-down clubs lovingly placed in his hands before he could walk. The lessons began as a fun wrapped up in learning and have remained that way ever since. We would start by hitting a beach ball, then a tennis ball, then a Whiffle Ball, finally progressing to beat-up Titleists. Each session had some easy-to-achieve goal: proper grip, stance, posture, alignment. He earned points towards a hot dog, candy bar, pop, or any other treasure of his choosing.

Now at age 7, his swing is quite solid and impressive, as is his attitude. Physically, “tournament” gold was the next step in his athletic evolution given his stamina and endurance to last nine complete holes. Mentally, however, the world of Pokemon and body noises still prevails, and concentration is sometimes in less than sufficient quantity.

Playing for fun

We prepared as we always have introducing some new concept about the swing, or scoring, combined with many moments of fun and laughter. For example, three solid swings in a row earned him a “Happy Gilmore” where he could run up to the ball and attempt to hit like Adam Sandler did in that movie. Try it sometime and have plenty of Ben-gay available. Next, was the all-important “club toss” )recommended only when the range was largely unoccupied and never angry) earning points for distance, accuracy and “artistic beauty.” The laughter on the range brought us stares from the seasoned veterans.

We realized that we were playing a game and games were meant to be fun.

The morning of Cam’s first tournament, or shall I say at 6:02 a.m., my son awakened me. He was already dressed in his golf shirt, shorts, and yes, golf spikes. A little excited, I imagine.

He asked quietly what I wanted for breakfast.

I whispered, “More sleep.”

Tee in the morning

We arrived at the course and saw numerous other youngsters, boys and some girls, who were as varied as any first day of kindergarten.

We watched players warm up on the range and my son would casually comment.

“He has a reverse pivot, dad.” “His grip is kinda weak.” “He dad, she can play!”

We found a spot on the range for him to warm up. I wanted to lighten the tension so I said, “How about two Happy Gilmore’s to get loose?”

“Daaaad!” he sighed “Not now!”

All of a sudden, he was as serious and determined as I had ever seen him. The smile was gone, replaced with a competitive, “watch this” smirk.

On the first tee, we witnessed various shots from the higher age groups. There were good shots, but also some tops, skulls, shanks and one “practice swing” we believe to be a whiff.

Each pairing headed down the fairway until finally the started announced the last pairing of the day. The ‘gallery’ (two elderly gentlemen patiently waiting for their time to play) applauded appropriately as the announcements were made. This is the big time.

“Now, on the first tee from Ada, Michigan – Cameron.”

He waved to the sparse crowd like a veteran tour pro. He even waited for the applause to die down before proceeding.

His tee shot, taken after his ritualistic tossing of the grass, sailed majestically down the center of the fairway. He picked his tee up without even looking at the ball, mimicking what he has seen on T.V. or perhaps from his dad. Two more solid shots and a chip to within two inches of the hole brought him an opening bogey five.

He retrieved the ball from the hole and casually tossed it to his caddy, (me) for cleaning.

It was apparently time for me to start earning my keep.

On the next tee, I tried to keep from laughing as my son, with all the determination of a tour rookie, asked: “Five or Six iron, dad?”

I didn’t want to remind him that those were the only two clubs in his bag so I confidently said, “Six.”

He took out the Five.

Apparently the three extra yards were the determining factor.

The remaining holes played out like a junior high school symphony; some beautiful notes interspersed with some real clankers. All the while, my son and his playing partner talked more of Pokemon and the latest Playstation games than about golf.

This was just a game after all, and games were meant to be fun.

At one defining moment during the match, Chance, the oldest in the 12 and under division at age 12, hit a wonderful approach to about 3 feet from the hole. As he lined up his birdie putt, he accidentally hit the ball and moved it from the position. He was crushed as he knocked in the next one, thinking he had make par instead of birdie.

He was mistaken.

If a ball is moved from its position, one must take a one stroke penalty AND replace the ball to its original position. Because Chance had not replaced his ball, he actually incurred another penalty stroke, making his birdie two, an actual bogey four.

Devastated, he stared in disbelief, and was almost brought to tears.

