I Wanted to Learn to Play Golf

When I was six and seven-years-old, I wanted to play golf. When I saw golf on TV or when we drove past a golf course, I would say to my parents that I wanted to learn how to play golf.

When I turned eight, we moved directly across the street from a golf course. Our house was halfway down the 18th fairway. I thought for sure I would soon play golf. It was like a dream come true. I asked my parents endless times to play golf. For several years I asked for my birthday present to be learning how to golf.

My requests fell on deaf ears. My parents didn’t play golf. I told my mother to call the golf course. She was resistant. Eventually, she said that she called the golf course, and they told her they don’t know of anyone who could teach me or take me golfing.

On the radio there was a show called “Swap Shop.” You could call up and offer goods to sell or advertise services and leave your phone number. You could also call and ask for items or services you wanted. If you wanted your lawn cut, you could call. If you wanted to cut lawns, you could call and offer your services.

I asked my mother to call “Swap Shop” and ask for a golf teacher for her son. She refused.

Witnessing the golf course everyday out of my bedroom window became a painful and constant reminder.

After several years of asking to play golf and receiving constant rejection, I gave up and never asked again.

When I turned 16 and earned my driver’s license, my father bought me a used car, a red Ford Torino. I never asked for the car, and I said I didn’t want it. I knew it wouldn’t be a free gift and there would be strings attached.

The first string was to be my grandmother’s chauffer. It was my job to take grandma to church on Sunday, grocery shopping, the Senior Citizen’s Center and to play canasta with her lady friends. I didn’t mind helping grandma although she was crabby and unappreciative. I chocked that up to her being old, but it was really directed toward me. That’s another story for another time.

My second job was to pick up my younger brother after school when practice for his sporting events was finished. My first two years of high school, I couldn’t participate in after school events because no one could pick me up. We lived out of town and took the bus to school.

My parents were constantly dedicated to my brother’s athletic needs. They always bought him equipment better than his peers. Most of these things required traveling out of town to a large city to purchase them. A special smaller basketball when he was younger, powdered rosin to catch footballs better, special shoes with interchangeable cleats, my brother got it all and a personal chauffer to pick him up after practice and take him home, me.

Having a car did allow me to participate in after school activities, finally, as long as I wasn’t late picking up my brother.

When my brother was a senior, they sent him on a special trip to Germany to compete in a track meet. It wasn’t the whole track team; it wasn’t a senior trip. It was just my brother by himself. He saw an ad for the trip in a track magazine and my parents paid for the trip. My parents talked about all the awards he would win in Germany.

When he returned, his picture ended up on the front page of the sports section of the weekly community paper with an article to follow. My father’s business was a large advertiser in that paper.

My brother never talked about any awards he won in Germany. He did return with a large German flag that he hung in his bedroom. To me, the trip sounded like a money-making scam for the people in Germany who hosted the event.

One memorable event happened when I was a senior in high school. I was waiting outside to pick up my brother and he was late. I waited for over 20 minutes, and I decided to go inside and check on him. I thought he might have twisted his ankle at football practice. It seemed like everyone else left practice and were on their way home.

I entered the locker room, and my bother started yelling at me to get out right now. I wasn’t on the football team. I wasn’t a jock; I had no right to be in the locker room. He was hollering near the top of his lungs and practically had a hissy fit.

The star quarterback and captain of the team was taking a shower. He ran out untowelled to see what was the problem. My brother told him to order me out of the locker room. The quarterback told my brother to “shut up.” He said I had a right to be there and that I’m an “all right” guy. We have English class together.

My brother didn’t make another sound and said nothing on the way home. That moment was one of the highlights of my high school career. The quarterback on the football team defended me from one of my biggest bullies. I remember that moment to this day fondly.

Yeah, today I could go out golfing myself and fulfill my childhood dream. It would however dig up long buried feelings of rejection, disappointment, and hurt.

Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past.

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PS – for Dr. Eric. Maybe someday I’ll dig out my Lionel trains.