My son, ever the cheerleader tried to console him by saying it was a great shot and that there was more golf to play. A pretty mature response if you ask me.

Alas, Chance seemed to almost give up, demoralized and surely beaten.

Then, as we approached the last hole, something short of miraculous happened.

My son was actually leading the match and was destined to win. He only had to stay within two shots of his competitor on the final hole to win the overall match.

They were both on the green in five strokes, with putts of no longer than 8 feet.

Chance was first to putt and missed, holing out in seven strokes. He lethargically plucked his ball from the hole and impatiently awaited his fate.

Cameron, sensing victory, could now three-putt and still tie. He looked at me, smiling in anticipation, and then to Chance, who couldn’t watch. His first putt barely missed and he had a tap in for well earned seven.

He lined it up, but quickly moved away before hitting his ball.

“I moved it,” he said in disgust.

“Now I have to take a penalty stroke.”

He then painstakingly replaced his ball on what seemed to be the exact spot it started from. He lined up the putt again and apparently rattled, hit his 3-inch putt, 2 feet beyond the hole. He shook his head dramatically and swiftly knocked the next putt in, taking a nice on the final hole.

He lost by one.

He promptly walked over to hance and shook his hand in congratulations, even joking that he will “get him next time!”

They both laughed as they walked off the green, seemingly pleased with the result.

I watched in amazement at the scene that had just taken place. My young son had just demonstrated to me the meaning of the word sportsmanship, and had done so at a time when the world was supposed to revolve around him.

He never admitted to anything other than trying his best, to being close to beating a better golfer and now knowing the truth.

He accepted his second-place medal with pride, asked about the next tournament, and wondered aloud when he could have the chocolate milkshake I had promised. For him, it wasn’t about winning as much as it was about “the snack”.

I was never more eager to grant that wish. I was also never more proud.

As a dad, I learned a great deal that day, I learned about innocence. I learned about chivalry. I learned about friendship. I learned about pride. But most of all I learned that  little boys grow into men much more quickly than we can ever imagine.

Our kids may teach us more about ourselves than we can ever teach them about the world.

In that moment, my son had shown me the true spirit of childhood and the gift of play. And for that he asks for only ice cream in return.

Dane Wysocki, Guest Essayist to the Grand Rapids Press

In the tall, tall grass no one can hear you scream

We seem to be faced with a lot of choices in life – paper or plastic, Big Mac, or Whopper, unleaded or … well, unleaded. However, as homeowners, one thing we don’t have a choice in is that weekly, ritualistic torture fondly described as, “Lawn Care.” A misnomer to say the least, as some of us really don’t seem to “care” at all.

I am a reluctant agronomist at best, my identity not defined by the quality of my identity no defined by the quality of my coifing or by the lushness of my lawn.

My motto is, “I fought the lawn and the lawn won.”

And I am OK with that.

I spend as much time with lawn maintenance as I do preparing for my yearly dentist appointment. I hardly floss my teeth until that morning, hoping that maybe this time, I just might fool the hygienist.

The unforgiving fescue

My lawn is an unforgiving task master at best, requiring constant attention and a delicate touch, neither of which I am eager to give. Perhaps this is the weekend I will rid myself of the grazing sheep that have gorged themselves for months at my expense. Perhaps this is the weekend I will finally turn on the sprinkling system because, apparently, grass needs some amount of moisture. Come on, isn’t that what rain is for?

I begin this torment by silently hoping for a thunderstorm or at least a last-minute golf invitation. Shouldn’t my son be helping me? Oh that’s right, he is 2. Maybe next year.

Like the pit crew at Indy, I carefully and painstakingly prepare my lawnmower for a season’s worth or rugged use and demands.

I put gas in it.

At least, I think it was gas. The container found under baseball helmets and painting supplies clearly says “gas” on the label, but inexplicably has an “x” through it. I am sure I did that for some reason which unfortunately escapes me. Besides, how bad could it be, really?

My expertly tuned and maintained mower promptly starts after roughly 131 pulls. A combination of sweat and sear words begins to surface as I attempt to tame the beast. Alas, the mower finally sputters to life and I am now ready for battle. “Come on Kentucky bluegrass! Come on Creeping Fescue, show me what you’ve got!”

Neighborhood spectacle

On my very first pass across my untamed wilderness, I notice I have attracted a crowd. My neighbors have stepped out onto their porches looking down at me like royalty watching a parade. It’s as if they are witnessing something they may like royalty watching a parade. It’s as if they are witnessing something they may never see again. Some cheer, some give me a thumbs up, some just stare in disbelief, thinking this miracle will never last. It doesn’t matter, it’s not as if I am doing this for them. Well actually, I am doing this for them. Something about neighborhood integrity and property values or some other such rubbish. Did the pilgrims ever feel this kind of peer pressure?

Given that my lawn was roughly the height of a small child, I finally finish in just less than three hours; a half hour of actual mowing, two hours of breaks. Is it just me, or does lemonade just taste better after accomplishing so much? The sweet smell of success and lawn clippings pervades the air, my right arm almost breaking as I attempt to pat my own back. A job well done. Err … a job, well, done.

And with that, another summer of turf management concluded. Time to change the oil, lube the chassis, and sharpen the blades for next season. Yeah, right. Back in the dungeon where you belong.

Now it is time to fertilize, at least according to the commercials and weekly newspaper flyers. I feel I must splurge and I ultimately get the “good” stuff, leaving the “better” and “best” for those true fanatics. I even buy a circular spreader having learned from past mistakes that the “Discount” drop spreader leaves alternating green and yellow stripes, more reminiscent of Soldier Field than an actual yard. Landing strips for small aircraft yes, uniform tint of green, no.

I figure that whatever areas I inadvertently miss will eventually be fertilized by my dog, a happy go-lucky golden retriever named Chivas (named in honor of some kind of single malt beverage). He loves my lawn, or at least, certain parts of it. The “areas” he frequents are a cylindrical blend of dead, burnt, yellowed grass surrounded by a lush tropical rain forest. These seem to appear in the dead of night like mysterious crop circles. Although artistically off-center like a Picasso painting, they do give the lawn added depth and texture. A true “Field of Dreams” in my opinion. “Is this heaven, Ray?” No, it’s a subdivision.”

Onward to edging, a dangerous and complex task requiring precision, patience and, well an edger. Another machine purchased destined to collect dust next to the “Weed Weasel” and the “Leaf-B-Gone 2000.” I plug in my electric edger only to discover my tangled power cord is roughly 400 feet too short. Back again to the hardware store where I feel like Norm at Cheer’s – everyone knows my name.

I complete my assignment and all walkways, driveways, and concrete boundaries are neatly manicured down to the last blade. The quality of work actually surprises me as I proudly examine my efforts. Even my dog seems impressed as he leans to lick my face in joyous agreement. I wonder why he is so eager to demonstrate his approval, when I realize that in my attempt to keep with the Joneses, I have accidentally severed the buried electric dog fence in no less than a dozen places. My dog is now sniffing the perimeter and inspecting the breach. He is like the raptor from Jurassic Park, determined to expose the weakness and ultimately, bold to freedom.

“HURRY,” I yell to my wife, “GET THE LEASH AND SOME DUCT TAPE!!!” I frantically begin to splice wire after wire like a trauma surgeon performing quadruple bypass. I am shocked by my own repair abilities, and by the current of electricity now coursing through the collar which I am holding. “Yyeeowww.”

My growing audience now howls in appreciation to the show’s dramatic conclusion. Show’s over folks, “Thanks for coming.” “I will be here all week;” “Try the veal” … Don’t they have better things to do? Isn’t there some bark or manure to be spread? Who needs these dandelion police anyway? It’s no wonder I make this an annual event.

Luckily, my agricultural ineptitude does not deplete my resolve nor diminish my spirit. It gives me the strength to survive and the will to persevere. It causes me to search for truth and also for the number of one of those   “cut only” services. The battle of the blades may be lost but the war continues. For now, I can’t wait until my son turns 3 so he may follow in my footsteps down the (slightly) green path of life. He should be so lucky. Until then, every time I see a sod truck pass by, I will stare in silent envy wishing that I, too, could have my lawn taken away to be cut.

A man can only dream.